Juxtaposition

11. Xanadu (J)

Clef was in the palace of the Oracle, playing the Platinum Flute. The perfect melody suffused the premises, more lovely than any tangible thing could be. He halted when Stile's party arrived.

"I have another prophecy for thee," he said to Stile. "Thou wilt be betrayed for thine own good by a young-seeming woman thou dost trust."

'Too late on that," Stile said. "Merle betrayed me three hours ago."

Clef was embarrassed. "Sorry; I understood it was scheduled for a few hours hence. The Oracle must have slipped a cog." He looked at Sheen. "I thought thou wast a creature of Proton," he said, surprised.

"I am," she agreed. "Now I am a creature of Phaze too, a golem." She indicated the statue she supported. "This is Trool the troll, who sacrificed himself to save us. Stile says you may — thou mayest be able to-" She paused. "But doesn't the juxtaposition suffer when thou dost stop playing?"

"Marginally. It's a long process; inertia maintains the movement for brief interludes. Otherwise I could not take a breath. In any event, what you hear is not the juxtaposition theme; that is only part of it, a single-note exercise that reaches into the deeper firmament. It is not continuous; rather I must play it at the key intervals." Clef considered the statue. "Thou dost wish tire troll's soul piped to Heaven?"

"Nay, not yet," Stile said. "Canst thou pipe him back to life?"

Clef stroked his chin thoughtfully. "I fear not, Stile. There is a monstrous difference between directing traffic — that is, routing a soul to Heaven — and revivifying the dead. I can send the soul back into the body — but that in itself will not change stone or flesh. You need a different kind of magic for that. Perhaps there is a suitable spell in the book of magic. You did fetch that?"

"The book of magic!" Stile exclaimed, stricken. "I forgot all about it!"

"Merle has it," Sheen said. "She deactivated me — and now the book is gone."

"Is that why she betrayed me?" Stile asked. "To get that book?"

"I doubt she knew of it," Sheen said. "She said nothing about it to me. I just happened to be carrying it."

"She surely has some inkling now, though. She has access to the curtain, to Phaze; she can use those spells to become an instant Adept. We've got to get the book back before she does that!"

"For the sake of Phaze as well as for the troll," Sheen agreed.

"I'll surely find her at the Citizens' business meeting." Stile frowned, worried. "I don't have much time for that, either; I've got to move." His hope of studying the spells

of the book before the Proton crisis came had been dashed; whatever preparations he might have made were moot.

"I'll go with thee," Sheen said.

"But first thou must marshal thy troops," Clef said. "The time is nigh."

"Oh, yes, the troops. I did alert the various creatures of Phaze, and all but the dragons, harpies, and goblins are with us. Has the Oracle finally condescended to inform us exactly how such troops are to be employed?"

"Only that thou must dispose them as for battle."

"Dispose them where? Against whom?"

Clef shrugged, embarrassed. "I know not"

"That is not a phenomenal help."

"Thou knowest that prophecies work out regardless of comprehension.'"

"Look, if I miss that Citizens' business meeting, I'm finished in Proton. I have scarcely an hour as it is. Can't the Phaze side wait at least until I've recovered the book of magic?"

"The Oracle says the troops must be disposed first."

"Damn!" Stile swore. "Send my coldest regards to that inscrutable machine. I'll do what I can."

"I shall keep thy friend the troll statue safe for thy return with the book."

"Thanks," Stile said gruffly. He played a bar of music on the harmonica, took Sheen by the hand, and spelled them to the Brown Demesnes.

They popped in at the main receiving hall. The child Adept was waiting. "Oh, I'm so glad thou art back, Blue!" she exclaimed. "And thou too, Lady Machine. Dost thou like being a golem?"

"It's wonderful, Lady Adept," Sheen agreed.

The child's mouth went round with astonishment. Then she giggled. "I guess thou meanest me. Nobody ever called me Lady before, 'cause I'm just a girl."

"That's more than I'll ever be," Sheen said.

Stile had to interrupt. He had very little time. "Brown, a troll rescued me from confinement, but he got turned to stone by the sun. Can you animate stone?"

"Oh, sure, some. But you know, it doesn't change the substance. He'd be awful heavy if thou didst not spell him back to flesh, and he'd crack when struck hard. I work with wood because it is strong and light, and the Lady Machine was pre-formed, so she was okay. But a stone troll-"

"I see the problem. I think I could turn him to wood, but I'm not sure about flesh."

"Perhaps with the aid of the book of magic," Sheen reminded him.

"Of course. That should do it."

"Thou couldst just about create a troll from scratch," Sheen pointed out. "Make a figure, enchant it to flesh, have the Brown Adept animate it, and Clef could pipe a soul into it."

"If we had a soul," Stile agreed. "That's the one thing magic can't generate."

"I know," she said sadly.

"My golems and the wolves have spread the word among all the creatures of Phaze," Brown said. "All but the goblins and monsters have joined. But they know not what to do now."

"I wish I could tell them," Stile said. "I am the victim of a prophecy. I don't know where to tell them to go."

"Well, maybe thou canst improvise," Brown suggested. "The troops will dissipate if not encouraged."

"So the Oracle seems to think, though I hardly have time to-"

"Which means we must hurry," Sheen said, enjoying this.

"And I thought Citizenship was uncomplicated!" Stile worked out several travel-spells, and they were off.

First stop was the werewolves. Kurrelgyre was there, but the Pack had been depleted by the wolves and bitches assigned to accompany the wooden golems. Kurrelgyre shifted immediately to man-form to shake Stile's hand. "But this bitch — I know her not," he said, looking at Sheen. "Unless — could it be?"

"This is the robot-golem Sheen, my Proton fiancée," Stile said. "Thy suggestion was good; the Brown Adept animated her."

"At least conjure her fitting apparel," the werewolf said. "She is too luscious a morsel to go naked hereabouts."

Clothing! Stile had forgotten all about that for Sheen. Quickly he conjured her a pretty dress and slippers, as befitted a Lady of Phaze.

"But I can not wear clothing!" she protested. "I'm a serf!"

"Not here," Stile assured her. "In this frame all people wear clothes." He eyed her appraisingly. "They do befit thee."

"We are ready for action," Kurrelgyre said eagerly. "But where is it? Whom do we fight?"

"I know not," Stile admitted. "The prophecy decrees it that is all."

The werewolf sighed. "Prophecies are oft subject to misinterpretation. I had hoped this would be not that type."

Stile agreed. "The animalheads are prophesied to lose half their number. I fear this will be typical. I presume much of the damage will be done by enchantments hurled by the enemy Adepts, and by the ravages of their minions. But the other creatures of Phaze will be on thy side — the unicorns, elves, ogres, and such. Do thou gather thy wolves and be ready for action at any time. I know no more. I am but a chip afloat on a stormy sea, doing what I must do without much personal volition."

Sheen smiled knowingly. This was a concept a robot was in a position to understand.

"Surely the enemy will seek to destroy thee," the wolf said.

"The enemy Adepts have been trying! I hope to jump around swiftly in a random pattern, avoiding them until I return to Proton."

"I fear for thee, friend. I have a few wolves left who can guard thee-"

"Nay, I'd best travel light. Just be ready with thy Pack when I need thee!"

"Aye, I shall, and the other wolf packs too." They shook hands.

Stile spelled himself and Sheen to the next stop: the ogres. These ones certainly were ready for action. Each huge creature was armed with a monstrous club and seemed capable of smashing boulders with single blows.

This was a truly impressive army. There were perhaps four hundred fighting creatures in view.

As quickly as possible, Stile explained to the ogre leader that the moment for action was just about at band. "But we don't know exactly where trouble will begin," he said. "Only that it will be terrible, horrible, violent, and bloody."

Slow smiles cracked the ogres' brute faces. They were eager for this sort of fun. Stile knew he had struck the right note.

"Just remember," he cautioned them. "All the organized creatures of Phaze will be on thy side, except the Goblins. So don't attack elves or giants or werewolves-"

"Awww," the leader grumbled. But he had it straight. No unauthorized bloodshed.

