“Correct.”
“Why didn’t the Citizen simply eliminate the enemy serf?”
“We have no information.”
“And why are you self-willed machines helping me? This increases the risk of your discovery by the Citizens, so is dangerous for you.”
To his surprise, the anonymous machine answered. “At first we helped you because one of our number, the robot Sheen, wished it, and you took the oath not to betray our interests. There was also an anonymous imperative favoring you. This also we have been unable to trace, but we have ascertained that it originates from other than Citizen or serf. We were aware that a chance existed that you would eventually be useful to us. Now that chance has expanded. Perhaps this is what the anonymous imperative intended. Should you win the Tourney, as we deem a one in ten chance at this moment, you will become a Citizen. As such you could help our cause enormously.”
“As such, I could,” Stile agreed, intrigued by their estimate of his chances in the Tourney, and by the notion of the “anonymous imperative” that favored him. Strange elements operating here! “But you know I would betray neither my own kind nor the system. I do not support revolution, or even significant change. I merely seek to deal with my enemy and improve my personal, private situation. I’m just no crusader.”
“We seek recognition for our kind within the system,” the machine said. “No revolution is desired, only modification. We wish to have the status of serfs. A Citizen could prepare the way.”
“I could support that,” Stile agreed. “But that would necessitate revealing the secret of your nature.”
“We are not ready for that. We would be destroyed, were our nature known prematurely.”
“But to prepare the way without the revelation—that would be very slow.”
“We estimate the process will take approximately seventy-five years. To move faster would be to increase the risk unacceptably.”
“You have patience,” Stile said.
“We are machines.”
That, of course, was their ultimate limitation. They had intelligence, consciousness and self-will, but lacked the impatience of life. Though Sheen was coming close! “I thank you for your help, for whatever motive, machines,” Stile said. “I will help you in return—when the occasion offers.”
He returned with Sheen to their apartment, not speaking further of this matter. He never spoke directly of the self-willed machines where his words could be recorded, lest that betray their nature to the Citizens of Proton. Most places were bugged, and often continuous recordings of serf activities were made at the behest of individual Citizens. Thus only a place cleared by the machines themselves was safe for such dialogue. Elsewhere, he simply called them “Sheen’s friends.”
Stile did appreciate their help, and he wondered whether they were really as machinelike as they claimed. Why should they care about their status in the society of Proton? To become serfs only meant to serve Citizens—as they already did—to be allowed to play the Game, and to be limited to twenty years or so of tenure on the planet. If they left the planet, they might lose whatever status they gained on it, since the galactic society was just as human-oriented as was Proton’s. Yet obviously they did have desires. Sheen was certainly an emotional, personlike being; why not others like her? But the machines would let him know what they wanted him to know, when they deemed appropriate.
It was time for his next Game. Round Five—the number of entrants was shrinking now, as more players lost their second match and were washed out, so things would move along faster. But there remained a long way to go.
This time he was paired with a child, an eleven-year-old boy, not one of the good ones. “Your tenure can’t be up!” Stile said.
“My folks’ tenure is up,” the boy explained. “I’m leaving with them anyway, so why not go out in style?”
So he had nothing to lose. Just in it for fun, to see how far he could go. And he had gotten to Round Five, perhaps helping to eliminate three or four entrants to whom this was a matter verging on life and death. It was the irony of the Tourney that many of those who had no need should win, while those who had to win—lost.
Their turn came, and they went to the grid. Stile got the letters, and was afraid the boy would go for CHANCE—and was correct. It came up 3C, Machine-Assisted CHANCE. Any CHANCE was bad; Stile had tried to mitigate it, but ultimately it remained potential disaster.
If he could steer it into one of the more complex mechanical variants, a pinball machine—for a person like him, with experience and a fine touch, one of those became a game of skill.
But it came out wrong, again. The lad played with luck and the uncanny insight of the young, making mischief. It settled on an ancient-type slot machine, a one-armed bandit. One hundred percent chance. Each player pulled the handle, and the kid came up with the higher configuration.
