Juxtaposition

8. Wager (SF)

"So I have most of twenty-four hours in Proton," Stile said to Sheen, "before the Stallion and I commence our mission of rescue and vengeance. I'll have to spend some of that time in sleep, gathering my strength. I trust you have my business here well organized."

"We do," she agreed brightly. "Mellon has lined up a number of wealthy Citizens who are eager to wipe you out financially. My friends have worked out a way to trace the original message to Citizen Kalder — but only you, an interested Citizen, can implement it. And there is reaction approaching suppressed riot to the news of the designation of your heir."

"That's enough to start on," Stile said. "Maybe it will distract me for the moment from my real concern in Phaze. Let's see how much we can sandwich in. I don't know how long my next adventure in Phaze will hold me."

"Perhaps forever," she said darkly. Then, mechanically, she reverted to immediate business. "Start on which, sir? You can't do everything at once."

"Why not?"

"The bettors are in the Stellar Lounge, as before. The panel for your heir-designation hearing is in another dome, a hundred kilometers distant. And the first

obscurity in the message chain is at a dome fifty kilometers beyond that, in the private property of a Citizen. Any one of these situations can monopolize your available time."

"You think too much like a machine," he chided her. "Take me to the hearing. Meanwhile, call the Stellar Lounge."

Frowning, she set the travel capsule in motion and placed the call. Mellon appeared in three-dimensional image. "So good to see you, sir. May I notify the Citizens that you are ready for action?"

"Do so," Stile said. "But advise them that I have unusual and challenging bets in mind and will welcome them at the site of my heir-designation hearing. You be there too."

"Yes, sir." Mellon faded out.

Immediately there was an incoming call. It was Citizen Merle. "My intercept notified me you were back in town," she said brightly. "Have you considered my invitation of the morning?"

Not this again! "Merle, I remain flattered. But there are things you should know."

"About your lovely wife in the other frame? Stile, that has no force in Proton."

"About my engagement to the serf Sheen, here," Stile said, unpleased about Merle's conversance with his private life. Too many Citizens were learning too much about him.

"Yes, I mean to place a bet on the outcome of your hearing," Merle agreed. "I'm rooting for you, Stile; I'm betting you will gain approval, after a struggle. Citizens are by no means limited in their liaisons. I have gifted my husband with a number of fine concubines, and he has sent me whichever males he suspects will appeal to my tastes. In any event, you need have no concern about the feelings of a serf."

Stile suffered an explosive reaction of anger. Sheen made an urgent signal: do not offend this Citizen!

Then Stile had a tactical inspiration. "Merle, I do care about the feelings of this serf. I was until very recently a serf myself. Until I have a better notion of her willingness to share, I can not give you a decision."

Merle smiled. "Oh, I do like you, little man! You are like a splendid fish, fighting the line. I shall be in touch with you anon." She faded.

"Sir, I never denied you the right to-" Sheen began.

"Secure our privacy!" he snapped.

She adjusted the communication controls. "Secure, sir."

"Then why are you calling me sir?"

"Stile, our relationship has changed. We are no longer even nominally members of the same society, and I prefer to recognize that in the established way. Sir."

"You're mad at me?"

"A machine can not be angry, sir."

Fat chance! "Sheen, you know that our marriage is one of convenience. I'm doing it to give your friends leverage in their suit for recognition. The upcoming hearing will be a crucial step. If we prevail there, it will be a big stride forward for your kind. I do like you, in fact I love you — but the Lady Blue will always hold the final key to my heart."

"I understand, sir." Her face was composed.

"So being faithful to you, in this frame, is moot," he continued, wishing she would show more of the emotion he knew she felt. "It is the Lady Blue I am faithful to. But aside from that, there is the matter of appearances. If I am engaged to you, but have liaisons with fleshly women — especially Citizens — that could be taken as evidence that I am marrying you in name only, to designate a convenient heir, and that could destroy the leverage we hope to gain."

"Yes, sir," she agreed noncommittally.

"So there is no way I will make an assignation with Merle. If I do that with anyone in this frame, it will be you. Because you are my fiancéе, and because there is no one in this frame I would rather do it with. So, in that sense, I am true to you. I wanted to be sure you understand."

"I understand, sir. There is no need to review it."

So he hadn't persuaded her. "Yes, I needed to review it. Because now I have it in mind to do something extremely cynical. An act worthy of a true Citizen. And I need your help."

"You have it, sir."

"I want you to have your friends arrange a blind bet on the outcome of Merle's suit. An anonymous, coded bet amounting to my entire available net worth at the time of decision — that I will not complete that liaison. I will of course deny any intent to make that liaison, but I may at times seem to waver. You and I know the outcome, but other Citizens may wish to bet the other way. It would be a foolish bet for them — but they seem to like such foolishness."

Sheen smiled. "That is indeed cynical, sir. I shall see to it."

"And it would not hurt if you permitted yourself some trifling show of jealousy, even if you feel none."

She paused. "You are devious, sir."

"I have joined a devious society. Meanwhile, I shall remain on the fence with Merle, in all but words, as long as I can stimulate interest. See that Mellon is privately notified; he definitely has the need to know."

The capsule arrived at the dome of the hearing. They emerged into a white-columned court, floored with marble, spacious and airy as a Greek ruin. Three Citizens sat behind an elevated desk. A fourth Citizen stood before the desk, evidently with another case; Stile's turn had not yet come.