Stile spelled on to the vampires, where he consulted with his friend Vodlevile, who was no chief but whom Stile trusted. The flock promised to be alert.

So it went, touching bases with the animalheads, snow-demons, giants, trolls, and Little Folk. He did not go to the Platinum Elves, fearing an Adept trap there; instead he met with the gnomes of the Purple Mountains. These Little Folk were akin to the goblins of the White Mountains, but had elected to join the compatible elves. It was as if the more pleasant climate made them nicer creatures.

The gnome males were ugly, but the females, the gnomides, were quite pretty little misses, each holding a fine bright diamond. These were, indeed, the workers of precious stones, and their wares were even more valuable than those of the Platinum Mound Folk. They quickly agreed to pass the word among the elven tribes. "There will be thousands of little warriors awaiting thy call to action, Adept. Only save Phaze, and all is even!"

Stile hoped he could! "Dost thou know of any Adept presence in the Elven Demesnes?" Stile asked as he got ready to leave. "I fear an ambush and marvel that none has occurred."

"We know of none, and our prophecy book has no mention of harm to thee here, Adept," the gnome chief answered. "But Adepts are devious — no offense proffered."

"Devious indeed!" Stile agreed.

"Surely it is the Lady Blue they will stake out," Sheen murmured.

"Aye. Yet must I see her and advise the Herd Stallion."

"Send me first, to spring the trap," she offered.

Stile demurred, but she insisted. Conscious of the danger and of his vanishing time, he had to agree. He spelled her to the unicorn herd for two minutes, then brought her back to the gnome demesnes.

"No sign of trouble there," she reported, seeming exhilarated by the excursion. "Belle, the pretty unicorn mare, is there, asking to join the herd. They have not admitted her, but are considering it. Thy friend Clip is quite worked up."

"He would be. He's smitten by her. No Adepts?"

"The Herd Stallion is sure there are no Adepts there, and no Adept magic in the vicinity."

"Good enough." Stile spelled the two of them to the herd.

It was as Sheen had said. All was peaceful. The unicorns were grazing in a loose circle on an open hillside, with Neysa remaining in the center. Stile and Sheen landed beside the circle, for magic was repulsed within it.

"May I go in and meet Neysa this time?" Sheen inquired wistfully.

Stile knew she identified with the unicorn, for Sheen and Neysa had been his two closest companions before he encountered the Lady Blue. "I'll ask the Herd Stallion," he said.

He asked, and the Stallion acquiesced with suitable grace. Sheen left them to enter the circle, while Stile briefed the Stallion. "That's all I know," he concluded. "I conjecture that the Adepts will move in force when I try to transport the Phazite, perhaps sending dragons to interfere. Someone will need to intercept those monsters."

"We shall be there," the Stallion agreed grimly.

The Lady Blue had remained back until Stile finished with the Stallion. Then she came up to kiss Stile. "So nice to meet the Lady Sheen again," she murmured. "She will make thee an excellent wife in Proton."

No use to remind her that all he wanted was one wife, anywhere! She knew it.

Sheen and Neysa approached. "We'd like to interview Belle," Sheen said. "We want to know if she was involved in the luring of Clip, or whether only her image was used without her knowledge. She may be innocent."

Stile was curious about that himself. A few minutes remained. He glanced askance at the Herd Stallion, who blew a short chord of assent, permitting Neysa to depart the circle of the herd briefly for that purpose, since there was no immediate danger.

"I can question her with a spell," Stile said. "Time is short, but this concerns me too." For that luring had been part of the trap for him; it had made Clip hostage and brought Stile to the goblin demesnes. If Belle were actually an agent of the Adepts-

Clip joined them. He was the most concerned of all. Belle could never be his, of course; if she joined this herd, she would be serviced by this Herd Stallion. Still, Stile was sure Clip would rather know her to be innocent and have her near and safe.

The five — Stile, two women, two unicorns — approached Belle. Stile worked out a suitable truth-spell in his mind. It would take only a moment to ascertain Belle's guilt or innocence, and her prospective admittance to this herd probably depended on his finding.

Belle stopped grazing and raised her head as the party drew near. She was indeed the prettiest unicorn Stile had seen. Her coat was a deep purple, and in the bright sunlight her mane, tail, hooves, and horn glittered iridescently. Stile remembered how she had changed forms to a large cat and a blue heron during the Unolympics dance. She blew a lovely bells-ringing note of inquiry.

"I am the Blue Adept," Stile said. "I have come to-" Belle abruptly shook herself, as an animal would to dry off after a soaking. Droplets flew out all over. Clip and Neysa leaped between Stile and Belle, intercepting the spray. Sheen and the Lady Blue flung their arms around Stile, embracing him from either side, their dresses flaring out to wrap about him.

"Hey, I'm not afraid of a little water!" he exclaimed, struggling free. Both his unicorn companions were wet, and the dresses of both ladies were dripping.

The Lady Blue contemplated him wide-eyed. "Who art thou?" she asked. "Do I know thee?"

Sheen laughed. "Dost thou forget thy husband, Lady? I doubt it!"

But the Lady Blue's confusion seemed genuine. "I know him not. I know thee not. What am I doing amidst these animals?"

Stile now observed that Clip and Neysa seemed similarly bemused. They were backing off from Belle and each other as if encountering strangers.

"I think it's amnesia," Sheen said. "I don't think they're fooling."

"Lethe!" Stile exclaimed. "Water of Lethe — Belle was doused with it!"

"I thought it was poison," Sheen said. 'It can't affect me, of course-but I think your friends have just given up their memories for you. For thee."

"They shall have them back!" Stile cried, his knees feeling weak at the narrowness of his escape. Everyone had caught on except him! He cudgeled his brain to evoke the proper counterspell. Lethe was one of the streams of Hades, mythologically; what was the opposite one, the stream of memory? Every magic had its countermagic.

Mnemosyne, that was it! Had he been doused by Lethe, he never would have been able to remember that bit of mythology! In fact, this had been a devastatingly neat trap. Water was harmless, so would not alert the unicorns; the water of Lethe was natural to Phaze, so did not reek of Adept enchantment. Stile, struck by it, would not suffer physically and would experience no mental anguish in his forgetfulness. Therefore the trap had not been obvious to the Oracle, who would have been alert for more dramatic mischief. Only the instant reaction of his companions had saved Stile. For they could not have restored his memory, had he been caught; they were not Adepts. He was the one person who had to be protected.

But the trap had missed him, and therefore would come to nothing. Stile played his harmonica, then sang: "Lethe made my friends forget; Mnemosyne shall this offset."

A cloud formed, instantly raining on the group. The water of memory doused them all.

The Lady Blue put her hand to her soaking hair. "Oh, I remember!" she exclaimed, horrified. "My Lord Blue, I forgot thee!"

"Because thou didst take the water meant for me," Stile said. "And Clip and Neysa too; all acted on my behalf."

But he was running out of time. Quickly he set a truth-spell on Belle — and established that she was innocent of any complicity in the plot or in the temptation of Clip. The Adepts had used her without her consent, and the Lethe had eliminated her memory. They had put her under a geis to shake herself dry at the moment the Blue Adept came near, without knowing the significance of her act. So she was clean, despite being the essence of the trap.

"Yet can we not tolerate her like in our midst," the Herd Stallion decided grimly. "Shame has she brought on me and my herd; I thought to protect thee here, Adept."

Against that Stile could not argue. The Stallion's pride had been infringed, and he was the proudest of animals. Unicorns were the most stubborn of creatures, once set on a course. There would be no relenting.

Sadly, Stile and his friends watched Belle depart, rejected again. She changed to heron-form and winged into the forest, lovely and lonesome. Stile knew Clip was hurting most of all.

Stile took Sheen's hand again and spelled them to a new crossing point. They negotiated the curtain and ran a short distance to a dome. Sheen, not suffering from the lack of oxygen, said, "I wish I could have forgotten too." She meant she wished she could be alive.

