Deep in the mountains there was a thin, suspended bridge crossing a chasm. Clef eyed it dubiously, but Serrilryan proceeded on across without hesitation. She was so unsteady he hastened to follow, so he could catch her if she started to fall.
Halfway across he looked down. The chasm yawned so deep and dark it made him dizzy. He did not enjoy the sensation. Fortunately the chasm was narrow, and in moments they were across.
At last they came in sight of the Mound. Serrilryan sank in a heap before it, her waning energy exhausted. She had done her job; she had delivered him safely.
But there was no one about. The sun shone down brightly and the hills were alive with small animals and birds—but no people. Clef, worried about the werebitch, did not care to wait overlong for an introduction. “Ho there!” he called. “I must meet with the Platinum Mound Folk.”
There was no answer. Could he have come to the wrong place? “Serrilryan—” he began.
She changed with difficulty to dame-form. She was haggard. “This is the place, music man. The Mound Folk go not abroad by day. At night thou wilt see them.”
“I don’t think thou canst last till night,” he said. “We must have healing magic for thee now.”
She smiled weakly. “It is too late for me, friend. My day is done. One favor only I beg of thee—”
“Anything!”
“I would hear the Flute ere I die. Canst thou play an epitaph for me?”
He knew this was final. She would expire within the hour. He was at the realm of the Little Folk; he was no longer obliged to wait. “Yes, it is time,” he agreed. “There can be no better use for this instrument.” He brought out the Flute.
He played an ancient folk song that he felt was appropriate to this occasion: Tumbleweeds. It was the sort of theme a wolf could appreciate, for it related to the freedom of the great outdoors, the rolling bushes called tumbleweeds drifting in the wind across the plain, cares of the world left behind. Perhaps it was not that way, here in Phaze, but he felt confident the mood would be conveyed.
From the first note, the Platinum Flute was potent, the finest instrument he had ever played, enhanced by its magic so that the sound transcended mere physics. The music rippled, it flowed, it resonated; it was as if he were flying, expanding, encompassing the landscape, the world, the universe, the split infinities that were the frames of science and magic. The sound loomed loud enough to embrace all of Phaze, yet delicate enough to touch the soul.
And the mountain trembled. The ground shook, but not in the manner of an earthquake. It started shuddering where he stood, and vibrated outward rhythmically, responding harmonically to the music of the Flute. The effect intensified as he continued playing. Leaves fluttered on trees, pine needles shook free of their moorings, and the green grass of the slopes stood up tall and quivered like the tines of tuning forks. The clear sky thickened; clouds formed from nothing, flinging outward in rainbow-hued bands. The sunlight dimmed; dusk coalesced.
Clef played on, caught in the wonder of the animation the Flute was working. Serrilryan’s fur stood out from her body, charged. There was a canine smile on her face. Washes of color traversed her, causing her human and canine aspects to mingle aesthetically.
The ground shook harder. Branches fell from trees. The roof of the Mound collapsed. The mountains in the Purple range peeled off segments of themselves and settled substantially. Dust rose up. Animals fled. The sky swirled nearer and nearer.
The Little Folk appeared, for now there was no direct sunlight to shrivel them. They stood in the twisting dust and fog, staring while their Demesnes collapsed about them. Yet such was the power of the Flute that no one protested.
An avalanche formed and crashed downward. No one moved. The rocks and debris coursed past them all, avoiding living creatures, and advanced like a channeled flow of water until they piled up in a cairn over the body of Serrilryan, the werebitch. She had died smiling. She had heard the Platinum Flute; she had expired. Now she had been buried.
Still Clef played. From the cairn a spirit diffused, billowing and tenuous, extricating itself from the piled stones. Now it looked like a wolf, and now like a woman. It was Serrilryan’s soul, departing her tired body at last.
