Content

The two young men dived into the pool. Mach struck the water more precisely and got the lead, but Rory splashed harder and caught him a third of the way along, then drove ahead for the victory. Panting and ruddy-faced with his effort, he laughed as Mach finished. “Slowpoke!”

Mach shrugged. He had expected to lose, because his power was produced evenly; he could not put forth that extra surge of energy for a spot activity. However, neither did he tire; he could maintain a similar pace indefinitely. Had the race been longer, he would have won.

Rory knew that, of course; it was only the luck of the grid that had given him the victory. He liked to tease Mach about his supposed unwillingness to try harder. It was his human way, for he was fully human. Mach was, of course, unhuman in all but form and consciousness.

They shook themselves dry and watched while two girls lined up at the far end of the pool for their own contest. Both were young and well-formed, with tresses that fell down about their breasts with the provocative suggestion of clothing. One waved.

“Hey, I think they’re following us!” Rory exclaimed. “Let’s wait for them!”

“Yes, they collaborated to match our choice of contest,” Mach agreed.

Rory squinted as the two young women dived in, wincing as one made a bad entry. “Android,” he muttered. “They’re clumsy.”

“Less so than prior generations,” Mach said. “Soon the androids will be up to the human norm in coordination and intellect.”

“I’d rather have them clumsy and stupid,” Rory said.

“So you can love them and leave them,” Mach agreed. They had been over this before. The human male was easily aroused, but also easily satisfied. Mach himself could invoke his arousal circuit, and could also nullify it, but preferred to do neither. He wished that his body could move his mind in the involuntary natural human fashion, but it never happened.

The girls completed their race and heaved themselves dripping from the pool. The breasts of the android bounced as she shook herself. The other girl was more diffident, standing somewhat awkwardly, so that her body did not show to advantage.

“Looking for company?” Rory asked, his eyes traveling up and down the android’s body.

“You’re human, aren’t you?” the android inquired. “I’d like to trade.”

“Favors?” Rory asked, licking his lips.

“Companions.”

Rory nodded. “Sure, why not! Here’s Mach.” He hauled on Mach’s elbow.

“Here’s Agape,” the android said, giving the other girl a little shove. “I’m Narda.”

“I’m Rory. Let’s go somewhere.”

The two walked away, leaving Mach with Agape. He had not sought her company, but found himself thus abruptly committed.

“I don’t believe I have seen you before,” he said to the girl. Actually, he was sure of it; his memory for detail was of course infallible.

“I’m new,” she agreed, speaking with an odd accent. “I just arrived yesterday. Narda was showing me the Game.”

And now Mach was obliged to take over the task the android had been assigned. Well, he really had nothing better to do. “I will show you whatever you wish, Agape,” he said, carefully pronouncing her name the way the android had, three syllables with the accent on the first. “But I should advise you at the outset that I already have a liaison with one of your sex.”

“My apology if I am violating a custom,” Agape said. “Are liaisons required?”

‘They are not. But sometimes they are expected.” He studied her more closely. “Are you android? You seem different.”

“I am—alien,” she said. “This is not my natural form. But I was advised that if I wished to participate in this experiment, it was best to assume it. Have I given offense?”

Alien! No wonder! “No offense.” Mach became more interested as his circuits grappled with the shift of concept. He had never interacted this closely with a humanoid alien before. The experimental community consisted of human beings, robots, androids and cyborgs, all in perfect human form, and in the course of the past year there had been a number of changes as individuals were shifted from one city to another. The purpose was to create a new, egalitarian society in which no serfs were ghettoized. It seemed to be working, and now these integrated serfs were being spread about the planet of Proton so as to bring the enlightened attitude to all. Whether that latest effort was to be successful remained in doubt; the wider society of Citizens and serfs clung to its prejudices as if they were points in the Tourney.

Now aliens were being included. This was ambitious indeed. Mach perceived the input of his father in that. Citizen Blue had been laboring for twenty years to revamp the society of Proton, and had accomplished a great deal. Obviously the effort was not slackening.