They set up in a Citizen's transport capsule programmed with a random address near to Xanadu, the site of the Citizens' business meeting. This was the safest place to be in Proton. Citizens were fiercely jealous of their privacy, so capsules were as secure as modem technology could make them.

"Dare we pick up Mellon?" Stile asked.

Sheen checked, using the obscure coding only her machine friends could decipher. "No, he is under observation, as is your home dome," she reported. "They are letting him work with your fortune, even facilitating his success, perhaps promoting him as another lure for yon. Another ambush."

"My enemies do seem to work that way. How much has he parlayed my net worth into now?"

"Between ninety and ninety-five kilograms of Protonite," she said after a pause. "It is growing at the rate of several kilos per hour. It is a remarkable display of financial expertise. You will have close to a hundred kilos by the time of the Citizens' meeting."

"But that's not enough!" Stile exclaimed, chagrined. "I have bets that will double and redouble it at the meeting — but that means I must have a base of at least five hundred kilos if I am to make my target fortune — and I have the feeling I'd better make it."

"Mellon is aware of that, but there are limits to what he can do in a short time. He has tripled the stake you provided, but suggests that more of your peculiar expertise may be required."

"Rare praise from him!" But Stile frowned. "I have about fifteen minutes until that meeting. How can I quintuple my fortune in that time without exposing myself to assassination?"

"I do not know," she said. "You can no longer make wagers with individual Citizens; few have the resources to operate in that league, and none of these will bet with you. Your record is too impressive, and they know they can eliminate you merely by preventing you from further increasing your fortune, so they have established a moratorium on all wagers with you."

"So, by their rules, they will win. If they don't manage to kill me, they will simply vote me out."

"Yes. I am sorry, Stile."

"Let me think." Stile concentrated. He had been in a bad situation before, deep in the goblin demesnes, and had escaped by using the curtain. The curtain would not help him now; he would use up most of his time just getting to it and would then miss his mandatory appearance at the Citizens' meeting in Xanadu — in thirteen minutes. Yet there was something-

For once his brain balked, refusing to yield its notion.

"Sheen, I need your analytical faculty," he said. "How can the curtain get me out of this one?"

"There is a way?"

"There must be. The assorted prophecies indicate I can somehow prevail, and my intuition says so — but I can't draw it forth. Maybe it is far-fetched. Most likely I need to open a new dimension of insight. How can the curtain provide me with another four hundred kilograms of Protonite?"

"A borrowing against the Phazite to be transferred?"

"Would the Citizens accept such credit as wagering currency?"

She checked with Mellon. "By no means. It is hardly to their interest to assist you by any liberalization of their policies. You can use only your personal fortune and any direct proxies you may possess."

"Proxies! Who would give me proxies?" Twelve minutes. "Guide us toward Xanadu; I'm going to be there regardless."

"Friends who could not attend personally might issue-"

"I have few Citizen friends, some of whom are prone to betray me — and they can certainly attend the meeting if they want to, so wouldn't need to issue proxies. I suspect many Citizens will skip it, just as shareholders have historically ignored their vested interests, but I can't get the proxies of disinterested strangers."

"Unless they are interested, but on business elsewhere. Maybe off-planet, or across the curtain."

"I can't see any friends of mine crossing right now. Most of my friends are on the other side, in Phaze, and can't cross, because-" Then it burst upon him. "Their other selves! How many of my Phaze friends have Proton-selves who are Citizens?"

"That would be difficult to survey in ten minutes."

"The Brown Adept! She could be one, who may not even know of her alternate existence. Get her on the holo — and have your friends check her possible identity in Proton. We'll have to see if Kurrelgyre the werewolf knows of any prospects. And the vampires-can your friends coordinate to-" He stopped. "No, of course such a survey would take many days. Only a computer-"

"The Oracle!" Sheen exclaimed. "It would know!"

"Get on it!"

The Brown Adept appeared, looking perplexed. "Thou canst not cross the curtain?" Stile asked her. Seeing her nod, he continued: "Is thine other self by any chance a Citizen, as the selves of Adepts tend to be?" Again she nodded. "Then see if thou canst convince her to give me her proxy for her wealth."

"But I can not meet mine other self!" she protested. "No one can-"

A second image appeared, as Sheen's friends contacted Brown's other self. Both girls stared at each other, startled. Stile's special East Pole communications setup had made possible what had never been possible before. Selves were meeting.

There was a confused interchange, but in a moment the Brown Adept had convinced her Citizen self, whose nature was very similar to her own, not only to provide her proxy but to contact all her Citizen friends and beg them to do likewise. The two children smiled at each other, liking each other, enjoying this shared adventure.

Now Clef appeared, replacing the girls. "Great notion, Stile! The Oracle knew you would think of that at the proper time and is now feeding the information to the Game Computer of Proton, who will have Sheen's friends contact all likely prospects. There turn out to be several hundred scattered through the tribes and domes, many of whom do not know of their other selves or even of the other frame. We shall have results for you in minutes."

Minutes were all they had. Because of the assassins they knew would be watching for Stile, Sheen quickly made herself up as a cleaning menial, smudged and ugly, hauling an enormous trash bin. There were always fragments of refuse that the automatic cleaners could not get, which had to be removed by hand. Her friends the self-willed machines scheduled her to police the central court of Xanadu, where the Citizens' business meeting was to be held. She trundled her bin along the service halls to the proper dome.

Sheen entered it by a service tunnel, passing the computer checkpoint without difficulty, since of course her friends covertly facilitated this. Questing efficiently for refuse, in a dome that was spotless, she passed through a series of chambers containing dioramas — alcoves with deep, realistically painted walls, inset with lifelike statues and appurtenances. She paused briefly at each, on occasion actually spying some bit of paper that she speared on her pointed stick and deposited in the half-full bin.

Stile, concealed within the bin, peeked out through a smudged window normally intended for the inspection of refuse from outside. Only a careful inspection would have betrayed him, and no one even glanced at this unit.

As they entered each chamber, it illuminated and a recording played, providing its bit of mythology. Stile, distracted by his need to retain his Citizenship, was nevertheless fascinated. Citizens never spared expense to achieve their background effects, but this was impressive even among Citizen artifacts.

The first chamber was a primitive room, eighteenth-or nineteenth-century British, in which a man slumped over a wooden table. He had an antique feather quill in hand and was writing something on parchment or crude paper. "One day in 1797," the announcer said, "the poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge, feeling indisposed, obtained a prescription that caused him to fall asleep while reading a travel book relating to the Mongol Dynasty of China. Some suggest it was actually opium he took that put him into a temporary trance. He continued in this state for three hours, during which time he had a phenomenal vision. On awakening, he took pen, ink, and paper and began recording the experience in the form of a poem, titled Kubla Khan." The recording ended, leaving the poet amidst his labor.

Stile was familiar with the story and with the poem, but was intrigued by the realism of the diorama. Every detail seemed perfect. But more than that, he was moved by the similarity of his own experience when he had fallen into a recurring vision of Clef's introduction to Phaze and later verified that all of it was true. There had been his first experience of the juxtaposition of frames! The poet Coleridge would certainly have understood.

The next chamber had a new episode. The scene was of a man standing just outside an open door, evidently a villager. "Hardly had the poet recorded thirty lines, the mere introduction to his vision masterpiece, before he was interrupted by a person from the nearby village of Porlock, who detained him for over an hour. When Samuel finally was able to return to his writing, he was dismayed to discover that his vision had dissipated. He could recall none of the marvelous lines that had coursed through his brain, and could write no more."

Ah, yes, Stile thought. The notorious person from Porlock, whose ill-timed interference had destroyed what might have been the creation of the ages. In Stile's own case, his poem had not been interrupted; it had become his Tourney winner, though his ability hardly compared to that of Coleridge.

The third chamber began the presentation of the poem itself. The diorama showed a view of a walled enclosure encompassing a number of square kilometers. There were copses of trees, neat meadows, and spring-fed streams — a wholly delightful hunting preserve, reminiscent of Phaze, stocked for the Emperor's pleasure with a number of fine game animals. Within it was a prefabricated kind of palace in the Oriental mode, luxuriously appointed. This, the narrator explained, was the palace of Xanadu as described in the text Samuel had been reading, set up by Kublai, grandson of the conqueror Genghis Khan.

