Blue Adept Page 17

  Then he suffered inspiration. The curtain—of course! He had surveyed it near here, from the other side. If he could locate it and reach it—

  It was a gamble at best. The curtain might not be close enough, and if it was within range he might not be able to spot it from the tank, and if he did spot it he still might not be able to will himself through it while riding in the tank. Yet one thing he was not going to do was stop and get out, under the guns of the other tanks!

  It was no gamble at all to remain here idle. He would inevitably fall to Satan’s forces. He had to try for the curtain!

  He crashed on out of Heaven, through the interim chambers, and on into the barrens of Proton.

  The enemy tanks were on the other side of the dome, where he had entered. That was a break for him. Stile headed toward the region where the curtain should be. With just a little further luck—

  The enemy tanks reacted as one, cruising around the dome on either side and spreading out to form a broad line. Now they were getting him into their sights—and the dome was not going to be in the line of fire much longer. No good luck for him here!

  Stile threw his tank from side to side as the firing commenced, making a difficult target. Machines were accurate shooters when the target was stationary or in steady motion, but when velocity was erratic and non-laser weapons were being employed, as now seemed to be the case, it was necessary to anticipate the strategy of the prey. Otherwise the time it took the shell to travel would put it behind the target-tank. Since Stile was humanly unpredictable, the shots were missing. But he could not afford to flaunt himself before them for long; inevitably a shell would score, at least disabling his machine. Then he would become a stationary target: a sitting quack, as it was described in Game-parlance.

  In Phaze, he thought with fleeting humor, he had to watch out for spells. Here it was shells.

  But his meandering had another purpose: to locate the curtain. It was here somewhere, but there were such poor reference points on the bare sand that he could not place it precisely. The curtain could curve about, and it shimmered so faintly that it was invisible from any distance, even for those like himself who were able to perceive it at all. He would probably come upon it so swiftly that he would pass it before realizing; then he would have to turn and try to cross from the other side while the enemy tanks had full seconds to orient.

  A shell exploded in the sand beside him. The concussion shoved Stile’s tank violently to the side. Something flew from it, visible in his screen. A section of armor?

  No. It was Sheen.

  Then Stile saw the curtain, angling across his path just ahead. He must have been traveling beside it, not quite intersecting it. He could veer right and pass through it now—

  Not without Sheen! Yet he could not halt; that would be instant, fiery death. Already his pace slackened, the enemy tanks were closing the gap; their aim would become correspondingly more accurate. He had to get across—or perish.

  Sheen had asked to be junked cleanly. Was this the occasion? Should he, after all, allow her to …?

  Stile set the controls to automatic, opened the hatch, and climbed out. The tank was moving at about 50 kilometers per hour now. Stile leaped off the side, sprinting desperately forward in midair. His feet touched the ground, and still weren’t fast enough. He made a forward roll, eyes and mouth tightly closed, curling his body into a ball. The sand was soft, here, though his velocity was such that it felt hard; he rotated many times before coming out of it, bruised but whole. Oh, that sand was hot!

  The enemy tanks, for the moment, were still chasing his empty tank. Stile charged back to find Sheen, who lay sprawled where she had fallen. She looked intact; perhaps the shock of the explosion had only jogged a wire loose, interrupting her power.

  Stile picked her up and carried her toward the nearest intersection of the curtain. But she was heavy, being made of metals and plastic; it was a considerable burden in the shifting sand, and his bare feet were hurting from the heat. Stile was soon panting as he staggered on.

  His empty tank exploded. Chance and firepower had brought it down.

  Now the enemy tanks slowed their pursuit, turning to return to their normal perimeter. And of course they became aware of Stile, lumbering along with his burden. Cannon swiveled to bear on him. But there was the curtain, just ahead.

  Stile summoned his reserves and leaped. Phaze! he thought, willing himself through. A tank fired; the shell whistled; the sand behind Stile erupted.

  Then the faint tingle of the curtain was on him. Stile fell to the ground, and it was green turf. Sheen was wrenched from his grasp and rolled through the grass and leaves and landed arms and legs akimbo.