“I won! I won! I won!” he shrieked. “Hee-hee-hee!”
Stile had lost. Just like that. A nothing-Game, against a dilettante child who had nothing to gain—and Stile was suddenly half washed out. His nightmare had happened.
Sheen found him and got him home. Stile was numbed with the unfairness of it. It was a demeaning loss, so pointless, so random. All his considerable Game-skills had been useless. Where did his chances of winning the Tourney stand now? One in a hundred?
“I know it hurts you,” Sheen said solicitously. “I would suffer for you if I could, but I am not programmed for that. I am programmed only for you, yourself, your person and your physical welfare.”
“It’s foolish,” Stile said, forcing himself to snap out of it. “I comprehend the luck of the Game. I have won randomly many times. This is why the Tourney is double-elimination—so that a top contender shall not be eliminated by a single encounter with a duffer in CHANCE. I simply have to take my loss and go on.”
“Yes.”
“But dammit, it hurts!”
“Of course.”
“How can you understand?” he snapped.
“I love you.”
Which was about as effective a rebuttal as she could have made. “Your whole existence is like a lost Game, isn’t it,” he said, squeezing her hand.
“Yes.”
“It seems as though luck is turning against me. My Games have been running too close, and in Phaze I lost a contest to a unicorn, and now this—”
They were home. “There is a message,” Sheen said as they entered. She went to the receptacle and drew it out. “A holo-tape.”
“Who would send me a tape?” Stile asked, perplexed. “Another trap?”
“Not with my friends watching.” She set it in the playslot.
The holograph formed. The Rifleman stood before them. “I pondered before relaying this edited report to you, Stile,” the Citizen said. “But a wager is a wager, and I felt this was relevant. I suspect this tape reveals the general nature of the information you would have given me, had you lost our ballgame, so I hardly feel cheated. I was not able to ascertain who has tried to hurt you, but it seems likely that you were the intended victim of this sequence, and therefore this does provide a hint.” He frowned. “I apologize for acquitting my debt in this manner. Yet it is best you have the detail. I hope that this at least forwards your quest. Adieu.” The Citizen faded out with a little wave.
“Why is he so diffident?” Stile asked. “That’s not the way of a Citizen.”
“He uses the term ‘victim,’ ” Sheen pointed out. “This will not be pretty.”
“Hulk! Something’s happened—”
The holograph formed a new image: Hulk, talking to Sheen herself. The man seemed even larger than normal, in the confines of the apartment. His head barely cleared the doorway. “Thank you, Sheen,” Hulk said, smiling down at her. Sheen was lovely, looking absolutely human, but of course Hulk knew the truth.
“I never knew this was being recorded!” the actual Sheen exclaimed, looking at her holo-image.
“Citizens can have anything recorded,??
? Stile reminded her. “All the holo-pickups spread throughout the domes of Proton are at their service.”
“I know that. I just didn’t realize I was the subject, in your absence.”
“You may be the subject right now.”
“Oh, shut up and watch the show.”
They watched the holo-Hulk depart, the image sliding in and out of the scene to simulate his motion. He stopped at a communication screen, called Information, and received a slip of paper, evidently an address. The self-willed machines had provided it, of course; Stile hoped the Rifleman had not pursued that ramification.
Hulk read the address and started walking again. Suddenly he was entering a jetporter—and as suddenly emerging at a far dome. The edited tape, of course, skipping across the nonessentials. It was easy to follow, since standard entertainment-holos were done the same way.
Hulk arrived at an isolated dome, similar to so many favored by Citizens. This one was accessible by monorail across the sand, so that any visitors were visible well before arrival. Hulk stepped down as the carriage halted, and stood on the lawn, looking at the main building.