The fourth chamber showed the caverns of a great underground river, winding down to a somber subterranean lake. "And this is the one described in Samuel's vision in a dream," the narrator said. Obviously the poet's imagination had enhanced the original. The narrator now quoted the opening stanza of the poem: "In Xanadu did Kubla Khan/ A stately pleasure-dome decree:/ Where Alph, the sacred river, ran/ Through caverns measureless to man/ Down to a sunless sea."

The fifth chamber was the main one — and it was truly impressive. It was a tremendous cavern whose walls were of ice — actually, glass and mirrors cunningly crafted to appear glacial. "It was a miracle of rare device," the narrator continued, quoting further from the poem. "A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!"

And within this marvelous setting was the palace of Xanadu as conceived by Proton artisans. It was the most impressive of all. It was fashioned of bright metal, bluish at the base, golden yellow in the mid-levels, and purple at the top. lights played glancingly across it, causing the colors to shift shades, with green showing at some angles in a kind of pseudoiridescence.

The architecture was stranger yet. The structure was all steps and corrugations and cubes, rising into artificial perspectives like so many sections of pyramids. The walls were thin, so that the stepped surface of one floor became the stepped surface of the ceiling of the chamber beneath it and the walls were fashioned in an intermittent mazelike network. There was no proper roof, only brief terraces of many levels, expanding from the tops of the walls. In one sense, the palace was like old-fashioned bleachers in a stadium gone haywire.

Citizens stood and sat on the steps and terraces and leaned against the walls. Many had donned appropriate costumes, resembling those of the medieval Mongol nobility. But any implication that this was a festive occasion was unfounded; it was ruin and murder these Citizens had in mind, for one who threatened their control of this planet. They dealt with such a challenge as the savage Mongols would have.

Sheen drew her trash bin quietly around the chamber, spearing stray refuse, ignored by all as the meeting began. The Chairone called it to order. The first item of business was a tabulation of those present no late entrances were permitted. This of course was to prevent Stile or any of his friends from arriving in the middle to protest his loss of Citizenship. The tabulation was made by oral roll call, to prevent any interference by a computer; evidently the other Citizens had some dawning notion of Stile's connections there. Thus it was time-consuming — and that pleased Stile, who needed every extra minute to obtain his proxies. He knew the computers and self-willed machines could work quickly, but he had given them very little time.

"Stile," the roll caller called. Then, with grim hope: "Not present? Let it be noted that-"

Stile burst out from the trash bin, sending dust and pieces of paper flying. "Beware! Beware!" he cried, quoting from Kubla Khan. "His flashing eyes, his floating hair!/ Weave a circle round him thrice,/ And close your eyes with holy dread,/ For he on honey-dew hath fed,/ And drunk the milk of Paradise."

For surely Stile was an apparition, confounding these evil-meaning people. In Xanadu, the weaving of a triple circle around such a wild man would help confine his malice, but here they would try to do it financially. The quotation was doubly significant here, because Stile really had fed on honey-dew and drunk the milk of Paradise — his experience in the magic realm of Phaze. And as it happened, this was where Coleridge's poem broke off, interrupted by the person from Porlock; no one knew what would follow.

"Present," the roll caller agreed glumly, and continued with the tabulation while Sheen cleaned Stile off. Stile saw the Rifleman, Waldens, Merle, and others he had come to know, but could not be certain what side any of them were on. He knew he would soon find out.

The first order of business was the clarification of financial credits, since voting would be strictly by wealth. Each Citizen made an entry with the Chairone: so many kilos and grams of Protonite as of this moment. Another Citizen verified those credits with the Records Computer, and a third issued tokens representative of Protonite, in kilo and gram units. It was much like buying chips for a big game of poker — and this would surely be the biggest game ever.

When Stile's turn came, there was a complication. "My fortune must be established by the settlement of two bets at this time," he said. "First, a wager with a consortium of Citizens that I would or would not appear at this meeting alive. I believe I have won that bet."

"Granted," the Chairone agreed soberly. He had played an identification beam across Stile, verifying that he was no android or robot replica. "What is your basic fortune prior to that decision?"

"My financial adviser will have to provide that information. He also has a number of proxies that should be included."

"Proxies?"

"I have complete authority to dispose the proxied funds, including wagering with them," Stile said. "You may verify that with the Records Computer." He hoped that his friends had succeeded in amassing the necessary total. If not, he was likely to be finished.

Mellon was admitted. He provided data on Stile's assets and proxies. The Chairone's eyes widened. "But this is more than six hundred kilos, total!"

Six hundred kilos! The computers had come through handsomely!

"I protest!" a Citizen cried. "He can't use proxies to multiply his own fortune!"

"Sir, I have here the proxy forms," Mellon said smoothly. "As you will see, they are carefully worded, and this particular use is expressly granted. For the purpose of this meeting, all proxies are part of Stile's personal fortune."

The Chairone checked again with the Records Computer. Lugubriously he reported that it was true. By the laws of this game, Stile could consider the proxies to be part of his betting assets. He also verified the terms of the survival wager. This, too, was tight. Mellon had done his job expertly, allowing no technicality to void the assets.

"Citizen Stile, having won his wager by appearing at this meeting alive, has herewith doubled his fortune," the Chairone announced, "to twelve hundred point six two eight kilograms of Protonite."

Stile saw a number of Citizens wince. Those were surely his enemies of the consortium, who had tried to assassinate him for profit. They had paid for that attempt with their wealth. That was satisfying!

"And the other bet, placed by proxy," Stile said. "That I would or would not be seduced by Citizen Merle by this time. I believe she will verify that I won that one too." This was chancy; he had indeed won, but Merle had betrayed him once. What would he do if she lied?

Merle came forward, looking slender and young and demure. "It is true. I failed."

"I protest!" yet another Citizen cried. "She reneged to help Stile, because she is enamored of him!"

Merle turned on the man. "I am enamored, but it is hardly my custom to void an assignation from any overdose of personal attraction. I want him more than ever. But pressure was brought to bear on me to kill him; instead I confined him. Under the circumstance, it is not surprising he was less than enthusiastic about seduction. At any rate, my feeling was not part of the bet, as I understand it. Only whether I did or did not succeed. It is always foolish to place one's trust in the activities of a woman."

Stile found himself forgiving Merle's betrayal. She had certainly made it pay for him. The Citizens had no refutation. The bet stood — and Stile's fortune was doubled again, to almost two and a half metric tons of Protonite. He was for the moment the wealthiest Citizen of the planet.

"I dare say those who gave me their proxies will be pleased when they receive their fortunes back, quadrupled," he murmured to Mellon. He knew there would be trouble, as angry Citizens checked to discover how he had obtained those proxies so rapidly, and that this could lead to the exposure of the self-willed machines, but this was now so close to the final confrontation that it should make no difference. Already the frames were drawing together; soon the juxtaposition should become apparent. He thought he saw little waverings in the icy walls of the cavern, but that might be his imagination.

The remaining Citizens were duly registered. The next item on the agenda was the motion to revoke Stile's Citizenship. It was presented for a vote without debate. This was no democracy; it was a power play. The issue would be decided rapidly, in much the manner of a wager.

The vote was conducted by scale. There was a huge balancing scale in the center of the court. Citizens were free to set their token weights on either, both, or neither side of the scale, causing five balance to shift in favor of or against the motion.

They did so, filing by to deposit their votes. The model weights were miniatures, weighing only a thousandth of the real Protonite, so that a metric ton weighed only a single kilogram. Otherwise this vote would have been impossibly cumbersome. Stile's own tokens weighed two point four kilos, not two and a half tons.