  One foot was burning. Stile realized that it remained on the other side of the curtain, where the smoke and heat of the shell-blast touched it. Hastily he drew it through. It was not burned, merely uncomfortable.

  Now he went to Sheen. She was disheveled and battered, her fine torso abraded. One breast had been torn off, and about a third of her hair had been pulled out. It seemed, too, that the right side of her body had been crushed, and metal showed through a compound fracture of her right arm. There was a great deal more wrong with her than a loose wire!

  He did not love her, he reminded himself. She was only a machine, her consciousness artificial. Without her power pack and feedback circuitry she was no more than junk.

  But his logic was overwhelmed by a surge of emotion. “I do love you, Sheen, in my fashion!” he whispered. “I shall have you repaired—”

  Have her repaired? This was Phaze, the frame of magic. He was the Blue Adept. He could restore her himself!

  Or could he? He was not a healing Adept, and had never been able to affect the vital functions of a living creature. Well, he had healed Neysa after her visit to Hell, and his alternate self had done healing. So maybe he just needed practice. The Lady Blue had the healing touch, while Stile’s magic was generally more physical, however. And in no event could he restore the dead to life.

  Yet Sheen had never been alive. Why couldn’t he fix her physical circuitry, repair her breaks and losses? She should be within the ambience of his talent, after all!

  Quickly he fashioned spot spells: “Robot Sheen, body clean,” he sang, wishing he had his harmonica or the Platinum Flute along. But he had never anticipated returning to Phaze like this! In future he would keep those instruments with him at all times.

  Sheen’s torso became unblemished. It was working!

  “Bones of steel, mend and heal.” And her fracture knitted itself together while her torso sprang out to original configuration, with even the missing breast replaced. “Face be fair; restore the hair,” and all that damage was undone.

  Now for the big one. “Broken circuits mend; consciousness lend.” Once again he was bothered by the crudity of the verse. But it served his purpose. Sheen was whole, now.

  Except that she still lay there, lovely as any naked woman could be. She showed no sign of animation. How had he failed?

  Maybe the lack of a musical instrument had depleted the force of his magic. Stile conjured a simple guitar and used it to strum up greater power, then tried other spells. He covered everything he could think of, but nothing worked. At last, succumbing to reaction from his own narrow escape and grief-stricken at her apparent demise, he threw himself on her body and kissed her unresponsive lips. “Oh Sheen—I’m sorry!”

  If he had expected his kiss to bring her magically to life, he was disappointed. She remained defunct.

  After a moment Stile sat up. His face was wet, a signal of his emotion. “I can’t accept this,” he said. “There has to be something.”

  Then it came to him: Sheen was a sophisticated machine, mechanical and electronic, a creature of advanced science and technology—and such things were not operative in the fantasy frame. Sheen could be in perfect condition—he could not say “health”—yet be inoperative here. Only her body could cross the curtain, not her functioning.

  The a
nswer was to get her back to her own frame. He had business there anyway. This excursion into Phaze was merely a device to save his own life.

  Stile got up, then picked up the robot. He braced himself for the penalty of vertigo, then sang a spell to transport him instantly to his usual curtain-crossing place. Arriving there, he spelled them through.

  Sheen woke as the passage formed about them. “Stile!” she exclaimed. “What—where—?”

  He kissed her and set her down. “I’ll explain it all. But first we have to contact my employer and advise her that she won her bet. She doesn’t have to spend time with Satan.”

  “Yes,” she agreed. “But how—?”

  “I do love you somewhat,” Stile said. “I know that now.”

  “But I’m a machine!”

  “And I’m a concatenation of protoplasm.” He spanked her pert bare bottom. “Now move, creature!”

  She reoriented swiftly. “I’d certainly like to know what happened during my blank. The last I remember, I was riding the tank. Now I’m here. It’s like magic.”

  Stile laughed to see her unrobotic confusion. He was so glad to have her animated again that he felt giddy. No, that was the vertigo of his self-transport. “Just exactly like magic!” he agreed, taking her hand and drawing her on.

  His Round Three Game was with an alien.