“Is my presence a burden to you?” Agape inquired.

“It is not. I was merely assessing the implications.”

“I am concerned that I merge inadequately.”

“This is to be expected at the beginning,” Mach said. “I will show you the premises.”

“This is appreciated.”

He took her through the stations of the Game Annex, explaining how any legitimate resident was free to play any of the games of the grid. He told her how many serfs, including himself, practiced the Game diligently, because each year there was a Game Tourney whose winner was granted Citizenship and became a member of the ruling class. Apparently Narda had simply brought her along without explanation, and dumped her at the first opportunity. This was not proper behavior, but allowances had to be made for androids. They tended to be less socially aware than others were.

He brought her to a cubicle and showed her the two panels. “This is the selection mechanism,” he explained. “You stand at one, and I stand at the other. Each panel presents the primary grid, with the numbered terms across the top, and the lettered ones down the side. One player chooses from the numbers, the other from the letters. On my grid the letters are highlighted, so I must choose from them. On yours it will be the numbers.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “They read ‘1. PHYSICAL, 2. MENTAL, 3. CHANCE, 4. ARTS.’ But I do not grasp what they mean.”

“You must select one. If you wish to indulge in a physical competition, touch 1. If you prefer mental, touch 2. I will touch one of mine, and where they intersect will define the nature of our game.”

“How very clever,” she said. “I shall touch the first.”

“It is not necessary to tell me your choice. It is the mystery of it that provides much of the appeal.” But since this was only a demonstration, Mach checked his choices of A. NAKED, B. TOOL, C. MACHINE and D. ANIMAL, and touched B. He was of course a machine himself, but that made no difference here. Citizen Blue had given the self-willed machines serf status, which meant they could play the Game.

The square for PHYSICAL/TOOL brightened, then expanded into a new pattern. “This is the secondary grid,” Mach explained. “It helps to define the tool-assisted physical games. We must choose again—you from the lettered ones, I from the numbered ones, this time.”

“E. EARTH, F. FIRE, G. GAS, H. H20,” she read. “I don’t believe I understand.”

“They really stand for the type of surface on which the game is to be played,” Mach said. “Flat, Variable, Discontinuous or Liquid. Some programmer decided to get clever with the letters, matching them up with words. It is true that the earth is normally a flat surface, and fire forms a variable surface, and gas is discontinuous if you seek to stand on it, and H2O stands for water, which is a liquid. All you need be concerned about is the nature of the surface upon which you prefer to play, whether flat, or like a mountain, or—“

“Thank you,” she said, and touched her choice.

His own choices were 5. SEPARATE, 6. INTERACTIVE, 7. COMBAT and 8. COOPERATIVE. He touched the second.

The square for FLAT SURFACE/INTERACTIVE brightened. Now the grid became a smaller one of nine boxes, with a list of terms at the side. “We get to fill in this one ourselves,” he explained. “Choose any game that you like.”

“I do not know these games,” she protested. “Marbles, earthball, Jett de boules—“

Because she was alien. All the common flat-surface ball games were unknown to her.

“We’ll simplify it,” he said. “We’ll fill the entire subgrid with one game, tiddlywinks. Then I’ll show you how to play that.”

And so they did. Their selection made, they adjourned to a chamber with a table, and thereon was the tiddlywinks set. Mach showed her how to make one chip jump when pressured by another, and she was delighted. They played the game, and he won, but she was quite satisfied. Now she had a notion how things were done on the Planet of Proton.

They exited the Game Annex. Mach would have preferred to go his own way, but was uncertain how to dispose of Agape. He had been given a commitment to assist her, and though he knew the basis for that assignment was largely spurious, he also knew that she needed guidance, and that he was a more responsible guide than the android Narda had been. Thus he could not let it go as casually as he had undertaken it.