Barb-tailed, horned, fire-clothed man-form devils hurried across the slope to intercept that soul. Suddenly Clef realized that the werebitch had spoken literally of Hell; she had known her spirit would be taken there. But Clef recoiled from the concept. She had helped him loyally and given her life in consequence. Surely that helped counter-balance whatever prior evils there might have been in her life. If he had any say at all in the matter, she would go to Heaven, where she wanted to be. He owed her that much. He shifted his playing, questing for the tune that would carry her soul upward.
Now from the troubled sky came wolves, flying without wings, their fur shining, so that they seemed possessed of light auras like halos. The music brought them down, showed them the way they might otherwise have missed, and marked the cairn.
The devils reached the soul first. But the angel-wolves arrived in time to balk the conveyance of the soul to Hell. A battle ensued, the half-visible humanoid figures against the half-visible canine figures. Spiritual fog and cloud and dust roiled along with the physical. But the theme of the Flute strengthened the wolves and weakened the devils. In a moment the angel-wolves wrested the bitch soul from the minions of Hell and loped up into the turbulent sky.
Yet before they departed entirely, the soul of Serrilryan paused. She looked back toward Clef, and he knew she was thanking him for a gift as unexpected as it was gratifying. Her sinful human component had been juxtaposed with her pure wolf component in death, nearer perfection than they had been in life, and the forces of Heaven had prevailed. She sent to earth one glance of purest appreciation that made the air about Clef sparkle. Then she turned again and loped on toward Heaven with her divine companions.
The Purple Mountains continued to shake and settle. Dragons flew up from the southern marches; creatures stirred all over Phaze. But Clef would not stop playing until the bitch was safely ensconced in Heaven. He would permit no loophole, no reversal.
Stile woke in alarm. The building was shaking!
“There seems to be an earthquake in progress,” Sheen said. “The Purple Mountain range is settling.”
“That’s no natural phenomenon! That’s the Foreordained!” Stile cried. “Now I realize that Clef is indeed the ultimate magician, with power to level mountains and delicacy to send souls to Heaven.”
“The Foreordained,” Sheen repeated. “Clef is the one destined to save Phaze?”
“He played the Platinum Flute, and the mountain trembled and tumbled. That’s the signal. I saw it in my dream—and now I know it’s true. My vision has caught up to the present and affirmed it.”
Sheen checked the newsscreen. “There has certainly been a shake-up in Proton. Power has been disrupted all along the southern range. Mine shafts have collapsed. If that’s the result of one melody on one flute, it means magic is spilling over into the science frame.”
“So it seems. I’m sure my encounter with Clef was not coincidental. It was—foreordained. And my dream of his progress—there has to be some reason for that. I suspect he and I are destined to meet again.”
“You could never stay out of mischief,” she agreed. “Now it’s time to get ready for your Tourney match.”
“Did anyone ever tell you you are inhumanly practical? The end of the split infinity may be in the offing, and you pack me off to a Game.”
“Your match is foreordained too,” she said complacently.
CHAPTER 2
Backgammon
It was Round Thirteen of the annual Tourney. Only three players remained, two with one loss each. These two had to play each other; the loser would be eliminated from the Tourney, and the winner would meet the single undefeated player.
The two who played were as different as seemed possible. One was a huge, fat, middle-aged man in voluminous and pr
incely robes inset with glittering gems. The other was a tiny naked man, muscular and fit, in his thirties.
“Ah, Stile,” the clothed man said affably. “I was hoping to encounter you.”
“You know of me, sir?”
“I always research my prospective opponents, serf. You have been extremely busy recently. You have been chasing around the landscape, crashing vehicles, and disappearing between Rounds.”
Stile was noncommittal. “My time between Rounds is my own, sir.”
“Except for what that girl robot demands. Is it fun making time with a sexy machine?”
Stile knew the Citizen was trying to rattle him, to get him tangled up emotionally so that he could not concentrate properly on the Game. It was a familiar technique. Stile could not return the favor because all Citizens were virtually anonymous to serfs, and in any event a serf could not treat a Citizen with disrespect. So Stile would have to take it—and play his best regardless. He was experienced at this sort of thing; the Citizen would probably rattle himself before he got to Stile.