The betting Citizens were arriving. A rotund man garbed like a Roman senator approached, hand extended. "Greeting, Stile. I am Waldens, and I'm interested in your offer. What is its nature?"

"Thank you, Waldens. I am about to face a hearing on the validity of my designation of my fiancée, a humanoid robot, as my heir to Citizenship. I proffer a wager as to the panel's decision."

"Most interesting!" Waldens agreed. "I doubt they will approve the designation."

"I am prepared to wager whatever my financial adviser will permit, that they will approve it," Stile said. '"It is, after all, a Citizen's right to designate whom he pleases."

"Ah, yes — but a robot is not a 'whom' but an 'it.' Only recognized people can inherit Citizenship."

"Is there a law to that effect?"

"Why, I assume so. It is certainly custom."

Now Mellon arrived. Stile quickly acquainted him with the situation. "How much will you let me bet?" he asked, knowing that Mellon, as a self-willed machine in touch with the network of his kind, would have a clear notion of the legalistic background.

But the serf hesitated. "Sir, this is an imponderable. The decision of the panel is advisory, without binding force. If there is a continuing challenge, a formal court will be convened-"

"Come off it, serf!" Waldens snapped. "We're only betting on this particular decision. What the court does later will be grist for another wager. How much Protonite can Stile afford to risk?"

"He has limited me to one hundred grams," Stile said, catching Sheen's covert affirmative signal. That meant the machines had researched the issue, and believed the odds were with Stile. He should win this bet. But he was going to play it carefully.

"A hundred grams!" Waldens laughed. "I did not come all the way here in person for such minor action!"

"I regret that my estate is as yet minimal," Stile said. "But it is growing; I have won all bets made so far. I assure you that I have an appetite for larger bets — when I can afford them. I plan to increase my estate enormously."

"All right, Stile. You're peanuts, but I like your spirit. Should be good entertainment here. I'll play along with a small bet now — but I'll expect a big one later, if you're in shape for it. Shall we compromise at half a kilo now?"

Mellon looked pained, but under Walden's glare he slowly acquiesced. "Half a kilogram of Protonite," Stile agreed, putting on a pale face himself. Five hundred grams was half the ransom of a Citizen, and more than half Stile's entire available amount for betting. His fortune stood at 1,219 grams, but he had to hold 250 for living expenses. What he was laying on the line now was enough to buy a hundred sophisticated robots like Sheen and Mellon, or to endow the tenure of five hundred serfs. All in a single bet — which his opponent considered to be a minor figure, a nuisance indulged in only for entertainment!

Meanwhile, other Citizens had arrived, intrigued by the issue. Novelty was a precious commodity among those who had everything. Two paired off, taking the two sides with matching half-kilo bets. Two more bet on whether there would be an immediate appeal of the panel's recommendation, whatever it was. Citizens certainly loved to gamble!

The prior case cleared, and it was Stile's turn before the panel. "It has been brought to our attention that you propose to designate a humanoid robot as your heir to Citizenship," the presiding Citizen said. "Do you care to present your rationale?"

Stile knew this had to be good. These were not objective machines but subjective people, which was why there could be no certainty about the decision. The wrong words could foul it up. "I am a very recent Citizen, whose life has been threatened by calamitous events; I am conscious of my mortality and wish to provide for the continuation of my estate. Therefore I have designated as my heir the person who is closest to me in Proton: my prospective wife, the Lady Sheen, here." He indicated Sheen, who cast her eyes down demurely. "She happens to be a lady robot. As you surely know, robots are sophisticated today; she is hardly distinguishable from a living person in ordinary interactions. She can eat and sleep and initiate complex sequences. She can even evince bad temper."

"The typical woman," the presiding Citizen agreed with a brief smile. "Please come to the point."

"Sheen has saved my life on more than one occasion, and she means more to me than any other person here. I have made her my chief of staff and am satisfied with the manner in which she is running my estate. I want to make our association more binding. Unless there is a regulation preventing the designation of one's wife as one's heir, I see no problem."

The three panelists deliberated. "There is no precedent," the presiding Citizen said. "No one has designated a robot before. Machines do well enough as staff members, concubines, stand-ins, and such, but seldom is one married and never have we had a nonhuman Citizen."

"If an alien creature won the Tourney one year, would it be granted Citizenship?" Stile asked.

"Of course. Good point," the Citizen said, nodding. "But robots are not permitted to participate in the Game, so can not win the Tourney."

"Do you mean to tell me that a frog-eyed, tentacular mass of slime from the farthest wash of the galaxy can be a Citizen — but this woman can not?" Stile demanded, again indicating Sheen.

The Citizens of the panel and of the group of bettors looked at Sheen, considering her as a person. She stood there bravely, smooth chin elevated, green eyes bright, her light brown hair flowing down her backside. Her face and figure were exquisitely female. There was even a slight flush at her throat. She had been created beautiful; in this moment she was splendid.

"But a robot has no human feeling," another panelist said.

"How many Citizens do?" Stile asked.

The bettors laughed. "Good shot!" Waldens muttered.

The panelists did not respond to the humor. "A robot has no personal volition," the presiding Citizen said. "A robot is not alive."

This was awkward territory. Stile had promised not to give away the nature of the self-willed machines, who did indeed have personal volition. But he saw a way through.