“Am I now becoming a burden to you, Mach?” she inquired nervously.

“This is true,” he agreed. “But I conclude that I should assist you further, so that you will be able to handle our society alone.”

She made an uncertain laugh, as though both the act and the basis for it were novelties. “You are unlike Narda.”

“She is an android. I am a robot.”

She turned her head to gaze at him with perplexity. “I had assumed you were android or human, like the others. You resemble those.”

“I am crafted to resemble them, just as you are. But my interior operations are no more human than are yours.” He spotted a dining region. “Do you wish to eat?”

“That is appealing,” she agreed.

He guided her to one of the food dispensers. “You may describe whatever you wish, and it will craft it for you,” he said.

“I am incompletely familiar with local custom. Perhaps I should attempt whatever you choose to consume.”

Mach smiled. “Oh, I don’t have to eat. My power cell takes care of my energy needs.”

“Yes, of course; you are a machine. Perhaps we should dispense with this activity, in that case.”

Mach considered. He suspected that she was hungry, I but so anxious about making an error of custom that she was afraid to make her own choice. “I can eat,” he said. “I merely do not need to. Suppose I order nutro-I drink for each of us?”

“My gratitude.” Indeed, she was almost fawning. He placed the order, and in a moment they had two tall containers of the beverage, complete with straws. “Is it permissible to be private?” she asked.

“Certainly.” He showed the way to a booth, and the curtain closed about them, cutting off all sight and sound I of the remainder of the dining alcove.

Mach sipped his drink, using the straw. Agape hesitated. “It is a matter of generating a partial vacuum in the mouth,” he explained. “That causes the pressure of the air to push the fluid up through the straw.”

“My concern is not of that nature,” she said. “I am an alien, amoebic in nature. I can maintain the human form for ordinary pursuits, but am unable to do so for imbibation. I am concerned that my mode of assimilation would be a social indiscretion in your presence.”

“I will of course leave the booth if you prefer,” Mach said. “But I am scientifically interested in your biology, and I am not subject to annoyance because of differing modes of operation.”

Still she hesitated. “Narda termed it ‘gross,’ I believe that is why she preferred to separate herself from me.”

Androids were notorious for their crudities of behavior and humor. What could Narda have found gross? “Please be reassured, Agape. I am a machine. I have no emotion not programmed, and even those can be evoked or revoked at will. Nothing you might do would dismay me.”

“You are certain?”

“I am certain.”

“Then I shall assimilate this material.”

She put her hands to the container and stretched it wide, so that it gradually reformed into a broad, shallow dish. Mach had known how malleable the material was, as the empty containers were normally compacted into balls and rolled into the recycling hopper, but he had never before seen a person reform one while it was full of fluid.

Now she leaned forward, bringing her head directly over the dish. Her features melted, the nose, eyes, ears and mouth disappearing. Her head receded into her neck, and her breasts lifted to join it, forming a single globular mass above the table. This mass flattened and descended until it covered the full dish. The flesh dipped into the beverage.

In the course of the next few minutes the beverage disappeared, absorbed into the pancake-shaped mass of flesh. The amoeba was assimilating nourishment in the fashion of its kind.

Then the mass lifted, forming another glob. The glob stretched out, narrowing to form the neck, bulging below to fashion breasts, and shaping gradually back into the human features above. The configuration he recognized as Agape returned, features clean, eyes and mouth closed.

The eyes opened, and then the mouth. “Do you wish to depart my presence now?” she asked.

“No. I find your process of assimilation fascinating.”

“It is not gross to you?”

“It is educational to me. I appreciate being shown it.”

She looked at him without further comment. He remembered to resume work on his own drink.

“If I may inquire without offense,” she said, “how is it that you, a machine, have been crafted in human form? I have seen other machines in other forms, suited to their tasks.”

“I am what is known as a humanoid robot. I have been crafted to resemble a living human being as closely as is feasible, in both the physical and mental states. It is part of my father’s effort to integrate the self-willed machines into the society of Proton. If humanoid ones can be successful at this, then the nonhumanoid ones can follow.”