  Stile had never played a nonhuman living creature before. He had seen them play, since twenty-four aliens were admitted to every Tourney, but often the majority of these “aliens” were merely wealthy otherworld human beings, or at least humanoids. Many people were attracted by the lure of unmitigated wealth and power, but few who were not of the system were permitted to compete. Stile understood that the entry fee for offworlders was formidable, whereas there was no fee for serfs. Oh, they had the system well worked out! One way or another, the dues were paid.

  But this one was that rarity, a genuine alien creature. It had a ring of tentacles in lieu of arms above, and six little caterpillar feet below, and its face was mainly an elephantine proboscis. There did seem to be sensory organs, on little stalks that bobbled about. Stile presumed the ones with balled ends were eyes, and the ones with hollow bells were ears; he could not account for the ones with opaque disks.

  “Salutation,” he said formally. “I am Stile, a serf-human being of this planet.”

  “Courtesy appreciation; you do look the part,” the alien responded. The sound emanated from somewhere about its head, but not from its snout. “I will be Dgnh of Elsewhere.”

  “Apology. I am unable to pronounce your name.”

  “Complete with vowel-sound of your choice: irrelevancy to local vocal.”

  “Dogonoh?” Stile inquired.

  “Noh for brief. Sufficiently.”

  “Noh,” Stile agreed. “You are prepared for any Game?”

  “Appallingly.”

  Then he need feel no guilt about playing hard to win. This creature could have spent a lifetime preparing for this single event, and have some inhuman skills. Already Stile was trying to evaluate Noh’s potential. Those tentacles looked sturdy and supple; the creature was probably apt at mechanical things. It was probably best to stay clear of any physical contest. Since he did not care to gamble in CHANCE or ART, that left MENTAL—if he had the choice. On the other range, he had best stay clear of tools or machines, again fearing that alien dexterity. So he should go for NAKED or ANIMAL. Probably the latter, since he understood local animals well, and the alien probably did not.

  “Prior matches—compare?” Noh asked.

  That would help him gain an insight into the alien’s propensities. “I played Football with a Citizen, and Dominoes with a female serf,” Stile said.

  “Not for me, your Football,” Noh decided. “Foots too small. Dominoes no either, element of chance.”

  Pretty savvy, this creature. “The grid leads to compromise.”

  “So I explicated. Tiddlywinks with manchild and Storytelling with Citizen. Won Games, but nervous.”

  “Certainly,” Stile agreed. Under the alien form, this being was a true Gamesman. Stile had experienced such competitive nervousness many times. In fact, every Game brought it on. That was part of the addiction of it. He was in the Tourney to try for Citizenship, surely; but he also had an abiding delight in the competition of the thing, the endless variants, the excitement of the temporarily unknown. That was what had caused him to remain on Proton as a serf, instead of departing with his parents when their tour of tenure had expired. The fascination and compulsion of the Game had ruled him.

  Now, ironically, his major involvement was with magic, with the lovely frame of Phaze. There, he was a person of considerable substance, a magician. He had entered the Tourney here at a time when its significance for him had been greatly reduced. Yet new reasons had erupted to restore its importance. He was doing it for Sheen, and for pride, and for the chance to discover who was trying to kill him, and to achieve the ability to do something about it. Just as he was participating in the quest of the Platinum Flute in Phaze, for Neysa and pride and eventual vengeance. So despite the considerable flux in both frames, his course had hardly changed.

  Stile was jolted out of his reverie by the announcement of his Game. He and the alien stepped up to the grid unit.

  The alien was even shorter than Stile; only its perception-stalks showed above the unit. Since the grid-screens on either side were all that counted, this did not matter. Normally Stile preferred to study his opponent for telltale reactions during the stress of selection; a hint about a person’s nervous state could spell the key to victory. But he could not read the alien anyway.

  The primary grid showed. Good—Stile had the numbers. Without hesitation he selected MENTAL.

  Noh was just as quick—which alarmed Stile. If this creature was as fast on its mental feet as his reaction-time indicated, this meant trouble. The selected panel showed 2A, MENTAL/NAKED. Mind alone, no body involvement.

