Juxtaposition (26 page)

“Maybe with magic,” she said, unsmiling.

They arrived at the site of the message-tracing team.
 
Stile was glad to let this conversation drop. He loved Sheen, but not consistently and not enough. His personal life in Proton seemed to be an unravelable knot.
 
They were in one of the public lavatories for serfs, with rows of sinks, toilets, and showers. The message cable passed the length of its floor, buried but within range of the detector. Passing serfs, seeing a Citizen present, hastily departed for other facilities.

There was a serf technician with a small but complex machine on two wheels. The machine blinked and bleeped in response to the serf’s comments. No, Stile realized, it was the other way around. The serf commented in response to the device. It was another self-willed machine, with a subordinate serf. A neat way to conceal the real nature of the assistance being provided. The self-willed machines had considerable resources but did not want to betray their nature to the Citizens, lest the machines be summarily destroyed. There was a difference between being programmed to mimic personal volition, as Sheen was presumed to be, and actually possessing that volition, as Sheen and her kind did. The makers of these most sophisticated robots had wrought better than they knew, which was the reason these machines wanted legal recognition as people. They were people, of mechanical nature.
 
With such recognition they could not be dispatched with out legal reason, lest it be called murder.
 
The signals from the machine were more or less continuous and were ignored by the Citizens who joined Stile’s party for the betting. Thus the real nature of the communications was not obvious. Only Stile, with his private knowledge of the special machines and his Game-trained alertness for detail, was aware of it. “What have we here?” he inquired of the serf.

“Sir, this is an electronic device that can trace the route of a particular message at a particular moment,” the serf said. “Each message modifies, the atomic structure of the transmission wires nominally. This change is so small that only a sophisticated instrument can detect it, and the range is quite limited. But it is possible to trace the stigmata by examining the wires at close range, provided we know precisely what we are looking for.”

“Like a hound sniffing a scent,” Stile said.

The machine bleeped. “Yes, sir,” the serf said.
 

“That’s a new one to me,” Waldens said. “But I never did concern myself with machines. I think I’ll buy me one like the metal lady here, if I don’t win this one in a bet.”

Both Sheen and Stile reacted, startled. Neither was pleased. Waldens laughed. “Stile, you don’t have to bet anything you don’t want to. But you should be aware that this lady robot is now a piece worth a good deal more than she was when new. If you lose a big one and have to have a new stake, she is it.” He glanced at the message-tracing machine. “Now let’s see this contraption operate.”

“You have programmed the specific message and time of transmission?” Stile inquired. “Why are you unable to continue?”

Again the bleep. “Yes, sir. We have traced the message to this point. But ahead the cable passes through a juncture associated with the estate of a Citizen who denies us permission to prospect here.”

“Ah, now the challenge comes clear,” Waldens said.

“What Citizen?”

“Sir, serfs do not identify Citizens by name,” the serf said, translating the machine’s signals. “But his designation is at the gate.”

Waldens strode out of the lavatory and down the hall to examine the gate. The others followed. “Circle-Tesseract symbol.” He brought out a miniature mike. “Who’s that?”

“Sir, that is Citizen Cirtess,” his contact answered.
 

“Cirtess. Circle-Tesseract. That figures. Same way I have a forest pond on my crest. I know him.” Waldens considered. “Stile, I’m ready to bet. You won’t get into that dome to trace your line. You’ll have to go around and pick up beyond.”

“Is that feasible?” Stile asked his technician serf.
 

“Not feasible, sir. This is a major cable junction. Billions of impulses have passed through it. We can trace the stigmata only by setting up at the junction and reading the routing there.”

“Needle in a haystack,” Stile said.

“Sir?”

“Never mind. I grasp the problem. We shall simply have to get to that switchbox.”

“That’s my bet. Stile,” Waldens said. “Let’s put a reasonable time limit on it. Shall we say half an hour for you to get the job done?”

Stile looked at the message-tracing serf. “How long to pass this junction without impediment?”