"Sheen is a very special robot, the top of her class of machine," he said. "Her brain is half digital, half analog, much as is the human brain, figuratively. Two hemispheres, with differing modes of operation. She approximates human consciousness and initiative as closely as a machine can. She has been programmed to resemble a living woman in all things, to think of herself as possessing the cares and concerns of life. She believes she has feeling and volition, because this is the nature of her program and her construction." As he spoke, he remembered his first discussion with Sheen on this subject, before he discovered the frame of Phaze. He had chided her on her illusion of consciousness, and she had challenged him to prove he had free will. She had won her point, and he had come to love her as a person — a robot person. He had tended to forget, since his marriage to the Lady Blue, how deep his

feeling for Sheen was. Now he was swinging back to her. He truly believed she was a real person, whose mechanism happened to differ from his own but resulted in the same kind of personality.

"Many creatures have illusions," a panelist remarked. "This is no necessary onus for Citizenship."

Stile saw that more would be required to overcome their prejudice. He would have to do a thing he did not like.

"Sheen, how do you feel about me?" he asked.

"I love you, sir," she said.

"But you know I can not truly love a machine."

"I know, sir."

"And you are a machine."

"Yes, sir."

"I will marry you and designate you as my heir to Citizenship, but I will not love you as man to woman. You know it is a marriage of convenience."

"I know, sir."

"Why do you submit to this indignity?"

"Because she wants Citizenship!" a Citizen exclaimed. He was one of the ones betting against the acceptance of the heir designation.

Stile turned to the man. "How can a machine want?" Then he returned to Sheen. "Do you want Citizenship?"

"No, sir."

"Then why do you accede to this arrangement?"

"Because your wife in Phaze asked me to."

"Oh, a stand-in for an other-frame wife!" Waldens said knowingly. "Cast in her image?"

"No, sir, she is beautiful," Sheen said. "I can never substitute for her."

"I am interested," the presiding panelist said. "Robot, are you capable of emotion? Do you feel, or think you feel? Do you want anything?"

"Yes, sir, to all three," Sheen replied.

"Exactly what do you want, if not Citizenship?"

"I want Stile's love, sir," she said.

The panelist looked at his co-panelists. "Let the record note that the robot is crying."

All the Citizens looked closely at Sheen. Her posture

and expression had not changed, but the tears were streaming down her cheeks.

"Why would any woman, human or robot, cry in response to simple, straightforward questions?" a panelist asked.

Citizen Waldens stepped forward suddenly, putting his cloaked arm around Sheen's shoulders. "For God's sake! She is not on trial! Spare her this cruelty!"

The presiding panelist nodded sagely. "She weeps because she knows she can never have her love returned by the man she loves, no matter what else he gives her. Our questioning made this truth unconscionably clear, causing her to react as the woman she represents would act. I do not believe she was conscious of the tears, or that this is a detail that would have occurred to a man." He pondered a moment, then spoke deliberately. "We of this panel are not without feeling ourselves. We are satisfied that this person, the robot Sheen, is as deserving of Citizenship as is a frog-eyed, tentacular mass of slime from the farthest wash of the galaxy." He glanced at his co-panelists for confirmation. "We therefore approve the robot Sheen's designation as heir, pending such decision as the court may make."

The Citizens applauded politely. Waldens brought Sheen back to Stile. "I'm glad to lose that bet, Stile. She's a good woman. Reminds me of my wife, when she was young and feeling. This robot deserves better than you are giving her."

"Yes," Stile agreed.

Waldens started to turn away, then snapped back in a double take. "I'll be damned! You're crying too!"

Stile nodded dumbly.

"And you think you don't love her." The Citizen shrugged. "Care to make a bet on that?"

"No," Stile said.

Sheen turned to him with incredulous surmise. "The illusion of nonfeeling — it is yours!" she said. "The Lady knew!"

The Lady had known. Stile was indeed a man of two loves, suppressing one for the sake of the other-in vain.

"Well, I'll bet you on something else," Waldens said.

"One kilo, this time. I happen to know you can afford it."

Stile wrenched himself back to the practicalities of the moment. He looked at Mellon. "Can I?"

"Sir, your betting is becoming more hazardous than necessary."

"That's his way of saying yes," Waldens said. "I feel you owe me one more bet. It wasn't right to use your girl that way. You set her up for it, knowing how she loved you."

"Yet he gave back more than he took," Sheen said. There was now a certain radiance about her, the knowledge of discovered treasure. Stile had actually set himself up.

"I'll give you your bet," Stile agreed. "And I'll match anybody else, if I don't run out of grams. Right now I have to trace an old message to its source. Care to bet whether I make it?"

"No. I don't know enough about the situation. But I'll bet when I do. You are involved in odd things, for a new Citizen. Usually they're busy for the first month just experiencing the novelty of having serfs say sir to them."

"I have some equipment waiting at the site," Stile said. He gave the address, and the other Citizens dispersed to their private capsules.

Alone with Sheen and Mellon in his own capsule, Stile looked at Sheen. Emotion overwhelmed him. "Damn!" he exclaimed. "I'm sorry, Sheen."

She paused momentarily, analyzing which level he was on. "You had to do it, sir. It was necessity, not cruelty, sir."

"Stop calling me sir!" he cried.

"When we are alone," she agreed.

"Maybe I am fooling myself. Maybe what I feel for you is what most others would call love. But since I met the Lady Blue-"

She laid her soft hand on his. "I would not change you if I could."

