“It means the spouse is a person, for at least the duration of the marriage,” Stile said.
“A serf is already a person. Marriage to a Citizen merely enhances status for a time. The main hope of serfs who marry Citizens is that one of their children will be designated heir, since such a child shares the bloodline of the Citizen. But there is no guarantee. Each Citizen is his own law.”
“Sometimes a Citizen will designate the spouse as heir,” Stile said.
She shrugged. “All this is true, Stile. But what is the point?”
“I have it in mind to marry in Proton, and to designate my wife my heir.”
“Oh.” She pondered, her computer mind sorting through the implications. “A marriage of convenience to protect your estate. Not for love or sex or companionship.”
“For all these things, in part,” he said.
“What does the Lady Blue think of this?”
“She suggested it. Though she is able to cross the curtain, she has no affinity for this frame, and no legal status in it. You say you have no jealousy of her; neither does she have jealousy of you.”
“Of me? Of course she doesn’t! I’m a machine.”
“Yes. But she regards you as a person. Now, with this basic understanding, I—” He hesitated.
“You want me to locate a suitable bride of convenience for you?”
“Not exactly. Sheen, I want you to be that bride.”
“Don’t be silly, Stile. I’m a robot. You know that.”
“I see I have to do it the hard way.” Stile got out of his comfortable chair. She started to rise, but he gestured her to remain seated.
Stile knelt before her, taking her hand. “Lady Sheen, I ask your hand in marriage.”
“I shouldn’t be sensitive to humor of this sort,” she said. “But I must say I didn’t expect it of you.”
“Humor, hell! Will you marry me?”
Machines were not readily surprised, but she was programmed to react in human fashion. She paled. “You can’t be serious!”
“I am serious, and my knee is getting uncomfortable. Will you answer me?”
“Stile, this is impossible! I’m—”
“I know what you are. You always bring it up when you’re upset. I am a Citizen. I can do as I wish. I can marry whom I choose, for what reason I choose.”
She stared at him. “You are serious! But the moment you tried to register me as—as—they would know my nature. They would destroy me.”
“They would have to destroy me first. Answer.”
“Stile, why are you doing this? The mischief—”
“I see I must answer you, since you will not answer me. If I marry you, you will be the wife of a Citizen. By definition, a person. By extension, others of your type may then be considered persons. It is a wedge, a lever for recognition of the self-willed machines as serfs. This is a service I can do for them.”
“It really is convenience,” she said. “Using me to help my friends forward their case for recognition as people.”
“Which would be even more potent if something put me out of the scene prematurely and thrust the onus of Citizenship on you.”
“True,” she said.
“Is that my answer? Does true equate to yes?”
“No!” she snapped, jumping up. “I don’t want your title, I want your love!”
Stile got off his knee silently. His love was one thing he could not offer her.
“In fact, I don’t want your convenience,” she continued, working up some unrobotic temper. “I don’t want the appearance without the reality. I don’t want to be used.”
“I don’t propose to use you—”
“I’m not talking about sex!” she screamed. “I would be happy for that! It’s being used as a lever I object to.”
“I’m sorry. I thought it was a good idea.”
“You in your flesh-male arrogance! To set me up as a mock wife to be a lever, the simplistic machine I am! You thought because I love you I’ll do anything you want. After all, what pride can a mere machine have?”
What had he walked into? Stile brought out his holo receiver and called the Lady Blue.
The picture-globe formed. Stile turned it about until the Lady Blue came into view. She was brushing down Hinblue. “Lady,” he said.
She looked up. “My Lord!”
Sheen paused in her pacing. “You’re in touch with her?”
“Aye, Lady Sheen,” the Lady Blue answered, recognizing her voice. “And easy it is to understand the nature of thy concern. I confess I put my Lord up to it.”
“I should have known,” Sheen said, bemused. “But this is a cynical thing, Lady.”
“Aye, Lady. It is a cruel sacrifice for thee.”
“That’s not the point, Lady. The sheer mischief—”
“I apologize for putting thee in an untenable position, Lady Sheen. Thou hast every right to reject it.” She gave Hinblue another stroke, then addressed Stile. “My Lord, I thought not of her feeling, only of her merit. I wanted her as my sister in that frame, and that was selfish. Let her be. I love thee.” She returned to the horse, dismissing him.
Stile turned off the holo. “I guess that covers it, Sheen.” He felt embarrassed and awkward. “If it’s any comfort, I felt about the same as you, when she broached the notion. I do care for you; I always did. I just can’t honestly call it love.”
“I accept,” Sheen said.
“You are generous to accept my apology. I wish I had not put you through this.”
“Not the apology. The proposal.”
“The—?”
“Remember way back when, you proposed marriage?”
Stile was amazed. “I—”
“Yes, that proposal. If you had the circuitry of a robot, you’d remember these details more readily. Perhaps if you practiced mnemonic devices—”
“But why? You made such a good case against—”
“She wants it,” she said simply.
That he could understand. He had proposed to Sheen because the Lady Blue wanted it; she had accepted for the same reason. Now they just had to hope it was a good idea.
