Juxtaposition

by Piers Anthony

  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 assassination 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 assassin.

  It arched high through the air and scored, for Stile was expert at exactly such maneuvers and the assassin had not anticipated 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 massive, 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 assassination 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 godlike 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 allied!” another said. “He is marrying one of them. He is making her his heir. Now we know why!”

  “It’s not a rob
ot 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 spacesuit—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 grass 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?

  Juxtaposition. Both frames together, overlapping.

  Did this mean that both science and magic would work here, as at the West Pole? If so, Stile had an excellent fighting chance.

  The armed Citizens were staring around them, trying to comprehend what had happened. Some knew about Phaze, but some did not, and evidently very few knew about the juxtaposition. But after a moment a dozen or so reacted with anger. They brought up their weapons, aiming at Stile.

  Stile brought out his harmonica—and couldn’t bring it to his mouth, because of the armor encasing his face. A laser shot caught him, but it glanced off harmlessly. A projectile shot struck his hip, and also failed to hurt him. It was good armor—but he had to open the faceplate, taking an immediate risk to alleviate a greater one.

  He played a bar, hoping no one would think to shoot at his face. Yes—he felt, or thought he felt, the coalescing of magic about him. Yet there was something strange about it, making him nervous, and he broke off quickly. “Every gun become a bun,” he sang, unable at the spur of the moment to come up with anything sophisticated.

  The Citizens stared down at their weapons. They had turned into bread. The rifles were long French loaves covered with icing, making them technically buns. The pistols were fluffy sweet masses. The miniature laser tubes were biscuits.

  The Rifleman looked down at his sticky bun. He doubled over with laughter. “The bun is the lowest form of humor!” he gasped.

  “First the robots rebel. Now this!” a Citizen complained. “What next?”

  The magic ripple crossed the colorful cubist palace. The corrugated contours seemed to flex and flash new colors. Trees appeared within the structure. A creature flew up with a screech, as startled as the Citizens. Huge, dirty wings made a downdraft of air.

  It was a harpy. She flew low over the heads of the staring people, her soiled bare bosom heaving as she hurled angry epithets. Filthy feathers drifted down. The harpy had been as eager to depart this strange situation as the Citizens were to see the creature go.

  “You can do it!” Merle breathed beside him. “You really can do magic! I knew it, yet I could not quite believe—”

  “I am the Blue Adept,” Stile agreed, watching the crowd of Citizens. He had eliminated the guns, but his enemies still outnumbered his allies, and the exits were still barred by determined-looking men. For the cavern remained, along with the field; which had greater reality Stile wasn’t sure.

  Maybe he should conjure himself away from here. But then how would Sheen find him? He had to remain as long as he could.

  A new Citizen stood forth. He was garbed in a light-brown robe and seemed sure of himself. “I am the Tan Adept,” he announced. “Citizen Tan, in this frame.”

  Stile studied the man. He had never before encountered him in either frame, perhaps because the man had held himself aloof. But he had heard of him. The Tan Adept was supposed to have the evil eye. Stile wasn’t sure how that worked, and didn’t care to find out. “Be not proud,” he sang. “Make a cloud.”

  A mass of vapor formed between them, obscuring the Tan Adept. Stile had tried to enclose the man in the cloud so that he could not use his eyes for magic—it seemed likely that deprivation of vision would have the same effect that deprivation of sound did on Blue—but the general immunity of Adepts to each other’s direct magic had interfered.

  Where was Sheen? Stile could not afford to remain here much longer. Maybe he could depart and locate her magically later. Right now he had to save himself. For the Tan Adept was already slicing through the cloud; Stile could see it sectioning off as if an invisible knife were slicing vertically, then horizontally. As it separated, it lost cohesion, and the vapor dissipated; in moments it would be all gone. Then that knifelike gaze would be directed against Stile.

  Stile played his harmonica, summoning more of his power—and again there was something strange about it, causing him to pause. He saw another man, whose hands were weaving mystically in the air. Stile recognized him—the Green Adept. Distracted by the Tan Adept, Stile had missed the other. He was outmagicked!