“But do not human beings grow from small creatures formed within the bodies of their parents? Surely you have a maker, not a father.”

“I have a father and a mother,” Mach said firmly. “My father is Citizen Blue, an immigrant from the frame of Phaze. My mother is Sheen, a female robot. It is possible for a female robot to be implanted with a human egg-cell that can be fertilized internally by a human male, and for her to nourish that cell in the laboratory of her body and birth it in the human fashion, becoming a surrogate mother to his child. But Sheen elected not to be modified to accommodate this; she preferred to have a robot baby, like herself. Therefore I am a robot, but my basic programming makes my awareness and intellectual quotient very similar to those of my father.”

“But then you were constructed as an adult, fully formed as you are now.”

“I was crafted as a robot baby, incontinent and untrained. I was adjusted for growth on a weekly basis, trained and educated by hand. Periodically my metal skeletal structure was replaced, and my wiring revamped, but I never changed size or appearance in any large step. In this manner I proceeded in the course of sixteen years to my present size, and thereafter have remained constant. I was put through normal human schooling, along with the androids, cyborgs and human beings of my group. I regard myself as a human being in all except flesh.”

“You are very like a human being,” she agreed. “I did not realize your nature until you advised me. But what is the point of this significant effort?”

“To demonstrate that complete integration of the diverse intelligent elements of our society is feasible,” he replied. “In the past there has been discrimination against robots, cyborgs and androids. In the future all will participate on an equal basis.”

“And perhaps aliens too,” she agreed. “Now the rationale behind my own participation becomes clear, was not informed by my own planetary authorities; was simply given my assignment. Your father is a perceptive being.”

“This is true. But the job is not yet complete, and there is substantial opposition. We must all be careful.”

“Opposition? I did not realize.”

“The majority of Citizens would have preferred retain the prior system, in which only chosen hum beings had power, and only human beings were eligible to compete for Citizenship.”

“You mentioned this before. What is a Citizen?”

“A member of the governing class of Proton. Citizens have enormous power, and the right to wear clothing. We serfs must address any Citizen as ‘sir’ and obey an directive he gives.”

“But I had understood that serfs had opportunity to achieve power. That if I succeeded in accommodating myself to this society, such opportunity would become mine.”

“This is true, but such opportunity is limited. A Citizen can confer an inheritance of his position on a designated heir, the new Citizen to exist when the old Citizen dies or abdicates. It is understood that when my father dies, I will assume his Citizen status, and be perhaps the first robot Citizen. But there is doubt that this will come to pass, because the Council of Citizens may succeed in outlawing such accession. It is also possible for any serf to win Citizenship through the annual Tourney, as I mentioned; this is in effect how Blue obtained his position, though it was actually won by his alternative self.”

“Alternative self? Is this an aspect of human existence?”

Mach smiled. “In a manner. Most residents of Proton have an analog in the sister-frame of Phaze, wherein science is supposed to be inoperative and magic is operative. I find this difficult to credit, but my father claims it is so, and I am not programmed to believe him to be in error. It is at any rate academic, as there is no access to Phaze.”

Agape brightened. “A human myth!” she exclaimed. “A thing known to be untrue, but believed regardless.”

“That seems to be a reasonable view of the matter,” he agreed.

“Do you, a machine, have any desire for the future?”

“None that can be realized.”

“But perhaps a myth? A hope you would possess if it were reasonable?”

“I would desire to be alive,” Mach said.

“Yet you are not, and can never be.”

‘Therefore it is pointless to desire it,” he concluded.

Again she gazed at him in her somewhat disconcertingly alien manner. “I think that I shall now be able to exist in this society. I thank you for your assistance. Perhaps at some point I may be able to render you a similar favor of comprehension.”

“There is no need.”

They stood and left the booth.