It was an almost perfect replica of the Blue Demesnes. Stile could well understand the amazement of the big man. Who would have thought that such a castle existed in the frame of Proton? It was probably on the same geographic site, too, conforming perfectly to the alternate frame. The frames did tend to align, as Stile had discovered the hard way; when a person died in one, he was likely to die in the other too. Stile had narrowly escaped death in Proton at the time the Blue Adept was murdered in Phaze. Then, in what was apparently another way for the frames to equalize, he had discovered the curtain and crossed over. Thus each frame had Stile, again—in turn. This suggested that the use of the curtain was not coincidental, but inevitable—when an imbalance existed between the frames.
But now here was Hulk—seemingly back where he had started from. And surely the Lady Blue was here, for this was where Sheen had sent him to find her, based on the information her machine friends had provided. But the Lady could not hold the position here that she did in Phaze …
Hulk, evidently having completed a similar mental sequence, strode forward toward the castle. There was one way to find out!
There was a guard at the gate. He stood up straight as Hulk approached, but there was no way he could match Hulk’s height. “What is your business here, serf?”
“I am Hulk, on leave from employment pending the expiration of my tenure. I wish to meet Bluette.”
The guard turned to a communication pickup. “Serf with message for Bluette.”
“Thank you; I will be down.” It was the Lady Blue’s voice. Stile felt a prickle at his spine, though he knew this was merely the Lady’s alternate self. Of course she sounded the same; she was the same, in everything except situation.
“I’m not sure I should watch this,” Stile muttered. “It doesn’t relate to my situation.”
“The Rifleman thinks otherwise,” Sheen reminded him. “You can just sit there and watch someone else making time with someone you love. The experience will do you good.”
How bitter could a robot get? But probably she was right; he was doing it to her, and he needed to know how it felt to have it done to him.
Hulk waited, and in a moment she appeared. She was indeed the Lady Blue. The Phaze clothing was gone; she was a naked serf. But she was the same.
“She’s lovely,” Sheen said. “I can see how you would like her.”
“This one is for Hulk,” Stile said. But it was hard to believe that. He was glad the scene was only in holo. Bluette—the Lady Blue—he understood why they were so exactly like each other. Yet to see it so directly—this stirred him fundamentally.
“What is your message?” Bluette inquired. She did not use the archaic tongue, of course; Stile found this slightly jarring, but it did help distinguish her from the woman he loved.
“Lady, it is complicated,” Hulk said. “I would like to talk with thee at some length.”
“Thee?”
“My error,” Hulk said quickly. “A misplaced usage.” He had had so much trouble getting used to the forms of Phaze, and this situation was conducive to the error. Stile would have had the same problem.
Bluette shrugged. “Until my Employer comes, I am not hard-pressed. Yet I am disinclined to heed a complicated message from a stranger.”
“This I understand, Lady,” Hulk said. “I know it is an imposition. Yet perhaps I can tell you things that will interest you. I have known one very like you, a great and gracious woman, a star among planets—”
“Enough of this!” she exclaimed angrily. “I am a serf, like you. Do you seek to get me in trouble with my Employer?”
Hulk’s response was cut off by the sudden descent of a rocket. The thing veered out of its trajectory, dropping rapidly toward the dome. Both man and woman paused to stare at it.
“Lady, it will crash!” Hulk cried. He leaped forward, swept up the woman, and carried her from the projected site of collision.
He was not mistaken. The rocket plunged through the dome’s force-field and landed with an explosive flare of heat against the castle wall. A yellowish cloud of vapor enveloped it, spreading rapidly outward. “Gas attack!” Hulk cried. “Get into the monoshuttle!”
“This is outrageous!” Bluette exclaimed as he set her down. But she ran fleetly enough toward the mono.
It was no good. The crash had disrupted the mono’s power; the shuttle was inoperative. “Go outside the dome!” Hulk cried. “The gas can’t follow there!”
But the gas had already diffused throughout the dome. Both Hulk and the Lady held their breaths as they ran for the rim, but collapsed as the gas touched their skin.