It was time for the grid. Each man stood on one side of the unit, looking at the screen. There were sixteen boxes facing Stile, labeled across the top: 1. PHYSICAL 2. MENTAL 3. CHANCE 4. ARTS, and down the side: A. NAKED B. TOOL C. MACHINE D. ANIMAL. Stile’s panel was lighted by the letters.
“That was a very neat stunt you worked, last Round,” the Citizen remarked. “Making that Amazon throw away her win. Of course you know you won’t be able to trick me that way.”
“Of course not, sir.” Stile touched the TOOL indication. That was his line of greatest strength.
The subgrid showed: 3B, Tool-Assisted Chance. Stile groaned inwardly. The CHANCE column was the bane of good players. It was difficult to make his skill count here.
“You don’t like it, huh?” the Citizen taunted. “Figure it to come up another slot machine, wash you out painlessly, eh?”
This man really had researched Stile’s prior Games of the Tourney. The lone Game Stile had lost had been just that way. “I am not partial to it, sir.” As long as he handled the needling without heat, he was gaining.
“Well, I’m partial to it! Know why? Because I’m lucky. Try me on poker, Stile; I’ll come up with a full house and tromp you. Try me on blackjack; I’m all twenty-ones. The breaks always go my way! That scares you, huh?”
The Citizen protested too much. That could indicate weakness—or could be a ruse. Stile actually could handle himself in games of chance; often there was more skill than showed. He would try for a suitable variant. “Luck is impartial, sir.”
“You believe that? You fool! Try me on dice, if you doubt!”
Stile made his selection. The Citizen had already made his. The third grid showed: Board Games of Chance.
“Okay, sucker, try me on Monopoly!” the Citizen urged.
But when they played it through, it came up backgammon. “My favorite!” the Citizen exclaimed. “Dice and betting! Watch me move!”
Stile thought he was bluffing. That bluff would be called. Stile was expert at backgammon. It was only technically a game of luck; skill was critical.
They adjourned to the boardroom. The table was ready. There was no physical audience; the holograph would take care of that.
“Now you know this game represents a year,” the Citizen said. “Twenty-four points for the hours of the day, thirty pieces for the days of the month, twelve points in each half-section for the months in the year.”
“And the seven spots on the opposites of a die are the days of the week,” Stile said. “The two dice are day and night. It hardly matches the symbolism of the ordinary deck of playing cards or the figures of the chess set—sir.”
They were playing a variant deriving in part from Acey-Deucy, traditionally a navy game. The games of Mother Earth had continued to evolve in the fashion of human society, with some variants prospering and others becoming extinct. In this one, no pieces were placed on the board at the start; all started from the bar.
It was not necessary to enter all fifteen pieces on the board before advancing the leaders. Yet it was still backgammon, the “back game,” with pieces constantly being sent back to the bar while they ran the gauntlet of opposing pieces. People were apt to assume that a given game had an eternally fixed set of rules, when in fact there were endless variations. Stile had often obtained an advantage by steering a familiar game into an unfamiliar channel.
The Citizen was, as he claimed, lucky. He won the lead, then forged ahead with double sixes, while Stile had to settle for a two-to-one throw of the dice. Doubles were valuable in backgammon, because each die could be used twice. Thus the citizen’s throw enabled him to enter four men to the sixth point, while Stile entered only two. This continued fairly steadily; the Citizen soon had all fifteen men entered and well advanced, while Stile was slower.
Soon the two forces interacted. The Citizen hit the first blot—in layman’s language, he placed one of his men on the spot occupied by one of Stile’s men. That sent Stile’s man home to the bar, the starting place. “Sent you home to your slut machine, didn’t I?” he chortled. “Oh, let there be no moaning at the bar!”