The capsule had come to a halt, the portholes showing a landing at a spaceport. Sheen keyed the door open. Stile gaped.
Outside lay the Blue Demesnes.
No, of course it was the Proton equivalent, on the same geographic site. Merely one of numerous examples of parallelism of frames. The castle and grounds looked the same as in Phaze, but there was no magic. Horses grazed and dogs ranged, not unicorns and werewolves. Still, it moved him.
“After the Lady Bluette died, her Employer restored the property and put it on the market,” Sheen explained. “It was at a bargain price. I thought you’d like it.”
“I do.” Stile stared at it a moment longer. “But it’s strange here.”
“No Lady Blue,” she said.
“It will be yours now.”
She was silent. Had he said the wrong thing? Well, either it would work out or it wouldn’t.
His chef had his meal waiting: genuine imported roast of bear. Stile made a mental note not to speak figuratively; as a Citizen, he was too apt to be taken literally. He had said he could eat a bear; now he had to do it.
Actually, it wasn’t bad. The chef did know his business. Sheen had hired people of genuine competence.
“And now for your estate adviser,” Sheen said as Stile chomped somewhat diffidently. “You have some elegant financial maneuvering ahead.”
“I’d rather master the rules of the game and lay it myself.”
“This adviser is one of my friends.”
Oh. That was a different matter.
The adviser turned out to be an old male serf, wrinkled, white-haired, and elegant. Stile would not have known him for a robot, had Sheen not informed him. It was evident that the self-willed machines had profited from what Sheen had learned in the course of her association with Stile; only time, expert observation, or direct physical examination betr
ayed his current associates.
Stile nodded affirmatively to the serf, and the man reported: “Sir, I am Mellon, your financial accountant.”
“Mellon, eh?” Stile repeated. “As in Rockefeller, Carnegie, and Du Pont?”
The serf smiled. “Yes, sir.”
“You’re that good with money?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then why are you here as a serf, instead of making your fortune elsewhere in the universe?” Stile knew the robot had no future away from Proton, but a real serf would, and the cover story had to be good.
“Sir, I have already made my fortune elsewhere,” Mellon said. “I am as rich as a Citizen. But here on Proton the dynamics of wealth are most pronounced; the leverage of economics is exerted most openly. Only here can I experience the joy of renewed challenge, failure, and success. When my tenure expires, I shall return to my comfortable galactic estate and write my memoirs of the Proton experience.”
Stile was impressed. This was a feasible rationale. It would explain the man’s computerized competence. Stile might even have to stave off efforts by other Citizens to hire Mellon away. Except that since no real Mellon existed, any verification of his background would reveal—
“I am cast in the likeness of an actual person, sir,” Mellon said, reading Stile’s expression. “The proceeds of my memoirs will go to him, in recompense for the use of his credentials.”
The machines had figured it all out! “Well, I hope you are not disappointed in the experience you have managing my estate. I don’t even know its extent, but I’m trusting you to multiply it for me rapidly.”
“I shall do so, sir. I must ask that you follow my advice in particulars with alacrity. There are likely to be difficult moments, but there is an eighty-five percent probability of accomplishing our objective.”
Mellon certainly seemed sure of himself! The machines had to have secrets that could be exploited for tremendous leverage. Stile suspected he should leave it alone, but his curiosity governed. “How do you propose to make me rich, even by Proton standards? Surely my section of the Protonite mines can only produce so much.”
“By wagering, sir. You will be better informed than your opponents.”
Because of the immense body of information accessible to the sapient machines. But it would be made to seem like human instinct and luck. “No.”
“Sir?”
“To wager when one has an illicit advantage is not equitable. I do not care to make my fortune that way.”
“He’s like that, Mel,” Sheen said smugly.
“Sir, without that advantage, the odds become prohibitive.”
“I have surmounted prohibitive odds before. I shall not compromise my standards now. Presumably you will be able to perform moderately well while limited to ethical means.”
“Yes, sir,” Mellon said grimly.
Stile completed his uncomfortable repast of bear steak. “Then let’s get to it now. I am not used to wealth. I fear this will be a chore for me. I want to get that chore out of the way and return to—my private retreat.” Even among his staff, he was not inclined to talk too freely of Phaze. “But first—Sheen?”
“Sir,” Sheen said immediately.
“By what mechanism do I promulgate my engagement to you?”
“Application must be made to the Records Computer, sir. A Citizen hearing will be arranged.”
“And?”
“That is all, sir. Marriages, births, designations of heirs, changes in estate holdings—all are merely a matter of accurate record. The hearing is a formality, to make sure there is no foul play or confusion.”
“No ceremony? Blood tests? Waiting periods?”
“These are available if you wish them, sir. But they are not required for Citizens and are irrelevant for robots. The entry in the record is all that is mandatory.”
“Well, let’s do this right. Let’s set a date for a formal, medieval, Earth-style nuptial, and invite the public.”
“What date, sir?”
Stile considered. “There may be some mischief here. Let’s give it time to clear. Set the date for two months hence, at which time you will become my wife and heir. Get yourself a pretty wedding outfit.”