“Nerve gas,” Stile muttered. “Almost instant. Not necessary to breathe it. Used as an anesthetic for animals.” He frowned. “But strange that a shipment of that should crash right there and then. Freight rockets hardly ever go astray.”
“That was no coincidence,” Sheen said. “That was a trap.”
Stile nodded. “A trap set for me, I think. Because it was expected that I would be the one to come for the Lady Blue.”
“Which means that your enemy knows of your life in both frames. And that you would hardly be likely to bring the one person who could help you escape that situation—me.”
Another half-bitter reference to Sheen’s own feelings. She was right; had he gone to see Bluette, Stile would not have brought Sheen along. That would have been unnecessarily cruel. So he would have had no invulnerable guardian to bail him or the Lady out. “Yes, the enemy must be an Adept, who can cross the curtain. But not a Citizen. So the trap is made to seem like an accident, to foil any Citizen curiosity.”
Now he was feeling the reaction. Stile did not like being the object of a murder campaign; that frightened him and generated in him a festering uncertainty and rage. But now the attack had spread to the Lady Blue/Bluette. That aggravated him far more specifically. How dare they touch her!
And Hulk—innocently walking into the trap set for Stile. Hulk’s blood, if it came to that, would be on Stile’s hands. What mischief had Stile done his friend, in the name of a favor?
The holo continued. Robots emerged from the crashed rocket—humanoid, flesh-toned, but probably far simpler machines than was Sheen. They came to Hulk and the Lady, and fitted breathing masks over their faces. Then the robots picked up the two effortlessly and carried them through the force-field and out onto the barren surface of Proton. There the holo-pickup lost them—but the orbiting satellite spotters followed their progress. What a job of tracing the devices of Proton could do, when so directed!
The robots trekked tirelessly south across the sand with their burdens. At length they entered the shaft of a worked-out mine at the margin of the Purple Mountains—which were not purple here. The full image returned; it seemed that even a place like this had operable pickups.
At last the two were deposited in a pressurized chamber deep withi
n the mine. It was a miniature force-field dome. There was a defunct food-dispensing machine and a holo-transceiver. This could be considered a pleasant private retreat—or a prison.
The robots sprayed more gas, evidently a neutralizer, removed the breathing masks, filed them in their chest compartments, and set a chamber oxygen generator in operation. Then they walked through the force-field and disappeared from the range of the holo-pickup. Hulk was the one this report was on, not stray robots. The impersonal touch of the machine, literally; machines did not care about irrelevancies such as the welfare of serfs or the commission of criminal acts.
Hulk was of rugged constitution, and first to regain consciousness. His eye cracked open in time to see the robots departing. He made a huge visible effort and hauled himself to his feet. He staggered across to Bluette. “Lady—art thou well?” he asked, lifting her with infinite gentleness.
Bluette was at the moment weak physically, but not mentally. She shook off the lingering effects of the gas. “Again you use the archaic form. What is this?”
“I will answer you gladly, Lady. But first we should ascertain our situation. We seem to have been taken prisoner.”
“Why should anyone wish to do that? My Employer is a peaceful man, a scholar of the arcane, who hardly ever comes to his castle retreat. I merely maintain it so that it is never ill-kept should he appear. For months at a time, it is as if it belongs to me—but I am only a serf, destined never to be more.”
“You are more, Lady. Much more. I fear my arrival precipitated this action.” Hulk was already inspecting the perimeter. He took a breath, held it, and stepped through the force-field at one end of their confine. There was only one more tunnel, proceeding interminably. This was an access passage, carved by laser drills long ago, leaving smooth, partially polished walls. It reminded Stile of the bore of the Worm of Phaze. Perhaps that was not coincidence, but another parallel between frames. Operating mines were pressurized throughout, for convenience; since many of the rock formations were porous or semiporous, the passage had to have melt-sealed walls. This was a dead mine, since there was no pressure beyond the Proton-external norm. Hulk passed back through the force-field and moved to the other end. It was the same story.