Which was what the Lady Blue had said. Sheen could have had no way to know that.

"It is an interesting relation you share," Mellon said. "I am not programmed for romantic emotion. I admit to curiosity as to its nature and usefulness."

"You are better off not knowing," Sheen said, squeezing Stile's hand.

"I do experience excitement when a large property transaction is imminent."

"If the self-willed machines gain recognition," Stile said, "you will receive whatever programming you wish, including romantic. For now, she's right? you are happier as you are."

"I will be ecstatic if I complete your target fortune. So far I have had little to do with it. I fear my circuits will short out, observing your mode of operation."

Stile smiled. "Now that I have inordinate wealth, I find it does not mean much to me," he said. "It is merely the substance of another game. I want to win, of course — but my real ambition lies elsewhere." He glanced again at Sheen. "My emotion is so erratic, I really think it would be better for you to accept reprogramming to eliminate your love for me. It would save you so much grief-"

"Or you could accept conditioning to eliminate your love for the Lady Blue," she said.

"Touché."

"Or to diminish your prejudice against robots."

"I'm not prejudiced against-" He paused. "Damn it, now I know I could love you, Sheen, if I didn't have the Lady Blue. But my cultural conditioning… I would prefer to give up life itself, rather than lose her."

"Of course. I feel the same about you. Now I know I have enough of you to make my existence worthwhile."

She was happy with half a loaf. Stile still felt guilty. "Sometimes I wish there were another me. That I had two selves again, with one who was available for Citizenship and who would love you, while the other could roam forever free in Phaze." He sighed. "But of course when there were two of me, I knew about none of this. My other self had the Lady Blue."

"That self committed suicide," she said.

"Suicide! By no means! He was murdered!"

"He accepted murder. Perhaps that is not clear to your illogical and vacillating mind."

"My mind was his!"

"In a different situation. He had reason."

Accepted murder. Stile considered that. He had marveled before that the Blue Adept had been dispatched by so crude a device — strangled by a demon from an amulet. It was indeed a suspicious situation. No magic of that sort had been able to kill Stile; why had it worked against his other self? And the Blue Adept's harmonica, his prized possession, had been left for Stile to find, conveniently. Yet suicide-could that be believed? If so, why? Why would any man permit himself to be ignominiously slain? Why, specifically, should Stile himself, in his other guise, permit it? He simply was not the type.

"You say he had reason. Why do you feel he did that?"

"Because he lacked enough of the love of the one he loved," she said promptly.

"But the Lady Blue gave him the third thee," he protested. "In Phaze, that is absolute love."

"But it was late and slow, and as much from duty and guilt as from true feeling. Much the same as your love for me. I, too, tried to suicide."

Indeed she had, once. One might debate whether a nonliving creature could die, but Sheen had certainly tried to destroy herself. Only the compassion of the Lady Blue had restored Sheen's will to endure. The Lady Blue, obviously, had understood. What a hard lesson she had learned when her husband died!

"Somehow I shall do right by you, Sheen," Stile said. don't know how, right now, but I will find a way."

"Maybe with magic," she said, unsmiling.

They arrived at the site of the message-tracing team. Stile was glad to let this conversation drop. He loved Sheen, but not consistently and not enough. His personal life in Proton seemed to be an unravelable knot.

They were in one of the public lavatories for serfs, with rows of sinks, toilets, and showers. The message cable passed the length of its floor, buried but within range of the detector. Passing serfs, seeing a Citizen present, hastily departed for other facilities.

There was a serf technician with a small but complex machine on two wheels. The machine blinked and bleeped in response to the serf's comments. No, Stile realized, it was the other way around. The serf commented in response to the device. It was another self-willed machine, with a subordinate serf. A neat way to conceal the real nature of the assistance being provided. The self-willed machines had considerable resources but did not want to betray their nature to the Citizens, lest the machines be summarily destroyed. There was a difference between being programmed to mimic personal volition, as Sheen was presumed to be, and actually possessing that volition, as Sheen and her kind did. The makers of these most sophisticated robots had wrought better than they knew, which was the reason these machines wanted legal recognition as people. They were people, of mechanical nature. With such recognition they could not be dispatched without legal reason, lest it be called murder.

The signals from the machine were more or less continuous and were ignored by the Citizens who joined Stile's party for the betting. Thus the real nature of the communications was not obvious. Only Stile, with his private knowledge of the special machines and his Game-trained alertness for detail, was aware of it. "What have we here?" he inquired of the serf.

"Sir, this is an electronic device that can trace the route of a particular message at a particular moment," the serf said. "Each message modifies the atomic structure of the transmission wires nominally. This change is so small that only a sophisticated instrument can detect it, and the range is quite limited. But it is possible to trace the stigmata by examining the wires at close range, provided we know precisely what we are looking for."

"Like a hound sniffing a scent," Stile said.

The machine bleeped. "Yes, sir," the serf said.

"That's a new one to me," Waldens said. "But I never did concern myself with machines. I think I'll buy me one like the metal lady here, if I don't win this one in a bet."

Both Sheen and Stile reacted, startled. Neither was pleased. Waldens laughed. "Stile, you don't have to bet anything you don't want to. But you should be aware that this lady robot is now a piece worth a good deal more than she was when new. If you lose a big one and have to have a new stake, she is it." He glanced at the message-tracing machine. "Now let's see this contraption operate."

