Juxtaposition Part 27

Stile saw a number of Citizens wince. Those were surely his enemies of the consortium, who had tried to a.s.sa.s.sinate 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 tamed on the man. "I am enamored, but it is hardly my custom to void an a.s.signation 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 circ.u.mstance, 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 dose 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 Citizens.h.i.+p. 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 the balance to s.h.i.+ft 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 c.u.mbersome. 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, regard less 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 ama.s.sed 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 fas.h.i.+on, 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 s.h.i.+fted 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 Citizens.h.i.+p and his cause.

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

"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 spurned. Yet to win his case this way, publicly yielding to her- "Ask your fiancee," 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, regard less what it cost her. She was a machine, but also a woman; her logic urged one thing, her s.e.x 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 phe nomenal 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 a.s.sembled, you deny me yet again. You will throw away every thing 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. 'But 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-h.e.l.l-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 pa.s.s. 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 Citizens.h.i.+p 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. a.s.suming the coming juxtaposition and alignment of power did not change that in any way.

"The business of this meeting is concluded," the Chair one 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 fiancee, 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 a.s.sa.s.sinate 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 a.s.sured 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 un.o.bserved. She did not have to follow the breathable pa.s.sages.

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 dose 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 s.h.i.+n, 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, n.o.body 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 a.s.sa.s.sination attempt was becoming overt.

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

It arched high through the air and scored, for Stile was expert at exactly such maneuvers and the a.s.sa.s.sin had not antic.i.p.ated 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 ma.s.sive, 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 a.s.sa.s.sination 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 G.o.dlike 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 alliedl" 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 s.p.a.cesuit-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 gra.s.s 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?