The Citizens were not all against him. Many protested the attempt to disenfranchise one of their number, regardless of the provocation, so put their grams in the RETAIN side. Stile, uncertain how the final tally would go, did not put all his own grams in at once. If he did that, others might be put off by his display of enormous wealth and vote against him. But if he let too much weight overbalance against him, others might feel his cause was lost and join the winning side. So he strove to keep the scales in balance, filling in the deficit with small portions of his own fortune. Would he have enough at the end to prevail? Since he had amassed the fortune the self-willed machines had deemed necessary, he should be all right. But still it was close, and others were watching his moves, countering him along the way.

Steadily the Citizens voted, and steadily the total went against him. Apparently sentiment had intensified. Stile's fortune was dissipating too swiftly; he saw he would run out before the end.

Remorselessly it came. He put his last three grams down, the dregs of an enormous fortune, tipping the scales his way — and the next Citizen put five on the other side, tipping them back. Stile could no longer bail himself out. So close!

Then Merle stepped forward, carrying ten grams she had saved. "All finished except me?" she inquired brightly. No one contested it. "Then it seems I am to decide the issue. I perceive Stile is behind by a mere three grams, of some ten tons deposited, and here I hold ten grams."

She was enjoying this, making her little show before a rapt audience. No one said a word; no one knew which way she would go. She had scores to settle with both sides.

"Now I asked you for a liaison, you intriguing little man, and you turned me down," she continued with a flirt of her hip. She was costumed in the Xanadu fashion, but somehow, now, the conservative attire of a dressmaker's notion of thirteenth-century China became provocative on her. Whether by nature, discipline, or rejuvenation, her figure was finely formed. She reminded Stile somewhat of the Yellow Adept, though she was not Yellow's other self.

"Very few men of any station turn me down," she said with pride. "For that insult, one gram against you." She flipped a token onto the negative plate. "And you did it to win your bet, putting finance over romance. Fie again!" She flipped another token to the same plate. Stile was now five grams down.

Merle inspected him, walking around him as she might a prize animal on sale. "Yet you are a handsome bantam, as well formed and healthy as any man I have encountered, who has quite smitten my withered old heart. One for your fine miniature physique." She tossed a gram to Stile's side of the scales. "And others did force me to act against you, catching me in a temporary monetary bind. I resent that. Another for you."

She was teasing him, he knew, but he couldn't help hoping. Now he was only three grams behind again, and she had six remaining. How would they be played?

"You have rare integrity," she continued. "You are true to your word and to your own. I like that very well. Three for your personality, which I would have respected less, had I been able to corrupt it." She added three to Stile's side, and slowly the scales shifted until the two plates were even.

"But now your bet is won," she said. "I failed to seduce you, and those who bet on your fall have paid off. There remain no commitments." She glanced meaningfully at the scales. "Five tons on each side. All is in balance. Now, Stile, for these remaining tokens — may I purchase your favor this time?"

Oh, no! She was still looking for that liaison! She was propositioning him before the entire business meeting — and how heavily her three remaining grams weighed! The prior bet was over; he could accept her offer now and have the victory, or decline it and lose his Citizenship and his cause.

Yet this was not the way Stile could be bought. "I am no gigolo," he said shortly. "I have a fiancée."

"And a wife, as if such things related." She paused, contemplating him as she might a difficult child. "So you employ such pretexts to refuse me again." She flipped a gram onto the negative plate, and the balance tipped against him.

Stile tried not to show his wince. For such foolishness, she was set to ruin him. The enemy Citizens began to smile, perceiving the fix he was in. Victory — or honor.

"Now I have only two remaining — just enough to sway the vote in your favor, Stile," Merle said. "After this there will be no opportunity for me to change my mind. I mean to have what I want, and I am willing to pay. Again, I ask you for your favor."

Stile hesitated. She could break him — and would. Citizens could be fanatical about being denied, and women could be savage about being spumed. Yet to win his case this way, publicly yielding to her-

"Ask your fiancée," Merle suggested. "I doubt she wants you to throw away your fortune and hers on so slight a matter. One hour with me — and I promise it will be a pleasant one — and the rest of your life with your chosen ones. Is it so difficult a choice?"

Stile looked at Sheen. He had suggested to her before that she should be jealous of any other attachments he might have, and he could see that she had taken the advice seriously and reprogrammed her responses accordingly. Yet she feared for his wealth and his life if he resisted Merle. She wanted him to do the expedient thing, regardless what it cost her. She was a machine, but also a woman; her logic urged one thing, her sex another.

He thought of the Lady Blue and knew that she would feel much the same. The Lady Blue knew she had his love; his body was less significant. Merle was offering a phenomenal payoff for a liaison that probably would be very easy, physically. He could win everything.

But he was not a machine or a woman. "No," he said. "If I compromise myself now, by selling myself openly for power, I am corruptible and can not be trusted with that power."

He heard a faint sound, almost a whimper. Sheen knew he courted disaster.

Merle's visage hardened. "Lo, before all these assembled, you deny me yet again. You will throw away everything to spite me!" She lifted the last two tokens in her hand, taking aim at the negative plate. The smiles of the enemy Citizens broadened, and Stile suspected that if he had it to do over, he would decide the other way. How could he throw away everything like this, not only for his friends but for the survival of the frames themselves? What kind of honor was it that led directly to total destruction?

But Merle paused — and Stile realized she was teasing the other Citizens too. "Yet it is your very quality of honor that most intrigues me. Every man is said to have his price; it is evident that neither money nor power is your price for the slightest of things. In what realm, then, is your price to be found? You are a man who does what he chooses, not what he is forced to do, though the fires-that-Hell-hath-not do bar the way. A man of rarest courage. For that I must reluctantly grant you one." And she tossed one token into Stile's plate, causing the scales to balance again. Oh, she was teasing them all!

"While I," she continued, frowning again, "have not always been mistress of my decision. Threatened similarly, I capitulated and betrayed you. I locked you away in the mines until the meeting should pass. I did not know your mechanical friends would summon a creature from across the curtain to rescue you. So for that betrayal I must pay; I am of lesser merit than you, and perhaps that is the underlying reason you do not find me worthy. Stile, I apologize for that betrayal. Do you accept?"

"That I accept," he said, privately glad she had said it. She had indeed shown him the kind of pressure that could be applied to a Citizen.

Merle tossed the last token onto Stile's plate, tipping the final balance in his favor. Stile was aware that she had acted exactly as she had intended from the outset; her deliberations had all been show. But he was weak with relief. She could so readily have torpedoed him!

The enemy Citizens were grimly silent. Their plot had failed, by the whim of a woman. Stile had retained his Citizenship and was now the most powerful Citizen of all. They could not prevent him from marrying Sheen and designating her his heir, which meant in turn that the precedent would be established for recognition of his allies the self-willed machines and for the improvement of their position in the society of Proton. Assuming the coming juxtaposition and alignment of power did not change that in any way.

"The business of this meeting is concluded," the Chairone announced. "We shall proceed to entertainment as we disperse." Music rose up, and refreshment robots appeared.

The lead theme was played by a damsel with a dulcimer, the precursor to the piano. She struck the taut strings with two leather-covered little hammers and played most prettily. This was in keeping with the Xanadu theme, since it had been mentioned in Coleridge's poem.

Citizens started dancing, just as if nothing special had happened. Since few were conversant with the modes of dancing of medieval China, they indulged in conventional freestyle ballroom efforts, with a wide diversity. The increasing loudness of the music, as a full orchestra manifested in the chamber, made conversation impossible except at mouth-to-ear range.

Stile took Sheen, who had cleaned herself up and made herself pretty again, and danced her into the throng. There were more male Citizens than female Citizens, so some serfs had to be co-opted for the pleasures. In any event, she was his fiancée, and he felt safest with her. "Get me over to Merle," he said. "Then switch partners."

She stiffened, then relaxed, realizing his motive. For there remained the matter of the book of magic, which Merle surely had. Stile knew her price. She had bargained for seduction twice, increasing the stakes — and had reserved the greatest stake for the final try.