Mellon coughed. “Sir, may I comment?”
“Comment,” Stile agreed.
“The Records Computer will know Sheen is not a legal person. It will advise the members of the Citizen panel. This will not interfere with the marriage, for a Citizen may do what pleases him; he may marry a toad if he wants. But the designation of a nonperson as heir to Citizenship will complicate your own activities. If you could hold that aspect in abeyance—”
“That would be a lie,” Stile said. “I intend to name her heir, and I want no deception about it.” Yet he wondered at his own motive, since this was more than the Lady Blue had suggested. Why make a larger issue of it? And he answered himself; because he felt guilty about not being able to give Sheen his love, so he was giving her his position instead.
“Yes, sir,” Mellon said submissively.
“Sir, he is correct,” Sheen said. “If you bring this mischief on yourself prematurely—”
“I will not abuse my word,” Stile said firmly. “The truth shall be known.”
“Sir, I fear you will imperil yourself and us,” she said. “Rather than permit that, I shall decline to—”
“Do you want me to call the Lady Blue again?”
Sheen hesitated. “No, sir.”
So he had bluffed her out! “How do I file my entry with the Records Computer?”
“Sir, I can activate its receptor—”
“Do so.”
She touched a button on the wall. “Records, sir,” a wall speaker said.
“I, Stile, Citizen, hereby announce my betrothal to the Lady Sheen. I will marry her two months hence in public ceremony, and designate her to become my heir to Citizenship effective that date. Any questions?”
“Sir, are you aware that Sheen is a robot?” the computer asked.
“I am aware.”
“If you designate a nonperson heir, your estate will, on your demise or abdication, revert to the common pool, sir.”
“I challenge that,” Stile said. “I want her to inherit.”
“Then a special hearing will be necessary, sir.”
“We already have a hearing. Juxtapose them. Schedule it at your earliest convenience.”
“Yes, sir.” The Records Computer disconnected.
“Now you have done it, sir,” Sheen murmured. “You and your unstable living human temper.”
“We’ll see. Let’s get to the next event.”
They entered the capsule again, and Sheen programmed their destination. The smooth motion commenced. Stile paid attention to none of this; he was already orienting on the wagering to come, much as he would for a Game of the Tourney. He was not sure he had really left the challenge ladder; perhaps he had merely achieved a new plateau for a new series of games.
“To wager—what are my present resources?” he asked Mellon.
“The initial estate of a Citizen is set at one kilogram of Protonite, sir,” Mellon said. “Serfs do not deal in money, normally, so there is little way to equate this with what you have known.”
“I know that a single ounce of Protonite is supposed to be worth the entire twenty-year tenure of the average serf,” Stile said.
“Yes, traditionally. Actually, this fluctuates as the variables of demand and technology change the need, though the Proton Council regulates the supply to keep the price fairly stable, much as the cartels of the galaxy have traditionally regulated the supplies of foregoing fuels—coal, oil, uranium, and such.”
“Until supplies ran short,” Stile said. “Or until technology obviated the need. Efficient utilization of starlight, and hydrogen fusion—these became virtually limitless resources.”
“Indeed, sir. But starlight and fusion both require enormous initial capital investment. Though Protonite is theoretically limited, it is s
o potent that it has become the fuel of choice for interstellar travel. Its value more closely resembles that of bullion gold than that of bygone oil.”
“Gold,” Stile said. “I have played with that in my historical researches. I have a fair notion of its value, as measured in archaic ounces.”
“Then set one gram of Protonite as equivalent to four hundred troy ounces of gold, sir. One kilogram—”
“Four hundred thousand ounces of gold!” Stile finished, amazed despite himself.
“Enough to hire a thousand serfs for full tenure, sir,” Mellon said. “A fortune equivalent to that of many of the historically wealthy persons of Earth. That is your minimum share of Citizenship; wealthy Citizens control the equivalent of as much as a ton of Protonite, so are richer than any historical figure.”
“I see that,” Stile agreed, somewhat awed. He had known Citizens were exceedingly rich, but still had underestimated the case. “And I must become one of those wealthy ones?”
“You must become the wealthiest Citizen, sir,” Mellon agreed. “Only then can you be reasonably secure against the forces that may be brought to bear. Our target is two metric tons of Protonite.”
“That’s two thousand kilograms!” Stile exclaimed.
“Precisely, sir. There have been wealthier Citizens in the past, but at present none go beyond this level. Only extraordinary expertise can bring you to this.”
“Expertise, yes; illicit information, no.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And how much of my single, insignificant kilogram may I employ for gambling?”
“Three quarters of it, sir. You must, by Proton custom that has the force of law, maintain a floor of two hundred and fifty grams for normal household use.”
“Some household! That’s a hundred thousand ounces of gold!”
“True, sir. No Citizen is poor by galactic standards.”
“I seem to remember Sheen telling me that no Citizen could get more than two years’ income in arrears.”
“That is an optional guideline for the conservative.”
“I see. But I can’t afford to be conservative, can I? And if I gamble and lose, so I’m stuck at the floor level—then what?”