“It is merely a matter of getting to it, sir. The readout is instant.”

Stile looked at Mellon. “How much may I bet?”

‘The amount is settled,” Waldens protested. “One kilo.”

Mellon was unhappy. “Sir, this is extremely chancy, incorporating virtually no element of predictability, and the amount is large. Have you any reasonable expectation of obtaining permission to enter Citizen Cirtess’ dome in the next half hour?”

“No. But that’s not the bet. It’s whether I can get the job done.”

“Oho!” Waldens exclaimed. “You intend to go in with out permission?”

Stile shrugged. “I intend to get the job done.”

“Cirtess has armed guards and laser barriers,” another Citizen said. “Almost every year some foolishly intruding serf gets fried. It would take a mechanized army to storm that citadel.”

Waldens smiled. “Sirs, I think we have a really intriguing wager in the making. What do we deem to be the odds against Stile’s success? Remember, he is a canny ex-serf who recently won the Tourney; he surely has some angle.”

“Thousand to one against, for any ordinary person,” the other Citizen said. “Hundred to one against, for a Tourney winner. And a good chance hell get himself killed trying.”

“No, I saw him play,” a third Citizen said. “He’s a slippery one. If he thinks he can do it, maybe he can.”

“I don’t think I can do it,” Stile said. “I have to do it.
 
Forces were set in motion to kill me, and this message is related. I must ascertain its source.”

“Within half an hour?” Waldens asked.

“I suspect that if I don’t pass this nexus in that time, I won’t pass it at all. It is pass-fail right now.”

“And you are staking your life on it,” Waldens said.
 
“That makes the bet most interesting. Suppose we give you odds? We think the chances are one hundred to one against you; you evidently think you can do it. We could compromise at ten to one, with several of us covering the bet.”

“That’s generous enough,” Stile agreed. “Since I have to make the attempt anyway.”

“Sir, I do not recommend this wager,” Mellon said. “I know of no persuasion you can make to obtain Citizen Cirtess’ acquiescence, and you lack the facilities for intrusion against resistance. My expert advice can bring you far more favorable betting opportunities than this.”

“Fifteen to one,” Waldens said. “I won’t go higher; I don’t trust you to be as naive as you seem.” The other Citizens nodded agreement. Their faces were becoming flushed; this was the essence of their pleasure. Negotiating a large bet on a highly questionable issue. Gambling not merely with wealth but with the deviousness of human comprehension and intent. They knew Stile had something in mind, and it was worth poorer odds to discover what his play would be.

Stile spread his hands in ordinary-man innocence.
 
“Mellon, I’m sure your way is more practical. But I stand to win a great deal on this, with these levered odds. If I lose I’m in trouble anyway, because this intrusion may be physically hazardous. Wealth is very little use to a dead man. So I must do it my way this time. One kilogram of Protonite against their fifteen kilos, half an hour from now.”

“Yes, sir,” Mellon said with doleful resignation.
 

“But no interference from you Citizens,” Stile cautioned. “If you give away the show to Cirtess—“

“No cheating,” Waldens agreed. “Well watch via a routine pickup, hidden in the lavatory.”

“Thank you.” Stile turned to the machine-operating serf. “Show me how to work this contraption,” he said.
 

“Merely locate it over the line or nexus, sir. It will emit code lights and bleeps to enable you to orient correctly.” He demonstrated. Stile tried the procedure on the section of cable under the floor, getting the hang of it. He knew he would have no trouble, since this was another self-willed machine, which would guide him properly.
 
Now Stile turned to one of the betting Citizens who wore an elaborate headdress that vaguely resembled an ancient Amerind chief’s bonnet of feathers.

“I proffer a side bet, my clothing against your hat, on the flip of a coin.”

“How small can you get?” the Citizen asked, surprised.
 
“I have staked a kilo, and you want my hat?”

“You decline my wager?” Stile asked evenly.