"You have programmed the specific message and time of transmission?" Stile inquired. "Why are you unable to continue?"

Again the bleep. "Yes, sir. We have traced the message to this point. But ahead the cable passes through a juncture associated with the estate of a Citizen who denies us permission to prospect here."

"Ah, now the challenge comes clear," Waldens said. "What Citizen?"

"Sir, serfs do not identify Citizens by name," the serf said, translating the machine's signals. "But his designation is at the gate."

Waldens strode out of the lavatory and down the hall to examine the gate. The others followed. "Circle-Tesseract symbol." He brought out a miniature mike. "Who's that?"

"Sir, that is Citizen Cirtess," his contact answered.

"Cirtess. Circle-Tesseract. That figures. Same way I have a forest pond on my crest. I know him." Waldens considered. "Stile, I'm ready to bet. You won't get into that dome to trace your line. You'll have to go around and pick up beyond."

"Is that feasible?" Stile asked his technician serf.

"Not feasible, sir. This is a major cable junction. Billions of impulses have passed through it. We can trace the stigmata only by setting up at the junction and reading the routing there."

"Needle in a haystack," Stile said.

"Sir?"

"Never mind. I grasp the problem. We shall simply have to get to that switchbox."

"That's my bet, Stile," Waldens said. "Let's put a reasonable time limit on it. Shall we say half an hour for you to get the job done?"

Stile looked at the message-tracing serf. "How long to pass this junction without impediment?"

"It is merely a matter of getting to it, sir. The readout is instant."

Stile looked at Mellon. "How much may I bet?"

"The amount is settled," Waldens protested. "One kilo."

Mellon was unhappy. "Sir, this is extremely chancy, incorporating virtually no element of predictability, and the amount is large. Have you any reasonable expectation of obtaining permission to enter Citizen Cirtess' dome in the next half hour?"

"No. But that's not the bet. It's whether I can get the job done."

"Oho!" Waldens exclaimed. "You intend to go in without permission?"

Stile shrugged. "I intend to get the job done."

"Cirtess has armed guards and laser barriers," another Citizen said. "Almost every year some foolishly intruding serf gets fried. It would take a mechanized army to storm that citadel."

Waldens smiled. "Sirs, I think we have a really intriguing wager in the making. What do we deem to be the odds against Stile's success? Remember, he is a canny ex-serf who recently won the Tourney; he surely has some angle."

"Thousand to one against, for any ordinary person," the other Citizen said. "Hundred to one against, for a Tourney winner. And a good chance he'll get himself killed trying."

"No, I saw him play," a third Citizen said. "He's a slippery one. If he thinks he can do it, maybe he can."

"I don't think I can do it," Stile said. "I have to do it. Forces were set in motion to kill me, and this message is related. I must ascertain its source."

"Within half an hour?" Waldens asked.

"I suspect that if I don't pass this nexus in that time, I won't pass it at all. It is pass-fail right now."

"And you are staking your life on it," Waldens said. "That makes the bet most interesting. Suppose we give you odds? We think the chances are one hundred to one against you; you evidently think you can do it. We could compromise at ten to one, with several of us covering the bet."

"That's generous enough," Stile agreed. "Since I have to make the attempt anyway."

"Sir, I do not recommend this wager," Mellon said. "I know of no persuasion you can make to obtain Citizen Cirtess' acquiescence, and you lack the facilities for intrusion against resistance. My expert advice can bring you far more favorable betting opportunities than this."

"Fifteen to one," Waldens said. "I won't go higher; I don't trust you to be as naïve as you seem." The other Citizens nodded agreement. Their faces were becoming flushed; this was the essence of their pleasure. Negotiating a large bet on a highly questionable issue. Gambling not merely with wealth but with the deviousness of human comprehension and intent. They knew Stile had something in mind, and it was worth poorer odds to discover what his play would be.

Stile spread his hands in ordinary-man innocence. "Mellon, I'm sure your way is more practical. But I stand to win a great deal on this, with these levered odds. If I lose I'm in trouble anyway, because this intrusion may be physically hazardous. Wealth is very little use to a dead man. So I must do it my way this time. One kilogram of Protonite against their fifteen kilos, half an hour from now."

"Yes, sir," Mellon said with doleful resignation.

"But no interference from you Citizens," Stile cautioned. "If you give away the show to Cirtess-"

"No cheating," Waldens agreed. "Well watch via a routine pickup, hidden in the lavatory."

"Thank you." Stile turned to the machine-operating serf. "Show me how to work this contraption," he said.

"Merely locate it over the line or nexus, sir. It will emit code lights and bleeps to enable you to orient correctly." He demonstrated. Stile tried the procedure on the section of cable under the floor, getting the hang of it. He knew he would have no trouble, since this was another self-willed machine, which would guide him properly.

Now Stile turned to one of the betting Citizens who wore an elaborate headdress that vaguely resembled an ancient Amerind chief's bonnet of feathers. "I proffer a side bet, my clothing against your hat, on the flip of a coin."

"How small can you get?" the Citizen asked, surprised. "I have staked a kilo, and you want my hat?" "You decline my wager?" Stile asked evenly.

The Citizen frowned. "No. I merely think it's stupid. You could buy your own hat; you have no need of mine. And your clothing would not fit me." The man touched his bulging middle; his mass was twice Stile's.