“Ha!” a young woman cried, spotting them. She had hair that was almost orange, that flounced about her shoulders as she moved. “So it’s true!”

Mach knew that he was in for a difficult scene. “Doris, allow me to explain—“ he began.

“Shut in a booth with another woman!” she flared. “With the privacy curtain in place! I don’t need any explanation for that!”

“But we weren’t doing anything,” he protested. “Agape required assistance—“

“I can guess what kind!” Doris cried, eying Agape’s torso. “Just couldn’t wait to get your hands on some alien flesh, could you!”

“I do not understand,” Agape said. “Have I committed an error of protocol?”

“Protocol!” Doris said. “Is that what you call it? Melting in his arms?”

“She didn’t—“ Mach began.

“I did melt,” Agape agreed. “But not for his arms.”

“Don’t tell me for what part of him you melted!” Doris cried. She whirled to confront Mach. “And I thought I was your girl! You’re just like any other male! The moment you see a chance to grab something new—“

“You misunderstand—“ Mach said.

“Not anymore! You and I are through!”

“Please listen,” Mach said, reaching out to her. “I never—“

Doris stepped in and slapped him resoundingly on the cheek. “Don’t lie to me, metal-heart!”

By this time a small crowd had gathered to admire the proceedings. One young man stepped up. “Is this machine bothering you, Doris?”

“Stay out of this, Ware!” Mach snapped, allowing his emotional circuits to govern in the human manner. Ware was an android, and Mach had had enough android-sponsored trouble for this day.

“Yeah? Make me!”

Doris’ gaze passed from one to the other appraisingly. She was a cyborg, and by all accounts there were ghosts in those machines. A person could never be quite certain what a cyborg would do. “Yes, why don’t you make him?” she asked Mach.

She was trying to promote a combat between them! Mach had to head that off, in the interest of species harmony; he knew how his father would react to any such episode.

“The Game,” Mach said. “We’ll settle this in the Game.”

Ware laughed coarsely. “The Game? Why should I bother? Why not just settle it right here?”

Naturally the android didn’t care what kind of a scene he made; he had nothing to lose, and perhaps a lot to gain. He had no chance at future Citizenship, because he wasn’t the son of a Citizen or an expert Gamesman himself, but he could interfere with Mach’s chance— for himself and his kind.

“For a prize,” Mach said. ‘To make it worthwhile.”

“What worthwhile prize could you have to offer? You’re just a serf, like me!”

Doris smiled. “I’ll be the prize,” she said. “Winner gets my favor.”

“No—“ Mach began.

But Ware’s eyes were lighting. He had always had a hankering for Doris, but until this moment she had not given him any positive signal. “Good enough! For Doris!” he agreed.

“Can a person be a trophy?” Agape asked, perplexed.

“Why not?” Doris asked with satisfaction. “You were!”

Mach wished he had the circuitry for a human sigh. He would have to put his relationship with Doris, which had been generally a good one, on the line. She was angry with him for insufficient cause, but had found a way to hurt him. He would have to go through with it.

They went to the Game Annex. They stood at opposite grid stations and touched their choices. Mach had the numbers, so selected 2. MENTAL, to nullify the android’s advantage of temporary strength and throw it into the android’s weakness of intellect. Ware selected B. TOOL, throwing it into the huge general category of tool-assisted mental games. Mach was strong here, so his prospects were brightening.

The subgrid for this category differed from that for the physical games. Mach had the numbers again: 5. SEPARATE, 6. INTERACTIVE, 7. PUZZLE, 8. COOPERATIVE. Ware had the letters: E. BOARD, F. CARDS, G. PAPER, H. GENERAL.

Mach chose 7. PUZZLE, trusting that his wit was quicker than the android’s. Ware chose H. GENERAL, which broadened the range of choices.

They filled in the sub-subgrid with various types of mechanical puzzles: jigsaw, matches, string, knots, cube assembly, Ruble cube and a labyrinth. When the final choices were paired, the result was the labyrinth. Well, Mach should be able to solve that faster than the android could.