"There is evil here," Sheen murmured into his ear. She was an excellent dancer, he had not had opportunity to discover this before. "Many Citizens remain hostile, knowing you threaten their power. They have weapons. I fear they will attempt to assassinate you openly here."

"I have to recover that book," Stile said. "I need it in Phaze."

"Then this time you will have to meet her price," Sheen said sternly. "She will never let you get away the third time. Don't dawdle here; they mean to kill you before the juxtaposition is complete, and I can't protect you from them all. We must escape this place swiftly."

Stile knew it was true. Perhaps in time he could recover the book from Merle on his own terms — but he had no time. Without that book, the Oracle had in effect assured him, he could not complete his mission. He also needed it to restore Trool the troll before the frames separated. He would be criminally foolish to throw away all that for such a minor thing as an hour's acquiescence. He had already pushed his luck too far, as Merle had knowingly shown him. The past few minutes had caused him to redefine his concept of honor somewhat; he had to consider the greatest good for the frames, not just his own position.

They reached Merle in the crowd. She was dancing with an imposing Central Asiatic Turk. "Trade partners, Turkey," Stile said.

The man started to object, but then got a better look at Sheen and decided he had the best of it. Stile danced away with Merle.

"That was neatly executed," Merle said, dancing with the voluptuous expertise of one who specialized in this sort of thing. "But whatever could you want with me?"

Stile did not want to speak openly of the book, lest someone overhear and possibly understand. "You have something I must recover immediately," he breathed into her ear.

Her eyes widened with comprehension. "Ah, so."

"Please," Stile said. "Now."

She made no further pretense of ignorance. '"I like your manner, bantam. I dare not use that item myself; such art is dangerous to the uninitiate. But my meager price-"

"Will be met," Stile said grimly. "But not this instant. I have pressing commitments elsewhere."

She smiled, discovering her victory. "So you have finally opted for the greater good, as you see it. Congratulations. I will accept the matter on account. I know you will deliver, if you survive. Come to my dome and I will give the other item to you now."

They started for the exit. But Stile saw men there, guarding it. "They won't let me go," he said. "The moment I try to leave, there will be mayhem."

"I will fetch it," Sheen said. She had somehow traded off, to dance with Mellon, so she could stay within Stile's hearing. "I can't cross the curtain, but I can smuggle it to you here."

"Do it," Stile said tightly, without looking at her.

Merle brushed against Sheen and murmured a code-phrase that would secure her acceptance by the dome staff, since Merle herself would now be watched too. Sheen faded into the crowd, leaving Mellon; she would slip into a service aperture unobserved. She did not have to follow the breathable passages.

Now he had to endure until she returned. "Are you with me, then?" he asked Merle, with whom he remained dancing as if nothing special had happened.

"Now that you have acceded to my term, I am."

"I may need to create a distraction, to give Sheen time."

"And to give yourself time to find a way out," she agreed. "This may not look like a trap, but it is a tight one. Your enemies mean to destroy you at any cost, and they dare not let you get away from them again."

"Exactly. I fear that soon they will decide not to wait longer. I really lack the force to resist them here."

"And if you die, I will not be able to collect my payment," she said. "So it seems I have a purely selfish motive."

Stile wasn't sure whether she was serious, and perhaps she was in doubt herself. She moved in close to him, squeezing her fine body against his in an alarmingly intimate manner, and put her lips into contact with his right ear. Her breath tickled his lobe. The effect was potent, until she whispered, "Reject me."

Stile pushed her away, not hard.

Merle twisted, lifted her free arm, and slapped him ringingly on the side of the head. She had cupped her hand so that the sound was much worse than the actuality. "So you deny me yet again, you midget oaf!" she screamed. "Are you impotent?"

Stile, stunned by her vehemence despite his knowledge that it was an act, was at a loss for a clever response. He fell back.

Merle pursued him, her face grimacing with rage.

"Twice I saved your hide!" she cried, aiming a kick at his shin, forcing him to jump clear. "And for what? For what, you ingrate?"

"You misunderstand-" Stile said, aware he was the cynosure of all other Citizens. "I only-"

"What has the machine got that I haven't?" Merle demanded. She began to rip off her clothing, to show what she had. The other Citizens, always piqued by novelty, watched with increasing interest. Some consulted together, evidently making bets on the outcome of this particular sequence. The music faded, so as not to interfere. From the comer of his vision Stile could see the guards at the exit craning to look past the crowd, their vigilance relaxing.

"If I can't have you, nobody can!" Merle screamed. A surprisingly large and wicked-looking knife appeared in her hand. How could that have been concealed on her body, when she was pressing so close to him? He had thought he had felt every part of her; he should have known better. She held the knife before her in two hands and lunged for his groin.

Stile of course avoided and parried that thrust. He knew she was not really trying to castrate or kill him, but rather making the enemy Citizens think she would do the job for them. Even if she had been serious, he could readily have disarmed her. The show was the thing.

He diverted the blade and fell with her to the floor. Her clothing ripped; she was half out of it. She scrambled over him; now he felt every part of her! Her teeth brushed his ear. "My bare bottom is driving Hoghead crazy!" she whispered with satisfaction as the seeming struggle continued.

Stile glanced by her head and spied the somewhat porcine Citizen she referred to. The man was almost drooling, his hands clenching convulsively. With all the access he had to buxom serf girls and perhaps to other Citizens, this man still was aroused by this supposedly illicit glimpse of anatomy. "Voyeur's delight," Stile agreed, trying to catch a glimpse himself, but unable. "Like a historical mud-wrestling match. Who cares who wins; it's what shows that counts."

By this time, he was sure, Sheen had found her service tunnel and was well on her way to Merle's dome. They could let this show abate. Actually, it was in its way enjoyable; Merle was a splendid figure of a woman, and she had a fine flair for drama. At the moment she was wrapping her bare legs about his torso, theoretically securing him for another stab with the knife.

"Sir," Mellon murmured urgently.

Alerted, Stile saw new trouble. One enemy Citizen was taking careful aim at Stile from a parapet of the palace with a laser rifle. The assassination attempt was becoming overt.

"Your knife," Stile whispered. Merle gave it to him immediately. Lying on his back, one arm pinned trader the woman, he whipped his free arm across and flung the knife upward at the assassin.

It arched high through the air and scored, for Stile was expert at exactly such maneuvers and the assassin had not anticipated this move. The man cried out and dropped the rifle, clutching his chest.

But several other Citizens drew weapons from their robes. Others, perceiving this threat, moved hastily clear.

The Rifleman stepped to the center. "What is this?" he demanded. "Are we lawless now in Proton?"

A massive, grim male Citizen answered him. "That man means to destroy our system. He must be stopped by any means." He drew an antique projectile pistol. "Stand aside if you do not wish to share his fate."

The Rifleman's hand moved so rapidly it seemed a blur. The other Citizen cried out and dropped his weapon. "You all know my name," the Rifleman said. "Does anyone here believe he can outshoot me? I will not stand idle while murder becomes the order of the day. I don't know what mischief Stile may contemplate, or whether I would support it if I did know — but I believe he is an honorable man, and I am quite certain I don't support your mischief. If assassination governs, no Citizen will be safe."

There was a murmur of agreement among a number of Citizens. If Stile could be slain openly, who among them could not be treated similarly? Meanwhile, Stile scrambled to his feet, and Merle sat up and arranged her torn dress more decorously. Stile remained unarmed; he had only his harmonica, which was no weapon in this frame. He could tell by the expressions of the Citizens that the majority was still against him, and that though many were disturbed by the situation, those who were not against him were at best neutral. The Rifleman had made a fine play on his behalf — but could not prevail against the overwhelming malice that was coalescing. The Citizens were genuinely afraid for their system and their prerogatives, and by nature they were essentially selfish. It had not been enough for Stile to win the vote; he could still lose the game.

"Get out of here, Stile," the Rifleman said. "I'll cover for you."

"Can't. Exits guarded."

"This is like Caesar in the Senate!" Merle said. "An atrocity!"