"So you agree to bet." Stile looked around. "Does anyone have a coin with head and tail, similar to those used in Tourney contests?"

Another Citizen nodded. "I am a numismatist. I will sell you a coin for your clothing."

Now Stile was surprised. "My clothing has already been committed."

"I'm calling your bluff. I don't believe you plan to strip, so I figure you to arrange to win the toss. If you win, I get your clothing as due rental for the coin."

"But what if I lose?"

"Then I'll give you my clothing, in the spirit of this nonsense. But you won't lose; you can control the flip of a coin. All Gamesmen can."

"Now wait!" the headdressed Citizen protested. "I want a third party to flip it."

"I'll flip," Waldens said. "I'm objective; I'll be happy to see anyone naked, so long as it isn't me."

Stile smiled. "It might be worth the loss." For the coin-loaning Citizen was especially portly. "Very well. I will rent your coin."

"This grows ever more curious," Waldens remarked. "What is this fascination we seem to share for nakedness in the presence of Stile's lovely robot mistress?"

"Fiancée," Stile said quickly.

Now the other Citizen smiled. "Maybe we should all strip and ask her opinion."

Sheen turned away, blushing. This was sheer artifice, but it startled the Citizens again; they were not used to robots who were this lifelike. "By God," one muttered, "I'm going to invest in a harem of creatures like her."

Stile accepted the coin. It was a pretty iridium disk, comfortably solid in his hand, with the head of Tyrannosauras Rex on one side and the tail of a dinosaur on the reverse. Stile appreciated the symbolism: iridium had been associated with the extinction of the dinosaurs, and of course the whole notion of coinage had become a figurative dinosaur in the contemporary age. Iridium, however, remained a valuable metal, and numismatics was popular among Citizens. He passed the coin over to Waldens.

"How do we know Waldens can't control the flip too?" another Citizen asked suspiciously. They were taking this tiny bet as seriously as any other.

"You can nullify his control by calling the side in midair," Stile pointed out. "If you figure him to go for heads, you call tails. One flip. Agreed?"

"Agreed." The Citizen with the headdress seemed increasingly interested. He was obviously highly curious as to what Stile was up to.

Stile was sure the Citizen's inherent vanity would cause him to call heads, as a reflection of self-image, so he hoped Waldens would flip it tails. The coin spun brightly in the air, heading for the tiled floor.

"Heads," the Citizen called, as expected. He hardly seemed to care about the outcome of the bet now; he was trying to fathom Stile's longer purpose.

The iridium coin bounced on the floor, flipped, rolled, and settled tails. Victory for Stile!

Stile held out his hand for the hat, and the Citizen with the coin held out his hand for Stile's clothes. All the rest watched this procedure solemnly. Even Sheen had no idea what Stile was up to.

Stile removed his clothing and stood naked, seeming like a child among adults. He took the hat and donned it, arranging it carefully to conceal his hair and complement the lines of his face. Then, with covered head and bare body, he marched to a holo unit set in an alcove. It was a small one, capable of head-projection only, available for emergency use. Any demand by a Citizen was considered emergency.

"Cirtess," Stile said crisply to the pickup. The device bleeped faintly as it placed the call. He knew the self-willed machines were tapping in, keeping track of him without interfering.

The head of a female serf formed in the cubby. "Sir, may I inquire your identity and the nature of your call?"

"I am Stile," Stile said, rippling an aristocratic sneer across his lips. merely wish to inform your employer that a line-maintenance crew is about to operate on his premises. The maintenance is phony, and the crew is other than it appears. There is nothing wrong with that line. I believe Cirtess should investigate this matter personally."

"Thank you, sir," the serf said. She faded out.

"Now that's something!" Waldens exclaimed. "You warned him you were coming! Do you have a death wish?"

Stile removed his hat, but did not seek new clothing. He took the wheeled machine and started down the hall.

"Aha!" Waldens exclaimed. "Of course he would know how to emulate a serf! But Cirtess won't let a serf intrude, either, especially when he's been warned by a Citizen that something's afoot."

"We shall find out," Stile said. "You may watch me on the general pickup system to verify whether I succeed. Serfs, come along." He moved on toward the dome entrance.

The Citizens turned on the little holo unit, crowding around it. Stile knew they would follow his every move. That was fine; he wanted them to have no doubt.

He led his party to the Circle-Tesseract emblem. Cirtess' dome adjoined the main public dome closely; an on-ground tunnel about fifty meters long extended between the two. The communication line was buried beneath the floor of the tunnel.

Two male serfs stood guard at the tunnel entrance. They snapped to alertness as Stile's party approached. One barred the way. "This is private property."

Stile halted. "I'm on Citizen business," he said. "I'm tracing an important message along the communication line."

"Have you my employer's permission to pass?"

"He knows we're coming," Stile said. "I expect him to attend to this personally. Now give me room; I don't have all day." He pushed on by, trundling the machine.

Uncertain, the serf gave way. No mere serf braved the premises of a Citizen without authorization; this line tracing had to have been cleared. But the other serf was already buzzing his dome. "Work crew of four claims to be on Citizen business," he said.

