Blue Adept (23 page)

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 be-came 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. Phazel 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 answer 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 hobbled 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 Else-where.”

“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 Story-telling 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 un-known. 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 hehad had time to do his homework, researching his prospec1tive 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 number 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?”