Juxtaposition (47 page)

“No. We don’t want to do that. We want only our fair share of the system.”

Stile smiled. “You, too, are incorruptible. You shall have your fair share. But at the moment it is the occasion for heroic efforts. Very well; I’ll put it on a more practical basis. You read through that entire book and assimilate all that is in it—“

“Wait, Stile! I can’t! I can read at machine rate—but this book is a hundred times as big as it seems. When you address any section, the entire book becomes that section; there are more spells in any single subdivision than I can assimilate in a year. It’s like a computer with unlimited access, keying in to the networks of other planets on demand.”

“A magic computer. That figures. Very well—run a survey course. Discover what types of spells it has, in broad categories—you’ve already done that, I think—then narrow those down until you have exactly what you need.
 
Commit particular spells to memory, so that you can draw on them at need. Remember, you can use each spell only once, so you’ll need backups. I want to know the parameters of this thing; maybe there are entire aspects of magic we never thought of. You run that survey as quickly as you can, then restore Trool and report to me. That will allow me to get moving on the Phazite without delay, while also mastering the potential of the book—through you.”

“Yes, sir,” she said uncertainly.

Stile brought out his harmonica and played a bar of music. Again there was something strange, but this time he continued playing, determined not to be balked by any mystery.

The spirit of his other self came out, expanding as if stretching, then dosed on Stile, coalescing.
 
“Oh, no!” he cried. “Juxtaposition! I forgot!”

“You freed your other self’s soul to merge,” Sheen said.

“I saw it.”

Now Stile was two people, yet one. All the memories and experience and feelings of the Blue Adept of Phaze were now part of his own awareness, superimposed on his own lifelong Proton experience. All that he had learned of his other self, which the Lady Blue had told him, was now part of his direct memory. He had become, in truth, the Blue Adept. He felt confused, uplifted, and gloriously whole. “I am—both,” he said, awed.

“Is it—will you be all right?” she inquired anxiously. “Things are changing so rapidly! Does it hurt?”

He looked at her with the awareness of his other self.
 
She was absolutely lovely in her concern. She had, with typical feminine vanity and concession to the culture of Phaze, conjured herself a simple but fetching dress, and her hair was just a trifle wild. Her eyes were strongly green, as if enhanced by the verdure of the overlapping frames. “I know what thou art,” he said. “I could love thee, Lady Golem-Machine, for thou art lovely in more than form.”

Sheen stepped back. “That must be Blue! Stile, are you in control? If you have become prisoner in your body—“

“I am in control,” Stile said. “I merely have double awareness. I have two full lives to integrate. My other self has no direct experience with your kind; he’s quite intrigued.”

“I would like to hear more from Blue,” she said, then blushed.

“Sorry. He has to come with me; we’re one now.” Stile resumed his melody on the harmonica, then sang: “Let me be found at the Platinum Mound.”

And he was there. Pyreforge the Dark Elf looked up.
 
“We expected thee. Blue Adept. But I perceive thou art changed.”

“I am both my selves,” Stile said. “I am whole. My souls are one.”

“Ah, the juxtaposition,” Pyreforge agreed. “We be in the throes. But thy merger can be maintained only within the curtain, for you are now two.”

“I mean to make another body for him,” Stile said, an inspiration falling into place. “My friend Sheen has the book of magic; we can accomplish it now, after we restore my friend the troll to life. But first—the Phazite.”

 
“We have it for thee,” the elf agreed. “But how canst thou move it? It weighs many tons, and its magic ambience prevents conjuration.”

“I think that is why the Oracle bade me organize the creatures of Phaze,” Stile said. “First they rescued me from enchantment; now they will enable me to move the Phazite. I want to shape it into a great, perfect ball and roll it across the curtain by brute, physical force.”

“Aye, Adept, that may be best. But others will bar thy progress if they can.”

“This may be like a big earthball game,” Stile said, remembering the final key word of his Tourney poem.
 
Earth. “I will try to balk the magic of the enemy Adepts, with the help of Sheen and the book of magic, while my friends help push the ball across the near side of the curtain, through the breadth of the zone of juxtaposition, and across the other side into Proton. That is how it works, isn’t it?”

“Aye. Cross from one frame on one side, to the other on the other. That can be done from both sides, but always the full juxtaposition must be traversed, for it be but the interior of the divided curtain.”

“So where the curtain divides, the people reunite!” Stile exclaimed, feeling his wholeness again.
 

“For the moment it be so. But when the deed be done, all will be separate forever.”

“I know,” Stile said sadly. “I will be forever confined to mine own frame, this lovely world of magic but a memory. And mine other self, the true Blue Adept, will know no more of modern science.” He felt the surge of interest and regret in his other self. To Blue, the things of science were as novel as the things of magic were to Stile.
 
“We do what we must do,” Pyreforge said. “We some times like them not.”

“Can the elves get the Phazite to the surface here?” Stile asked. “I can conjure in whole troops of creatures to push it across the juxtaposition.”

“Nay, the other Adepts have closed the conjuration avenue, perceiving thy likely intent if thou dost survive.
 
Thine allies must march here.”

“But I came by conjuration!”

“Thou must have come from some place hidden from Adept perception, then.”

“I did,” Stile agreed. “I should have notified my allies before I came here. Perhaps I can make a sign for them in the sky—“

“And attract every enemy instantly,” Pyreforge said.
 
“Best to start it quickly.”

Stile sighed. There always seemed to be so many constraints on his application of magic! His other self shared the sentiment; it had always been thus. Magic was not the easy answer to every problem.