Stile walked on, not waiting for the answer. Mellon, Sheen, and the machine-tending serf followed. They all knew they could be cut down by a laser at any moment; Citizens had short fuses when it came to serf intrusions, and there was a laser lens covering the length of the tunnel. But Stile was gambling that Cirtess would investigate before firing. Why should an illicit crew intrude so boldly on his premises? Why should there be advance warning? Wasn't it more likely that someone was trying to make mischief for a legitimate work crew? But the maintenance computer would deny that any crew was operating here at this time, so it was phony. It simply didn't add up, unless it was a practical joke. In that case, Cirtess would want to discover the perpetrator. To do that, he would have to observe the work crew and perhaps interrogate it. It was unlikely that Stile himself would be recognized in this short time; the Amerind hat had completely changed his face, and in any event, the last thing anyone would think of was a Citizen masquerading as a serf. At least this was Stile's hope.

No laser bolt came. Stile reached the end of the tunnel, passed another serf guard who did not challenge him, and traced the buried cable on through a foyer and into a garden park girt with cubistic statuary. The Tesseract motif, of course; Citizens could carry their symbolic foibles quite far.

In the center of the garden, beside a fountain that formed odd, three-dimensional patterns, Stile came to the buried cable nexus. He oriented the machine on it. There was a buzz; then an indicator pointed to the line leading away, and a readout gave the coding designation of the new cable. He had accomplished his mission and won his bet.

But when he looked up, there was a Citizen, flanked by a troop of armed serfs. This was Cirtess; Stile knew it could be no other. "Step into my office, Stile," the man said brusquely.

So the game was up. Stile turned the machine over to its regular operator and went with the Citizen. He had not actually won his bet until he escaped this dome intact with the machine; or if he had won the bet, but lost his life, what he had gained?

Inside the office, with privacy assured, Cirtess handed Stile a robe. Stile donned it, together with sandals and a feather hat. His subterfuge had certainly been penetrated.

"Now what is the story?" Cirtess inquired. "I think you owe me the truth."

"I'm tracing a two-month-old message," Stile said. "Your personnel would not permit entry to a necessary site."

"Of course not! I'd fire any serf who let unauthorized persons intrude."

"So I had to find a way through. It has nothing to do with you personally; I simply have to trace that message to wherever it originated."

"Why didn't you tell me this by phone? I am not unreasonable when the issue is clear; I might have permitted your mission, for a reasonable fee."

"I happen also to need to increase my fortune."

Cirtess nodded. "Could this relate to the several Citizens who huddle in the serf lavatory, spying on your progress?"

"They gave me fifteen-to-one odds on a kilo of Protonite that I couldn't make it. I need that sort of advantage."

"So you called me to rouse my curiosity, so my serfs wouldn't laser you out of hand?"

"Also so as not to deceive you," Stile agreed. "I do not like deception, outside the framework of an established game. You were not properly part of our game."

"So you inducted me into it. A miscalculation could have resulted in your early demise."

"My life has been threatened before. That's one reason I'm tracing this message; I believe its source will offer some hint of the nature of my nemesis."

Cirtess nodded again. "And the Citizens were willing to give better odds because of the factor of danger. Very well. I appreciate cleverness, and I'm as game for a wager as anyone. I will let you go without objection if you will wager your winnings with me."

"But my winnings will be fifteen kilos of Protonite!"

"Yes, a substantial sum. I can cover it, and you must risk it. Choose your bet now — or I shall see that you lose your prior bet by not completing your survey. I can legitimately destroy your tracer machine."

"You play a formidable game!" Stile exclaimed. "You're forcing me to double or nothing."

"Indeed," Cirtess agreed, smiling. "One does not brave the lion's den without encountering challenge."

Stile emerged from the dome with his crew and machine, his knees feeling somewhat weak. "I have the data," he announced.

Waldens glanced at the indicator on the machine. "So you do, and within the time limit. You've won fifteen. But why are you so shaky?"

"Cirtess caught me. He pressured me."

The other Citizens laughed. "Why do you think we bet against you?" one said. "Cirtess can buy and sell most of us. We knew you were walking into the lion's den."

"How did you wiggle out?" Waldens asked.

"He required me to bet my winnings with him," Stile said, grimacing. "That leaves me only one kilo uncommitted, until that bet is settled."

"What is the bet?"

"That is private. It is a condition of the wager that I tell no one its nature until it is settled, which should be shortly."

"Ah, I like that sort of mystery. Cirtess must be playing a game with us, to make up for our intrusion into his privacy. Very well — I'll go for your single kilo. Do you have any suitable notions?"

Stile considered. "I don't care to bet on this message-tracing any more. Maybe we can find something disconnected." They were walking toward the next cable juno-tion, guided by the machine coding. It was pointless to trace every meander of the cable itself when this shortcut was available. Stile turned a comer and entered a short concourse between major domes. At this moment there were no other people in it. "I know! Let's bet on the sex of the serfs to traverse this passage in the next ten minutes. That should be a fairly random sampling."

"Good enough," Waldens agreed. "I'll match your kilo, betting on female."

"Now wait," the Citizen with the feather hat protested. He had recovered it after Stile's use. "The rest of us are being cut out."

"Bet with each other," Stile said. "I am at my present limit." And Mellon nodded emphatically.

"There's little verve in wagers with other Citizens. You are the intriguing factor here."

"Well, I'll be happy to hedge my bet," Stile said. “I bet Waldens that more males will pass, and you that more females will pass."

"No good. That puts Waldens and me against each other, in effect. I want you. I want your last kilo."