“Hey, didn’t you run that one this morning, Ware?” a bystander called.

“Yeah,” Ware replied, satisfied.

Oh-oh. The format of the labyrinth was changed on a daily basis. A player never could know which variant or detail it would have—unless that player had experienced it on the same day. Ware had gotten a major break.

Or had he made his own break, knowing that Mach preferred mental or tool-assisted games, and liked puzzles? Had he somehow planned for this encounter? If so, he was smarter or more determined than Mach had credited.

Still, Mach had run the labyrinth many times, and was familiar with most of its variants. He might not be at as great a disadvantage as he feared. There were interactive properties that could nullify advance knowledge.

They adjourned to the labyrinth chamber. This time it was set up in the form of a huge circle with three entrances. Doris was designated the Damsel in Distress, and Mach was the Rescuing Hero, and Ware was the Monster. Mach’s object was to find and rescue the Damsel before the Monster found her and dragged her away to his lair. If Mach could bring her out his entrance, he would be the victor; if Ware brought her out his, he was. The Damsel was required to go with whomever touched her first. In a double sense, Mach realized.

He had kept company with her because, as a cyborg, she had the body of a robot and the mind of a human being. She had originally been human, but an accident to her body had rendered it inoperable, so her brain had been transplanted to the machine, where it was maintained in a bath of nutrients and connected to the machine’s perceptive and operating units. Such mergers had always been problematical, for no human brain could align perfectly with anything other than a human body, but as cyborgs went she had been more sensible than most. She had been given the finest of bodies, which she delighted to use for every purpose, and because she

was both human and machine, she understood Mach’s ambivalence. He had one human and one machine parent; having experienced the machine existence, he longed for the human one, the other face of his coin. Doris had actually known both, and that made her endlessly fascinating. But she did have that erratic streak, which could make her difficult to deal with at times. Evidently she was toying with the notion of having physical relations with a flesh creature, having satisfied herself about those with a nonflesh creature. Now that she was angry with him, she was using this notion to force him to respond.

All because he had tried to help the alien female get adjusted. Yet Agape had been in genuine need; what else could he have done? A machine could have ignored her plight, but a human being would have helped, and it was the human model he preferred to emulate.

They entered at their doors. The game was on.

It was gloomy inside, but his vision adjusted automatically to the changed conditions. He could see well enough. The passage curved and recurved and divided. There was no way to be sure which passage would lead most directly to intersect with Doris’ door; he would have to depend on speed and memory, learning the maze as he went. For the trick was not merely to find the Damsel first, it was to bring her back out. If he got her, but then the Monster intercepted them, he would probably be lost, because the Monster was by definition the stronger of the two males, and would win any direct encounter. This was counterbalanced by the Damsel’s established preference for the Hero; she would try to help him find her, and would even search for him, while trying to avoid the Monster. If the Hero touched her first, she would go quietly wherever he led; if the Monster caught her, she would go with him, but would scream all the way, making it easier for the Hero to intercept them and perhaps prevent the Monster from making his exit.

Now Mach heard her screams. The Monster had caught her already! How could it have happened so quickly?

But as he moved on, he realized that the sounds were wrong. Doris was still alone. She wasn’t exactly screaming, she was calling. “Hero! Hero!” she called. “Come find me!”

The fool! Didn’t she realize that the Monster could hear her just as well as the Hero could? Since Ware was already familiar with this variant of the maze, the advantage would be his; he could go directly to her without false detours.

Then Mach heard his rival, pounding along a nearby passage. Ware knew where he was going, certainly!

Well, there was one way to even things up: he could follow the Monster! Mach ducked into a cul-de-sac, hiding, as the android passed, then emerged and pursued him quietly. Soon they both arrived at the Damsel’s site. As Ware closed on her, she neither screamed nor fled as she was supposed to; she simply waited for him. Had she forgotten all the conventions of this game?