He went outside and surveyed the landscape, looking down into the great plain to the north. He could see where the curtain had expanded, straightening as it went. The zone of juxtaposition now reached well into the plain. The domes of the civilization of Proton were coming into view, with their teeming Citizens, serfs, and machines.
 
He had an idea. He returned to Pyreforge, inside the Mound.

“Have thy minions push the ball out of the northern slope of the Purple Mountains, while I fetch special help. I can use Proton equipment to shove it onward.”

“Do not Citizens control the machines?” the old elf asked.

“Aye, they do,” Stile agreed regretfully. “All but the self willed machines. They will be using the heavy equipment against us. Let’s hope my Phaze friends are alert, and will assemble here without specific summoning.” A little fore sight would have facilitated things greatly, but he had been distracted by things like being transformed into a fish. So much had happened so rapidly so recently! Pyreforge showed the way to the Phazite. It was some distance east, for many of the tribes of elves had labored to assemble it centrally. Apparently they had been at work on this project far longer than Stile had been in Phaze, knowing the crisis was coming. The Little Folk had known much they had not advertised, and thus avoided early sabotage by the enemy.

As he walked. Stile felt an odd wrenching within him, followed by a kind of desolation. There was the sound of a fading flute, a single note that was somehow beyond the compass of ear or mind, yet encompassed something fundamental in the cosmos. In a moment he realized what had happened; he had crossed beyond the juxtaposition into Phaze proper, and the two souls could not integrate in a single frame. Blue had departed, and must now be back in the harmonica. How empty this body felt! At length they arrived in a large cavern, not unlike the one of Xanadu, but whose walls were dark rock. There were evidences of extensive tunnelings and laborings and many tracks of carts indented in the ground, as well as spillage of ore and oil.

There in the center was a perfect sphere of Phazite. This could not have been shaped in the past few minutes; it had to have been done this way long before Stile had arrived.
 
The ball was about six feet in diameter, the size of an earthball.

An earthball. Again Stile remembered the Game, in which such a ball was pushed by teams across one goal line or the other. The Game Computer had given him the term “Earth,” the last of the supposedly random terms; now the relevance was dear.

“Solid Phazite?” he asked, awed by the reality. In Pro ton this would be worth so much that his mind balked at attempting the calculation.

“An isotope of the dense mineral formed in rare, peculiar processes of creation,” the old elf agreed. “In the science frame this would be described as the semi collapsed matter formed in the fringe of a certain variety of black hole in a certain critical stage of evolution. This explains why it is so rare; very little of it escapes the site of its origin. It is fifty times the density of water, unstable in certain conditions, sublimating into pure energy that is more than the sum of its present mass because of the unique stresses of its creation. Thus it may be used for the economical propulsion of spaceships—or the more versatile applications of magic in a frame where magic is normally much less intense.”

“From the fringes of black holes,” Stile repeated, amazed at the information the elf had. To reside in a magical frame was not necessarily to be ignorant of science! “I’ll bet it’s scarce! No wonder phenomenal force is bound up within it, like a really tightly coiled spring. How much is here?”

“In Proton, Protonite has been mined at the controlled rate of approximately one metric ton a year, for three hundred years, with nine tenths of it exported, the rest reserved as Citizen wealth. To equalize the frames, we must replace half of three hundred metric tons. This ball of Phazite weighs near one hundred and seventy of our tons, the equivalent.”

“I don’t want to wait until my allies locate me,” Stile said. “My enemies may arrive at the same time. I will need some help moving that thing, if I am not to employ magic.”

“We will help, within our demesnes. We have numbers and levers.”

Stile brought out his map of Phaze, which had survived all his adventures in the magic way such things had. He had wondered how unicorns managed to carry things while shifting into forms such as hawks and fireflies; now he had carried map, clothing, and harmonica while swimming as a fish. He still didn’t know how it was done.

“The simplest thing would be to roll the ball due north across the central region, which is relatively level, until we pass the north aspect of the curtain. Somehow I don’t think that will work.”

“Thine enemies be alert. At some point they will discover thy location. Then will all their resources be brought to bear in opposition,”

“That’s the nature of the game.” Stile agreed. “Both teams push on the earthball, and the one with more power and/or better strategy prevails. The problem is, I’m not sure we have more power or better strategy.”

“I can help,” Sheen said.

“Yes, I’ll take all the help I can—“ He looked at her, startled. “When didst thou arrive?”

She smiled. “Just now, when the curtain caught up with thee. Didst thou not notice it?”

Stile, distracted by the wonder of the ball of Phazite, sixty times the mass of his record Proton personal fortune, had not noticed. Now he realized that he had heard the Flute again, at the fringe of his consciousness, and that his experience had broadened as his other self rejoined him.
 
He also realized that Sheen could not cross the curtain, this side, without going back into Proton; to go all the way into Phaze, she would have to proceed past the north part of the curtain, then double back. Best for her simply to remain in the zone of juxtaposition, using the superspells of the book of magic to overcome the interference-enchantment of the enemy Adepts.

“So the curtain is still expanding,” he said. “I had somehow thought it had stabilized.”

“Nay, it be unstable,” Pyreforge said. “Only the ultimate skill of the Foreordained expands it, and his power be at its limit. The boundary flexes back and forth, some what like the winds of a changing day. The mass of many people can move it a short distance, as it were pushing it.
 
Our elves did push it across just now so that thy friend could join thee.”

“And here is Trool,” Sheen continued. “His troll friends are making a tunnel through hills for the boulder, so we will not have to roll it uphill.”

“I do not plan to roll it uphill! I’ll roll it along the contour.”

“And the Lady Brown is marching her golems here to push.”

Stile looked at Trool. “Glad I am to see thee! Thou hast survived thine ordeal in good order, it seems. It is not every person who is restored from stone.”