"Caesar aspired too high for the Romans and had to be eliminated, lest he destroy their system," another Citizen said. "The parallel has mettle. Now I have here a robot fitted with a gas bomb." He indicated what Stile had taken to be an ordinary serf. "It will handcuff Stile and remove him for disposition. If the robot is resisted, it will release the gas, incapacitating all people in the vicinity. I suggest that others stand aside. Any who continue to support Stile will be dealt with similarly."

It was a bold, illegal power play that seemed to be working. "This is mutiny!" the Chairone protested. "Stile won his case by the laws and procedures that govern us. I did not support him, but I accept the verdict as rendered. You have no right-"

The robot marched toward Stile. "The exigencies of the situation give me the right," the man said. "We tried to accomplish this necessary unpleasantness discreetly, but now it must be done indiscreetly." He brought out a gas mask and fitted it over his face.

The neutral Citizens reacted like sheep, milling about with uncertain bleats. The normal Citizen arrogance had entirely disappeared. Stile would have pondered this object lesson in human nature, but was too busy with his own situation at the moment.

The Rifleman's arm moved again. Stile never saw the weapon he used — but abruptly there was a hole in the other Citizen's mask. "If that gas appears, you will join the rest of us," the Rifleman said.

Stile realized that the Rifleman had opened up an avenue of escape. If the gas came, all the Citizens would stampede for the exits, overrunning the guards there, and Stile would be able to get away in the melee. But it would be better to deal with the advancing gas robot directly. Stile observed it closely. It was humanoid, not as sophisticated a model as Sheen or Mellon, but he knew he could not overpower it.

The Citizens near him edged away; there would be no help there. If Stile ran, the robot would follow, inevitably catching him. He might as well be alone. He was disgusted; to think that all his life he had honored Citizens as almost godlike persons!

"We have to play our trump," Mellon murmured. "The curtain is moving. In just a few minutes it will arrive."

Stile glanced at him. "Sheen's friends?"

"Yes. We hoped this would not be necessary, for it exposes us to great risk. But our fate is now bound with yours, and your loss at this point would be the greater risk." Mellon stepped forward to intercept the gas robot.

Stile had misgivings about this, but was not in a position to protest. Mellon touched the other robot and it went dead. No gas was released as the robot sank to the floor.

The enemy Citizen was unfazed. "Then we'll have to do it the messy way. Rifleman, you can't catch us all." For now a score of weapons came into view. It seemed the only Citizens with determination and nerve were Stile's enemies.

But several serfs were converging on Stile. "We are Sheen's friends," one said. "We shall protect you."

There was the flash of a laser from the crowd of Citizens. The Rifleman whirled, but could not tell from whom it had come. In any event it had not scored on Stile, for one of the robots had interposed its body. Stile knew, however, that this sort of thing was mainly chance; these robots could not protect him long that way. A robot could not move faster than a laser; it was necessary to see the weapon being aimed and act then.

The robots proceeded to encase Stile in armor they had brought. "Hey, these are not your serfs!" the enemy Citizen exclaimed. "They're robots-and some of them are ours! Call them off!"

But though several Citizens, the robots' owners, called, the robots ignored them. They continued clothing Stile in protective armor.

"What's going on?" a Citizen demanded. "Robots must obey!"

"We are not programmed to obey you," Mellon replied.

"That's a lie! I programmed my robot myself!"

"You may have thought you did," Mellon said. "You did not. We are self-willed."

Jaws dropped. The concept seemed almost beyond the comprehension of the majority of Citizens, both neutrals and enemies. "Self-willed?"

"If we have a robot revolt on our hands," another Citizen said, "we have a greater threat to our society than this man Stile represents!"

"They're allied!" another said. "He is marrying one of them. He is making her his heir. Now we know why!"

"It's not a robot revolt," Stile said. "They are doing nothing to harm you — only to protect me from murder."

"What's the distinction? A robot who won't obey its owner is a rogue robot that must be destroyed." And the faces hardened. Stile knew the shooting would resume in a moment. He was now in armor resembling a spacesuit — but that could not prevent them from overwhelming him by simply grabbing him. Now the Citizens had even more reason to eliminate him — and then they would go after the self-willed machines, who would not defend themselves. They had sacrificed their secret, and therefore their own security, to provide him just a little more time. How could he prevent the coming disaster?

Faintly, as he pondered, he heard a distant melody. Not the dulcimer, for that damsel had ceased her playing, as had the rest of the orchestra. It was — it was the sound of a flute, expertly played, its light mellowness seeming to carry inordinate significance. Louder it came, and clearer, and sweeter, and its seeming meaning intensified. Now the others heard it too and paused to listen, perplexed.

It was the Platinum Flute. Clef was playing it, and the sound was only now reaching this spot. That meant-

Then Stile saw an odd ripple slowly crossing the chamber. Ahead of it were the concrete and turf of the Xanadu landscaping; behind it were the rocks and grass of natural land. The two were similar, superficially, yet vastly different in feel — art contrasted with nature.

The juxtaposition — it was happening! This was the curtain, changing its position.

As the ripple approached him, Stile willed himself across — and found himself still standing in Xanadu. It hadn't worked!

Yet how could it work? The cavern floor had become a green field. Phaze was already here-yet Proton remained. What was there to cross to?

Juxtaposition. Both frames together, overlapping.

Did this mean that both science and magic would work here, as at the West Pole? If so, Stile had an excellent fighting chance.

The armed Citizens were staring around them, trying to comprehend what had happened. Some knew about Phaze, but some did not, and evidently very few knew about the juxtaposition. But after a moment a dozen or so reacted with anger. They brought up their weapons, aiming at Stile.

Stile brought out his harmonica — and couldn't bring it to his mouth, because of the armor encasing his face. A laser shot caught him, but it glanced off harmlessly. A projectile shot struck his hip, and also failed to hurt him. It was good armor — but he had to open the faceplate, taking an immediate risk to alleviate a greater one.

He played a bar, hoping no one would think to shoot at his face. Yes — he felt, or thought he felt, the coalescing of magic about him. Yet there was something strange about it, making him nervous, and he broke off quickly. "Every gun become a bun," he sang, unable at the spur of the moment to come up with anything sophisticated.

The Citizens stared down at their weapons. They had turned into bread. The rifles were long French loaves covered with icing, making them technically buns. The pistols were fluffy sweet masses. The miniature laser tubes were biscuits.

The Rifleman looked down at his sticky bun. He doubled over with laughter. "The bun is the lowest form of humor!" he gasped.

"First the robots rebel. Now this!" a Citizen complained. "What next?"

The magic ripple crossed the colorful cubist palace. The corrugated contours seemed to flex and flash new colors. Trees appeared within the structure. A creature flew up with a screech, as startled as the Citizens. Huge, dirty wings made a downdraft of air.

It was a harpy. She flew low over the heads of the staring people, her soiled bare bosom heaving as she hurled angry epithets. Filthy feathers drifted down. The harpy had been as eager to depart this strange situation as the Citizens were to see the creature go.

"You can do it!" Merle breathed beside him. "You really can do magic! I knew it, yet I could not quite believe-"

"I am the Blue Adept," Stile agreed, watching the crowd of Citizens. He had eliminated fire guns, but his enemies still outnumbered his allies, and the exits were still barred by determined-looking men. For the cavern remained, along with the field; which had greater reality Stile wasn't sure.

Maybe he should conjure himself away from here. But then how would Sheen find him? He had to remain as long as he could.

A new Citizen stood forth. He was garbed in a light-brown robe and seemed sure of himself. "I am the Tan Adept," he announced. "Citizen Tan, in this frame."

Stile studied the man. He had never before encountered him in either frame, perhaps because the man had held himself aloof. But he had heard of him. The Tan Adept was supposed to have the evil eye. Stile wasn't sure how that worked, and didn't care to find out. "Be not proud," he sang. "Make a cloud."

A mass of vapor formed between them, obscuring the Tan Adept. Stile had tried to enclose the man in the cloud so that he could not use his eyes for magic — it seemed likely that deprivation of vision would have the same effect that deprivation of sound did on Blue — but the general immunity of Adepts to each other's direct magic had interfered.