  “I chose not this quarrel, nor wished it,” Green said apologetically. “Would I could have avoided it. But must I act.”

  Stile lowered his harmonica hastily. Against magic his armor was useless. “Another locale,” he sang. “My power—

  But Tan had succeeded in carving out the center of the cloud, and now his baleful gaze fixed on Stile, halting his incantation. That gaze could not kill or even harm Stile, it turned out, whatever it might have done to an ordinary person, but it did freeze him for a moment. In that moment, Green completed his gesture.

  Stile found himself changing. His arms were shrinking, becoming flat, covered with scales. His legs were fusing. He was turning into a fish!

  He had lost the battle of Adepts because of the two-to-one odds against him. His power had been occupied resisting the evil eye, leaving him vulnerable to the transformation-spell. Probably Green’s magic had been bolstered by that of other Adepts too. But Stile might yet save his life. He leaped toward the dark water of the sacred river Alph, which cut through a corner of the dome.

  His fused legs launched him forward—but he could not land upright. He flopped on his belly and slid across the grass that had been the floor. Some of his cloud had precipitated here, making the mixed surface slippery; this helped him more. He threshed with his tail and thrashed with his fins, gasping for water to breathe; he was drowning here in air!

  The river was getting closer. An enemy Citizen tried to stop him, stepping into his sliding path. Stile turned this to his advantage, bracing against the man’s legs and shoving himself forward again. But he was still too far from the water. His vision was blurring; perhaps this was natural to fish eyes out of water, but it could be because he was smothering.

  Mellon, catching on, charged across to aid Stile. He bent down, threw his arms about Stile’s piscine torso, and hauled him up. Stile had shrunk somewhat, but remained a big fish, about half the weight of a man. Mellon charged the water with his burden.

  But the Tan Adept aimed his deadly gaze at the robot. Again that invisible knife cut through the air and whatever else it touched. Mellon’s left leg fell off, severed just above the knee; metal protruded f
rom the thigh like black bone, and bloodlike oil spurted out. The robot fell—but hurled Stile forward.

  Stile landed heavily, bounced, and slid onward, rotating helplessly. His sweeping fish eye caught the panorama of Xanadu: the majority of Citizens standing aghast, the enemies with dawning glee, the two Adepts orienting on Stile again—and Merle launching herself at the Tan Adept from behind. She might have betrayed Stile once, but she was making up for it now! That would take one Adept out for a few vital moments—but Green would still score if he wished to. Stile suspected the fish-enchantment had been a compromise, much as had been Merle’s sending him to the mines. But it could also have been the first spell that came to Green’s mind under pressure, not what he would otherwise have chosen. No sense waiting for the next one!

  Stile’s inertia was not enough to carry him to the water. The precipitation ran out, the floor of grass became dry, and Stile spun to an uncomfortable halt. He flipped his tail, but progress on this surface was abrasive and slow. And what would he do once he reached the water? He could not transform himself back to his natural form, for he no longer could speak or sing. Certainly he couldn’t play the harmonica!

  Merle kept Tan occupied, in much the way she had done for Stile. The man could not concentrate his deadly gaze on anything at the moment. The surface of the river Alph bubbled and shot out steam as the evil-eye beam glanced by it, and a section of the palace was sliced off; Stile himself was clear.

  But the Green Adept was making another gesture. He had evidently immobilized the self-willed machines who had tried to help Stile; all of them were frozen in place. Now it was Stile’s turn again—and he knew he could not get clear in time.

  Something flew down from the half-open sky. Had the harpy returned? No, it was a bat. A vampire bat! It flew at the Green Adept, interfering with his. spell. Stile’s Phaze allies were coming to the rescue!

  But Stile was suffocating. The process was slower than it would have been for a human being; fish metabolism differed. But it was just as uncomfortable. He made a final effort and flipped himself the rest of the way to the water. He splashed in at last, delighting in the coolness and wetness of it. He swam, and the liquid coursed in his open mouth and out his gills, and he was breathing again. Ah, delight!