That was a literary allusion to an ancient poem by Tennyson of Earth. Stile was conversant with historical literature, but made no response. The Citizen was showing pseudoerudition; he was not the type to know any but the most fashionable of quotes, and he had gotten this one wrong. The correct line was, “and may there be no moaning of the bar.” Yet, mentally, Stile filled in the remainder: “when I put out to sea.” Tennyson had then been late in life, knowing he would die before too long. That poem, Crossing the Bar, had been a kind of personal epitaph. When he put out to sea, in the figurative fashion of the Norse boats for the dead, he hoped to see his Pilot, the Deity, face to face. Those left behind in life should feel no sorrow for him, for he, like the werewolf, had found his ideal resting place. It was generally best to read the full works of past literary figures, and to understand their backgrounds, rather than to memorize quotes out of context. But it was no use to go into all that with this great boor and bore of a Citizen.
Well, Stile intended to send this obnoxious Citizen out to sea. It was already apparent that the man was not a top player; he depended on his luck too heavily, and on a basic strategy of “making” points—of setting up two or more men on a point, so that the opponent could neither land there nor hit a blot. Luck and conservative play—a good enough strategy for most occasions. Three out of four times, a winning strategy.
But Stile was not an ordinary player. He depended not on luck but on skill. Luck tended to equalize, especially on an extended series, while skill was constant. That was what gave the superior player the advantage, even in a game of chance. It was necessary to take risks in order to progress most efficiently. There would be some losses because of these risks, but, overall, that efficiency would pay off. Stile was already grasping the weakness of the Citizen’s mode of play. Probably the man had an imperfect notion of the strategy of the doubling cube—and that could make all the difference, regardless of his vaunted luck.
Soon the Citizen had a number of men in his home board, ready to be borne off. The first player who bore off all fifteen men would win the game, but not necessarily the Round. This modification was scored by points; each man left in play when the opponent finished was one point. One hundred points was the Game. It could take several games to accumulate the total. The key was to minimize one’s losses in a losing game, and maximize one’s winnings in a winning game. That was where the doubling cube came in.
Best to test the man’s level, however. Stile needed to have a very clear notion of his opponent’s vulnerability, because the Citizen was not a complete duffer; he was just good enough to be dangerous. Luck did play an important part in backgammon, just as muscle did in wrestling; it had to be taken into account.
Stile rolled 3–2. As it happened, he was able to enter two men and hit blots on the second and third points. It was a good break,
for the Citizen left few blots he could possibly avoid. Thus Stile’s 2 and 3 dice canceled the effect of cumulative scores of twenty-one and twenty-two on the Citizen’s dice. Stile was making his limited luck match the effect of his opponent’s good luck. It was a matter of superior management.
But the Citizen was hardly paying attention to the moves. He was trying to undermine Stile’s confidence, convinced that even in a game of chance, a person’s certainty counted most. “A number of people have been wondering where you disappear to between Rounds, little man. You seem to walk down a certain service corridor, and never emerge at the far end. Hours or even days later you emerge, going the opposite direction. It is a food-machine service corridor, yet you show no sign of feasting. Now how can a man disappear from the board, like a piece being sent to the bar? It is a mystery.”
Stile continued playing. “People enjoy mysteries, sir.”
The dice rolled; the men advanced. The Citizen’s luck held; he was gaining despite imperfect play. “Mysteries exist only to be resolved. It is possible that you have discovered something fantastic, like a curtain that separates fact from fantasy? That you pass through this invisible barrier to a world where you imagine you are important instead of insignificant?”
So the man had done fairly thorough research into Stile’s Phaze existence too. Still, Stile refused to be baited. “No doubt, sir.”
“And can it really be true that in that fantasy you ride a unicorn mare and associate with vampires and werewolves?”
“In fantasy, anything is possible,” Stile said.
“Double,” the Citizen said, turning the doubling cube to two.
Now the game drew to a close. The Citizen finished first; Stile was left with eight men on the board. Doubled, that was sixteen points against him.
They set up for the second game, since they were not yet close to the one hundred points necessary for the finish. The Citizen was obnoxiously affable; he liked winning. Stile hoped he would get careless as well as overconfident. With luck, the Citizen might even distract himself at a key time by his determined effort to unnerve Stile.
Juxtaposition Page 3