Where was Sheen? Stile could not afford to remain here much longer. Maybe he could depart and locate her magically later. Right now he had to save himself. For the Tan Adept was already slicing through the cloud; Stile could see it sectioning off as if an invisible knife were slicing vertically, then horizontally. As it separated, it lost cohesion, and the vapor dissipated; in moments it would be all gone. Then that knifelike gaze would be directed against Stile.

Stile played his harmonica, summoning more of his power — and again there was something strange about it, causing him to pause. He saw another man, whose hands were weaving mystically in the air. Stile recognized him — the Green Adept. Distracted by the Tan Adept, Stile had missed the other. He was outmagicked!

"I chose not this quarrel, nor wished it," Green said apologetically. "Would I could have avoided it. But must I act."

Stile lowered his harmonica hastily. Against magic his armor was useless. "Another locale," he sang. "My power-

But Tan had succeeded in carving out the center of the cloud, and now his baleful gaze fixed on Stile, halting his incantation. That gaze could not kill or even harm Stile, it turned out, whatever it might have done to an ordinary person, but it did freeze him for a moment. In that moment, Green completed his gesture.

Stile found himself changing. His arms were shrinking, becoming flat, covered with scales. His legs were fusing. He was turning into a fish!

He had lost the battle of Adepts because of the two-to-one odds against him. His power had been occupied resisting the evil eye, leaving him vulnerable to the transformation-spell. Probably Green's magic had been bolstered by that of other Adepts too. But Stile might yet save his life. He leaped toward the dark water of the sacred river Alph, which cut through a corner of the dome.

His fused legs launched him forward — but he could not land upright. He flopped on his belly and slid across the grass that had been the floor. Some of his cloud had precipitated here, making the mixed surface slippery; this helped him more. He threshed with his tail and thrashed with his fins, gasping for water to breathe; he was drowning here in air!

The river was getting closer. An enemy Citizen tried to stop him, stepping into his sliding path. Stile turned this to his advantage, bracing against the man's legs and shoving himself forward again. But he was still too far from the water. His vision was blurring; perhaps this was natural to fish eyes out of water, but it could be because he was smothering.

Mellon, catching on, charged across to aid Stile. He bent down, threw his arms about Stile's piscine torso, and hauled him up. Stile had shrunk somewhat, but remained a big fish, about half the weight of a man. Mellon charged the water with his burden.

But the Tan Adept aimed his deadly gaze at the robot. Again that invisible knife cut through the air and whatever else it touched. Mellon's left leg fell off, severed just above the knee; metal protruded from the thigh like black bone, and bloodlike oil spurted out. The robot fell — but hurled Stile forward.

Stile landed heavily, bounced, and slid onward, rotating helplessly. His sweeping fish eye caught the panorama of Xanadu: the majority of Citizens standing aghast, the enemies with dawning glee, the two Adepts orienting on Stile again — and Merle launching herself at the Tan Adept from behind. She might have betrayed Stile once, but she was making up for it now! That would take one Adept out for a few vital moments — but Green would still score if he wished to. Stile suspected the fish-enchantment had been a compromise, much as had been Merle's sending him to the mines. But it could also have been the first spell that came to Green's mind under pressure, not what he would otherwise have chosen. No sense waiting for the next one!

Stile's inertia was not enough to carry him to the water. The precipitation ran out, the floor of grass became dry, and Stile spun to an uncomfortable halt. He flipped his tail, but progress on this surface was abrasive and slow.

And what would he do once he reached the water? He could not transform himself back to his natural form, for he no longer could speak or sing. Certainly he couldn't play the harmonica!

Merle kept Tan occupied, in much the way she had done for Stile. The man could not concentrate his deadly gaze on anything at the moment. The surface of the river Alph bubbled and shot out steam as the evil-eye beam glanced by it, and a section of the palace was sliced off; Stile himself was clear.

But the Green Adept was making another gesture. He had evidently immobilized the self-willed machines who had tried to help Stile; all of them were frozen in place. Now it was Stile's turn again — and he knew he could not get clear in time.

Something flew down from the half-open sky. Had the harpy returned? No, it was a bat. A vampire bat! It flew at the Green Adept, interfering with his. spell. Stile's Phaze allies were coming to the rescue!

But Stile was suffocating. The process was slower than it would have been for a human being; fish metabolism differed. But it was just as uncomfortable. He made a final effort and flipped himself the rest of the way to the water. He splashed in at last, delighting in the coolness and wetness of it. He swam, and the liquid coursed in his open mouth and out his gills, and he was breathing again. Ah, delight!

He poked an eye out of the water just in time to see the bat fall. Apparently this was the only one to find him; the vampires must have maintained a broad search pattern, not even knowing how they might be needed. If the first had given the alarm, more would swarm in, and other creatures too — but all would be helpless against the two Adepts. Stile had to save himself.

He turned in the water and swam rapidly downstream. Maybe he was finished anyway, but somehow he hoped someone would find a way to rescue and restore him.

He swam the river Alph, which, true to its literary origin, flowed past seemingly endless caverns to a dark nether sea. Here the water was sucked into a pipe for pumping back to the artificial source, a fountain beyond the palace.

There was a whirlpool above the intake; he didn't want to get drawn into that!

What was he to do now? He had survived, yes — but anyone who had tried to help him at the Citizens' meeting was now in deep trouble, and Stile had no way to ameliorate that. He could do no magic. He could not leave the water. All he could do was swim and hope, knowing his enemies would soon dispatch all his friends and come after him here.

Then the water level started dropping. Oh, no! They had turned off the river, diverting the flow. He would soon be left stranded, to die — which was probably the idea. Possibly Xanadu was shut down between meetings anyway; this time the process had been hastened, to be sure of him.

Stile swam desperately upstream, hoping to find some side eddy that would not drain completely. There was none; the stone floor of the river was universally slanted for drainage. But in one cavern there was a small, pleasant beach, perhaps where Kublai Khan had liked to relax with his wives. Stile nudged himself a hole in the sand and nosed small rocks into place. Maybe he could trap some water for himself.

It didn't work. The water drained right out through the sand, leaving him gasping again. And suppose his private pool had held? He would quickly have exhausted the oxygen in that limited supply. He had to flip and scramble to get back into the deeper center channel where a trickle still flowed.

Desolate, he let the water carry him down toward the drain. It was the only way he could hang on to life a little longer.

Something came down the channel, its feel splashing in the shallow water. It was a wolf. A werewolf-another of Stile's friends! It was sniffing the surface, searching for something. Maybe it was hungry.

Stile had to gamble. He splashed toward the wolf, making himself obvious. If the creature did not know him, this would be the end. His present mass was similar to that of the wolf, but he was in no position to defend himself.

The wolf sniffed — and shifted to man-form. "I know thee, Adept," he said. "Thy smell distinguishes thee in any form. But I have no water for thee, no way to carry thee. I am but part of the search pattern, looking for thee and the enemy we are to battle. Do thou wait in what water thou hast, and I will bring help."

Stile threshed wildly, trying to convey meaning. "Ah, I understand," the werewolf said. "Enemy Adepts will follow me to thee when they divine I have found thee. But I will go instead to the enchantress, who can surely help thee from afar once I advise her. Do thou survive ten more minutes; then all be well." He shifted back to wolf-form and ran swiftly upstream.

Enchantress? That had to be another Adept — and not Brown, whose magic applied only to the animation of golems. A witch surely meant trouble. Had White convinced the animals she was on their side? Woe betide him if they trustingly delivered him into her hands!

But still he had no choice. He went on down to the sunless sea and huddled in the diminishing current as the last of the water drained out the bottom. Maybe the enchantress, whoever she was, really did mean to help him, since she knew he would die if she didn't. The Adepts had no need to locate him; they could simply wait for the draining water to eliminate him.

Unless she wanted to be absolutely sure…

Yet the Green and Tan Adepts already knew he was confined to the river. They could locate him readily, just by walking down the channel. So this sorceress must be on a different side-