  The secondary grid appeared. Numbered across the top were the categories SOCIAL—POWER—MATH—HUMOR; lettered down the side were the qualities INFORMATION—MEMORY—RIDDLE—MANIPULATION. Stile had the numbers, and that was fine.

  Suppose he chose SOCIAL? The alien could choose INFORMATION, and the subgrid could put them into planetary history, where Noh could be well prepared. What was the date of the squassation of the Bohunk of Planet Tee-total, in local zero-meridian time? He certainly didn’t need that! Should he choose POWER? Noh could choose MEMORY, and they could rival each other in the recall of extended sequences of letters, numbers and concepts, the kind of thing that used to fill the tests that supposedly indicated human intelligence. Stile was good at this, in human terms—but how could he be sure that Noh did not possess long-term eidetic memory, and be virtually invincible? Or the alien could select MANIPULATION, and they could wind up playing a mental game of three-dimensional chess. Stile could do that, too—but it was a literal headache. However, MATH could lead to the identification of obscure formulae if Noh chose INFORMATION, or the spot rehearsal of log tables or trig functions. MATH/RIDDLES could be just as bad; better go to MANIPULATION and do complex problems in his head. But if he chose HUMOR, and Noh chose RIDDLE, they would wind up comparing puns. Puns with an alien?

  Damn it, he was up against a completely unknown quality of opponent! Any choice could be ruinous. If only he had had time to do his homework, researching his prospective opponents, however scantily; then at least he would have had some broad notion what to avoid. But this business in Phaze had crippled his research time.

  Stile sighed. He would have to go with MATH.

  Noh had already selected RIDDLE. They were in 3C, Mathematical Riddles. Well, it could have been worse. Stile had on-days and off-days on this sort of thing; sometimes inspiration presented him with a brilliant response, and sometimes he felt as if his head were stuffed with sawdust, and sometimes he cursed himself for missing the obvious. But normally he was pretty sharp on mathematical riddles, and he knew a great numbe
r of them.

  The final grid was about as simple as they came: four squares. The top was 1. COMPUTER-GENERATED 2. SELF-GENERATED. The side was A. DUAL RESPONSE B. INDIVIDUAL RESPONSE. Just four alternatives. Stile had the numbers.

  Noh’s antennae wavered in agitation. “Nonetheless is this naked mental? How justified computer involvement?”

  “These categories are fundamentally arbitrary,” Stile explained. “Too many Games are in fact mixed types. The Game Computer assumes for the sake of convenience that it, itself, has no Game significance. The riddles could come from a book or a third person, but it is most convenient and random to draw on the computer memory banks. There are all kinds of little anomalies like this in the Games; I had to play Football using androids termed animals, with robots for referees.”

  “This is delightfully mistrustful. Expedient to avoid?”

  “Well, I happen to have the numbered facet, so you cannot control that. Myself, I’d rather avoid the dual response; that’s timed, with the first one to answer being the winner. I’m more of a power thinker; I get there, but not always in a hurry.” This was true, but perhaps misleading; Stile was stronger as a power thinker in proportion to his other skills, but still by no means a slow thinker. “That is—”

  “Can we collude? Choose 2B for mutual accommodationality?”

  “We could—but how could we know one of us won’t cheat? Deals are permissible but not legally enforceable in the Game. An expert liar makes an excellent grid-player. The computer accepts nothing but the signal-buttons.”

  “Chance it must be risked,” Noh said. “Some trust exists in the galaxy, likewise on little planets.”

  “Agreed,” Stile said, smiling at the alien’s phrasing. He touched 2, and sure enough, it came up 2B. They had each kept faith. Game players normally did; it greatly facilitated things on occasion.

  Now they adjourned to a bare private chamber. “Select a recipient for the first riddle,” the Game Computer said from a wall speaker. “Recipient must answer within ten minutes, then propose a counter-riddle for the other. In the event of failure to answer, proponent must answer his own riddle, then answer opponent’s riddle within the time limit. The first contestant to achieve such success is the victor. Computer will arbitrate the technical points.”