Juxtaposition (18 page)

“Sir, I have already made my fortune elsewhere,” MeIon said. “I am as rich as a Citizen. But here on Proton the dynamics of wealth are most pronounced; the leverage of economics is exerted most openly. Only here can I experience the joy of renewed challenge, failure, and success.
 
When my tenure expires, I shall return to my comfortable galactic estate and write my memoirs of the Proton experience.”

Stile was impressed. This was a feasible rationale. It would explain the man’s computerized competence. Stile might even have to stave off efforts by other Citizens to hire Mellon away. Except that since no real Mellon existed, any verification of his background would reveal—

“I am cast in the likeness of an actual person, sir,” Mellon said, reading Stile’s expression. “The proceeds of my memoirs will go to him, in recompense for the use of his credentials.”

The machines had figured it all out! “Well, I hope you are not disappointed in the experience you have managing my estate. I don’t even know its extent, but I’m trusting you to multiply it for me rapidly.”

“I shall do so, sir. I must ask that you follow my advice in particulars with alacrity. There are likely to be difficult moments, but there is an eighty-five percent probability of accomplishing our objective.”

Mellon certainly seemed sure of himself! The machines had to have secrets that could be exploited for tremendous leverage. Stile suspected he should leave it alone, but his curiosity governed. “How do you propose to make me rich, even by Proton standards? Surely my section of the Protonite mines can only produce so much.”

“By wagering, sir. You will be better informed than your opponents.”

Because of the immense body of information accessible to the sapient machines. But it would be made to seem like human instinct and luck. “No.”

“Sir?”

“To wager when one has an illicit advantage is not equitable. I do not care to make my fortune that way.”

“He’s like that, Mel,” Sheen said smugly.
 
“Sir, without that advantage, the odds become prohibitive.”

“I have surmounted prohibitive odds before. I shall not compromise my standards now. Presumably you will be able to perform moderately well while limited to ethical means.”

“Yes, sir,” Mellon said grimly.

Stile completed his uncomfortable repast of bear steak.
 
“Then let’s get to it now. I am not used to wealth. I fear this will be a chore for me. I want to get that chore out of the way and return to—my private retreat.” Even among his staff, he was not inclined to talk too freely of Fhaze.
 
“But first—Sheen?”

“Sir,” Sheen said immediately.

“By what mechanism do I promulgate my engagement to you?”

“Application must be made to the Records Computer, sir. A Citizen hearing will be arranged.”

“And?”

“That is all, sir. Marriages, births, designations of heirs, changes in estate holdings—all are merely a matter of accurate record. The hearing is a formality, to make sure there is no foul play or confusion.”

“No ceremony? Blood tests? Waiting periods?”

“These are available if you wish them, sir. But they are not required for Citizens and are irrelevant for robots. The entry in the record is all that is mandatory.”

“Well, let’s do this right. Let’s set a date for a formal, medieval. Earth-style nuptial, and invite the public.”

“What date, sir?”

Stile considered. “There may be some mischief here.
 
Let’s give it time to clear. Set the date for two months hence, at which time you will become my wife and heir.
 
Get yourself a pretty wedding outfit.”

Mellon coughed. “Sir, may I comment?”

“Comment,” Stile agreed.

“The Records Computer will know Sheen is not a legal person. It will advise the members of the Citizen panel.
 
This will not interfere with the marriage, for a Citizen may do what pleases him; he may marry a toad if he wants.
 
But the designation of a nonperson as heir to Citizenship will complicate your own activities. If you could hold that aspect in abeyance—“

“That would be a lie,” Stile said. “I intend to name her heir, and I want no deception about it.” Yet he wondered at his own motive, since this was more than the Lady Blue had suggested. Why make a larger issue of it?
 
And he answered himself; because he felt guilty about not being able to give Sheen his love, so he was giving her his position instead.

“Yes, sir,” Mellon said submissively.

“Sir, he is correct,” Sheen said. “If you bring this mischief on yourself prematurely—“

“I will not abuse my word,” Stile said firmly. “The truth shall be known.”

“Sir, I fear you will imperil yourself and us,” she said.
 
“Rather than permit that, I shall decline to—“

“Do you want me to call the Lady Blue again?”

Sheen hesitated. “No, sir.”

So he had bluffed her out! “How do I file my entry with the Records Computer?”

“Sir, I can activate its receptor—“

“Do so.”

She touched a button on the wall. “Records, sir,” a wall speaker said.

“I, Stile, Citizen, hereby announce my betrothal to the Lady Sheen. I will marry her two months hence in public ceremony, and designate her to become my heir to Citizenship effective that date. Any questions?”

“Sir, are you aware that Sheen is a robot?” the computer asked.

“I am aware.”

“If you designate a nonperson heir, your estate will, on your demise or abdication, revert to the common pool, sir.”

“I challenge that,” Stile said. “I want her to inherit.”

“Then a special hearing will be necessary, sir.”

“We already have a hearing. Juxtapose them. Schedule it at your earliest convenience.”

“Yes, sir.” The Records Computer disconnected.
 

“Now you have done it, sir,” Sheen murmured. “You and your unstable living human temper.”

“We’ll see. Let’s get to the next event.” They entered the capsule again, and Sheen programmed their destination. The smooth motion commenced. Stile paid attention to none of this; he was already orienting on the wagering to come, much as he would for a Game of the Tourney. He was not sure he had really left the challenge ladder; perhaps- he had merely achieved a new plateau for a new series of games.

“To wager—what are my present resources?” he asked Mellon.

“The initial estate of a Citizen is set at one kilogram of Protonite, sir,” Mellon said. “Serfs do not deal in money, normally, so there is little way to equate this with what you have known.”