The Citizen frowned. “No. I merely think it’s stupid.
 
You could buy your own hat; you have no need of mine.
 
And your clothing would not fit me.” The man touched his bulging middle; his mass was twice Stile’s.
 

“So you agree to bet.” Stile looked around. “Does any one have a coin with head and tail, similar to those used in Tourney contests?”

Another Citizen nodded. “I am a numismatist. I will sell you a coin for your clothing.”

Now Stile was surprised. “My clothing has already been committed.”

“I’m calling your bluff. I don’t believe you plan to strip, so I figure you to arrange to win the toss. If you win, I get your clothing as due rental for the coin.”

“But what if I lose?”

“Then I’ll give you my clothing, in the spirit of this nonsense. But you won’t lose; you can control the flip of a coin. All Gamesmen can.”

“Now wait!” the headdressed Citizen protested. “I want a third party to flip it.”

“I’ll flip,” Waldens said. “I’m objective; I’ll be happy to see anyone naked, so long as it isn’t me.”

Stile smiled. “It might be worth the loss.” For the coin loaning Citizen was especially portly. “Very well. I will rent your coin.”

“This grows ever more curious,” Waldens remarked.
 
“What is this fascination we seem to share for nakedness in the presence of Stile’s lovely robot mistress?”

“Fiancee,” Stile said quickly.

Now the other Citizen smiled. “Maybe we should all strip and ask her opinion.”

Sheen turned away, blushing. This was sheer artifice, but it startled the Citizens again; they were not used to robots who were this lifelike. “By God,” one muttered, “I’m going to invest in a harem of creatures like her.” Stile accepted the coin. It was a pretty iridium disk, comfortably solid in his hand, with the head of Tyrannosaurus Rex on one side and the tail of a dinosaur on the reverse. Stile appreciated the symbolism: iridium had been associated with the extinction of the dinosaurs, and of course the whole notion of coinage had become a figurative dinosaur in the contemporary age. Iridium, however, remained a valuable metal, and numismatics was popular among Citizens. He passed the coin over to Waldens.
 
“How do we know Waldens can’t control the flip too?” another Citizen asked suspiciously. They were taking this tiny bet as seriously as any other.

“You can nullify his control by calling the side in mid air,” Stile pointed out. “If you figure him to go for heads, you call tails. One flip. Agreed?”

“Agreed.” The Citizen with the headdress seemed increasingly interested. He was obviously highly curious as to what Stile was up to.

Stile was sure the Citizen’s inherent vanity would cause him to call heads, as a reflection of self-image, so he hoped Waldens would flip it tails. The coin spun brightly in the air, heading for the tiled floor.

“Heads,” the Citizen called, as expected. He hardly seemed to care about the outcome of the bet now; he was trying to fathom Stile’s longer purpose.
 
The iridium coin bounced on the floor, flipped, rolled, and settled tails. Victory for Stile! Stile held out his hand for the hat, and the Citizen with the coin held out his hand for Stile’s clothes. All the rest watched this procedure solemnly. Even Sheen had no idea what Stile was up to.

Stile removed his clothing and stood naked, seeming like a child among adults. He took the hat and donned it, arranging it carefully to conceal his hair and complement the lines of his face. Then, with covered head and bare body, he marched to a holo unit set in an alcove. It was a small one, capable of head-projection only, available for emergency use. Any demand by a Citizen was considered emergency.

“Cirtess,” Stile said crisply to the pickup. The device bleeped faintly as it placed the call. He knew the self willed machines were tapping in, keeping track of him without interfering.

The head of a female serf formed in the cubby. “Sir, may I inquire your identity and the nature of your call?”

“I am Stile,” Stile said, rippling an aristocratic sneer across his Ups. “I merely wish to inform your employer that a line-maintenance crew is about to operate on his premises. The maintenance is phony, and the crew is other than it appears. There is nothing wrong with that line. I believe Cirtess should investigate this matter personally.”