"All right," Waldens said. "I relinquish my bet with Stile. You can have this one."

"Hey, I want to bet too!" the iridium coin Citizen protested, and the others joined in.

"All right! I'll cover you all," Feather Hat said. "One kilo each. I say more females in ten minutes from — mark."

"Good enough," Waldens agreed. "Five of us, including Stile, are betting you that more males will pass. We all win or lose with Stile."

Now they waited. For two minutes no one came from either direction. "Suppose none comes — or it's even?" Stile asked. He was laboring under continuing tension.

"Then we extend the time," Waldens said. "Sudden death. Agreed?"

The others agreed. They all wanted a settlement. The particular bets didn't matter, and the details of the bets didn't matter; just as long as they could share the excitement of honest gambling.

Then two male serfs came, chatting together. Both went silent as they spied the group of Citizens in the center of the concourse. "Proceed apace," Waldens said, and the two hastily passed by.

A minute later a third serf came, from the opposite direction. Another male. The feather-hatted Citizen frowned.

Then the pace picked up. Three females passed, two more males, a female, three more males, and another female. At eight minutes the score was eight males, five females. "Must be a male work shift getting out," Waldens said, satisfied. 'To think I almost bet on the girls!"

But in the final minute there were two more males and six more females. As the time expired, the score was ten males, eleven females.

The feather-hatted Citizen smiled broadly. "I skunked you all! Five kilos!" He nodded toward Stile. "And I beat him. Nobody's done that before."

"I lost my kilo," Stile agreed, wondering if he looked as nervous as he felt. "But there's a question I'd like to explore."

"Explore it, Waldens said. "We're having fun."

"I notice that the males were ahead, until a sudden rush of females at the end. Is the estate of any of our number near to this concourse?"

"Not mine," Waldens said. "But you, Bonnet — yours is close, isn't it?"

"It is," the feather-hatted Bonnet replied guardedly.

"And those late female serfs — would they by any chance be employees of yours?" Stile asked.

"That doesn't matter," Bonnet said. "The wager did not exclude our employees. All serfs are Citizen employees."

"Oho!" Waldens said. "You signaled your dome and loaded the dice!"

"Only smart participation," Bonnet insisted. "There was no bar against it."

Waldens sighed. "No, I suppose not. One must never accept something on faith, particularly the constancy of other Citizens. I fell for it; I'll take my loss." The others agreed, though not pleased; they all should have been more careful.

Now Stile felt the exhilaration of victory. "As it happens, I bet Cirtess fifteen kilos that someone would cheat on this wager. I lost my kilo, but won my fifteen. Right, Cirtess?"

"Right," Cirtess's voice agreed on a hidden speaker. "Well and fairly played, Stile. Let it be recorded: fifteen for you."

Waldens slapped his knee. "Beautiful! Bonnet won five, you won fifteen. Even in losing, you won! Your fortune is now just over thirty kilograms, Stile. You are now a moderately wealthy Citizen."

"Congratulations," Bonnet said sourly. "I believe I have had enough for the day." Somewhat stiffly, he departed.

"And that was worth my own paltry losses," Waldens said. "I never liked him much. Stile, I suspect he's right. You have been outmaneuvering us nicely, Stile. I think I must desist wagering with you, lest I lose my shirt — or all of my clothing." And the others laughed, remembering the episode of nakedness. By common consent they dispersed, leaving Stile alone with his party of serfs.

"Sir, you have taken extraordinary chances," Mellon said reprovingly. "My expertise has been useless."

"I agree I have pushed my luck," Stile said. "I think it prudent to turn my winnings over to you for management now. Do you feel you can parlay them into an even larger fortune?"

"A thirty-kilogram stake? Sir, with that leverage and your authority to make selective wagers, I believe I can do well enough."

"Go to it. I'll refrain from further betting until I consult with you. Take it away."

"Thank you, sir. Your method is unorthodox, but I must confess it has proved effective." Mellon turned and walked away.

"He will work wonders, sir," Sheen murmured.

Unencumbered by the betting Citizens, they proceeded rapidly to the next nexus, which was in a public workshop area, and thence to another in a serf park that spread across the curtain. "Coincidence?" Stile inquired skeptically, and Sheen agreed it was probably not.

They set the machine, and the readout suggested that the message impulse had been introduced at this nexus. But this was a closed connection; there was no way to insert a message here. "It had to have come from the other side of the curtain," Stile said. Somehow he was not surprised. Much of the other mischief he had experienced had originated in Phaze.

"You have a friend there," Sheen said. "You will have to cross and use your magic to trace him down."

"Yes. Only an Adept could have managed this. I can't think which one would have done it." Stile sighed. "Sheen, I still have a night free, and I shall need my rest. Take me home."

She took him to the Proton Blue Demesnes, and fed him and washed him in the manner of serf for Citizen, not deigning to give the job to the hired staff. She put him in a comfortable bed over a gravity diffusion screen, so that his weight diminished. Weariness closed in on him, now that he had respite from the tensions of the moment. But before he allowed himself to sleep, he caught her hand and drew her to him. "You cried for me again today," he said.

"And you cried again for me."

"Some day, somehow-"

She leaned over and kissed him, and it was as sweet as any kiss could be. In that pleasure he fell asleep. He dreamed that he loved her in the off moments as well as at the stress points — but woke to know that was only a wish, not truth. He could not do more than marry her.