“I know that a single ounce of Protonite is supposed to be worth the entire twenty-year tenure of the average serf,” Stile said.

“Yes, traditionally. Actually, this fluctuates as the variables of demand and technology change the need, though the Proton Council regulates the supply to keep the price fairly stable, much as the cartels of the galaxy have traditionally regulated the supplies of foregoing fuels—coal, oil, uranium, and such.”

“Until supplies ran short,” Stile said. “Or until technology obviated the need. Efficient utilization of starlight, and hydrogen fusion—these became virtually limitless resources.”

“Indeed, sir. But starlight and fusion both require enormous initial capital investment. Though Protonite is theoretically limited, it is so potent that it has become the fuel of choice for interstellar travel. Its value more closely resembles that of bullion gold than that of bygone oil.”

“Gold,” Stile said. “I have played with that in my historical researches. I have a fair notion of its value, as measured in archaic ounces.”

“Then set one gram of Protonite as equivalent to four hundred troy ounces of gold, sir. One kilogram—“

“Four hundred thousand ounces of gold!” Stile finished, amazed despite himself.

“Enough to hire a thousand serfs for full tenure, sir,” Mellon said. “A fortune equivalent to that of many of the historically wealthy persons of Earth. That is your minimum share of Citizenship; wealthy Citizens control the equivalent of as much as a ton of Protonite, so are richer than any historical figure.”

“I see that,” Stile agreed, somewhat awed. He had known Citizens were exceedingly rich, but still had under estimated the case. “And I must become one of those wealthy ones?”

“You must become the wealthiest Citizen, sir,” Mellon agreed. “Only then can you be reasonably secure against the forces that may be brought to bear. Our target is two metric tons of Protonite.”

“That’s two thousand kilograms!” Stile exclaimed.
 

“Precisely, sir. There have been wealthier Citizens in the past, but at present none go beyond this level. Only extraordinary expertise can bring you to this.”

“Expertise, yes; illicit information, no.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And how much of my single, insignificant kilogram may I employ for gambling?”

“Three quarters of it, sir. You must, by Proton custom that has the force of law, maintain a floor of two hundred and fifty grams for normal household use.”

“Some household! That’s a hundred thousand ounces of gold!”

‘True, sir. No Citizen is poor by galactic standards.”

“I seem to remember Sheen telling me that no Citizen could get more than two years’ income in arrears.”

“That is an optional guideline for the conservative.”

“I see. But I can’t afford to be conservative, can I? And if I gamble and lose, so I’m stuck at the floor level—then what?”

“Your share is not a literal kilogram, sir, but rather the equivalent in continuing production from the Protonite mines. In time—perhaps a year—yon will have an income of ten to twenty additional grams. Enough to maintain a modest estate without depleting your principal.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to deplete my principal,” Stile said, feeling giddy. Even a Citizen’s small change vastly exceeded his expectation. “Still, to build a stake of seven hundred and fifty grams up to an estate of two thousand kilograms—that will take rapid doubling and redoubling.”

“Certainly, sir. And we shall not be risking all of the discretionary funds. Reverses are to be expected. I recommend an initial limit of one hundred grams per wager.”

“And your recommendation is my law.”

“Yes, sir, in this respect except—“

“Except that I will handle the substance of the wagers myself, drawing on none of your computer information. I presume you feel this makes me likely to fail.”

“Yes, sir,” Mellon said unhappily. “I have considerable strategic resource, were it permissible for use.”

“Were it not the way I am, your kind would not have trusted me to keep their secret.”

“Yes, sir.” But considerable disapproval was conveyed in that acquiescence.

“Very well, let’s review this matter. You have the entire information bank of the planetary computer network available to you. The average wagering Citizen does not.
 
Would you consider it fair play for us to use this? I submit that it represents an unfair advantage, and to use it would be dishonest.”

“Citizens have very few restrictions, sir. They may draw on any available facilities. I think it likely that some will seek to take advantage of your inexperience. Turnabout may be considered fair play.”

“Very well. If I encounter a Citizen who is trying to take unfair advantage. I’ll draw on your information to turn the tables. But I’ll balk at anything I deem to be unethical. I will cheat only the cheaters.”

“Understood, sir. It would be unwise to seem to follow the advice of a serf too slavishly.”

Evidently the issue of personal integrity still eluded the robot. “Yes. A Citizen must keep up arrogant appearances.”

Now Sheen, who had remained scrupulously clear of this discussion, rejoined it. “I am sure you will have no difficulty, sir.”

She was a machine, but she was programmed for human emotion. How much did she resent the use he was making of her?

The event they attended turned out to be a routine Citizens’ ball. Sheen and Mellon, as favored servitors, were permitted to accompany Stile, but they kept subserviently behind him. At the entrance they outfitted Stile with a suitable costume for the occasion: a seemingly cumber some ancient spacesuit, puffed out around the limbs with huge joints at the elbows and knees, and a translucent helmet bubble. Actually, the material was very light and did not hamper movement at all.

They entered the ballroom—and Stile was amazed. It was outer space in miniature. Stars and planets, somewhat out of scale; comets and nebulae and meteors and dust clouds. The motif was not remarkable, but the execution was spectacular. The stars were light without substance, holographically projected, but they looked so real he was fearful of getting burned if he floated too near. For he was floating, in effect, on the invisible floor; the soles of his space boots were padded, so that his footsteps made no sound.

Citizens in assorted varieties of spacesuits floated in groups, their serf-servitors like satellites. One spotted him and moved across. It was the Rifleman. “I see you are mixing in, Stile. Excellent. Let me introduce you to key figures. What is your preference? Romance, camaraderie, or mischief?”