“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 turned on the man. “I am enamored, but it is hardly my custom to void an assignation 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 circumstance, 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 close 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 Citizenship. 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 shift 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 cumbersome. 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, regardless 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 amassed 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 fashion, 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 shifted 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 Citizenship and his cause.
Yet this was not the way Stile could be bought. “I am no gigolo,” he said shortly. “I have a fiancée.”
“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 fiancée,” 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, regardless what it cost her. She was a machine, but also a woman; her logic urged one thing, her sex another.
He thought of the Lady Blue and knew that sh
e would feel much the same. The Lady Blue knew she had his love; his body was less significant. Merle was offering a phenomenal 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 assembled, you deny me yet again. You will throw away everything 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. “Yet 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-Hell-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 pass. 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 Citizenship 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. Assuming the coming juxtaposition and alignment of power did not change that in any way.
“The business of this meeting is concluded,” the Chairone 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 fiancée, 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 assassinate 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 assured 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 unobserved. She did not have to follow the breathable passages.
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 close 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 shin, 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 corner 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, nobody 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.
Juxtaposition Page 32