Ware slowed, approaching her. He reached out his hand to tag her, and she extended her hand to him.

Something very like human emotion took Mach. Doris was trying to give the victory to Ware!

Mach launched himself at the back of the Monster. By striking by surprise, at the moment the rival’s attention was distracted by imminent victory, he might score against him; the Game Computer allowed for such tactics. All he had to do was touch Ware from behind—

“Look out!” Doris cried.

Ware, alerted, swung around to meet Mach’s charge. They collided, face to face.

“Hero killed,” the voice of the Game Computer announced. Thanks to Doris’ betrayal, Mach had lost the game—and her favor.

Back in his private serf chamber, Mach pondered the ramifications. He had thought that Doris’ anger with him was a misunderstanding, spawned by his appearance with the alien female. Now he realized that he had misjudged the cyborg. She had grown tired of him, but preferred a pretext to separate. After all, if she formally broke up with him, others might conclude that she liked breaking hearts (or power cells, as the case might be) and be wary of her, leaving her without male company. She was not the sort to risk that. So she had engineered it so that another male had taken her away from Mach. That left her nominally innocent. She had had her prospective companion, the android Ware, get his fellow android Narda to set Mach up with Agape, then had sought out the pair and made a scene—with Ware handily near. How cunning! Then she had worked to ensure Ware’s victory, by “misplaying” her part, and finally openly betraying Mach. Thus he, Mach, had become the butt of the play. Had he “won” her, then there would have been no onus on her, and she could have tried another ploy at another time.

So he was without a girlfriend—and perhaps had been for longer than he had realized. What was he, after all, except a machine—that could not even experience the grief that a human or android or even alien being would at such a situation! No wonder Doris had grown tired of him. Living creatures had genuine emotions that made them less predictable and more interesting. How he wished he could be alive!

He lay on his bed, which he didn’t really need because it was not necessary for him to sleep, and invoked his creative circuit. This was newly developed, and had been installed only a few months ago. He had taken to playing with it at odd moments, savoring the illusion of erratic thought. It had random factors included, so that the same starting thought could lead to different results, some of them only marginally logical. Living creatures were capable of illogic, and that was part of their appeal. Even the cyborg Doris, with her inanimate body and living brain, could be marvelously illogical when she chose. Mach wanted that capacity for himself, but so far had never been able to originate a truly illogical thought process. The circuit was only a circuit; he could reflect on it, but it did not govern him. He always knew the illogic for what it was, and that prevented him from being truly alive.

Now he tried a special variant. He tried to imagine himself In the mysterious frame of Phaze, where magic supposedly operated and science did not. That was so illogical that it would represent a monumental leap of belief on his part. If he could successfully believe that, he could believe almost anything—including the possibility of somehow coming alive.

He imagined having a living brother his own age, there in Phaze. No, not a brother—an alternate self, who bore the same relation to him that Stile did to Citizen Blue. The same person he was, only split apart from his reality, existing in that nonreality of Phaze. It was of course nonsensical to postulate a robot having an alternate self—but no more so than the notion of a land of magic. How convenient that that land was forever sealed off from Proton, according to his father’s story! No way to prove or disprove it! What had happened, a generation ago? Had Stile exchanged places with another Galactic called Blue, who had been raised on another planet in the galaxy? Called it “a fantastic world” and that was how the idea of fantasy started? But now Mach concentrated, trying to believe in the literal magic, in the living boy just like himself, with whom he might establish rapport. He tried to force the delusion on himself, to make himself irrational. If only he could believe!

Then, almost, it seemed that he achieved it. Something like a thought came to him: Who are you? A thought he might not have originated. A living thought.

I am Mach! he thought back. Let’s exchange places! As the android girl had done, boldly offering to change companions, and succeeding.

All right—for a moment, the thought came back. His imagination was achieving a new level! It really seemed like another person thinking.

Mach made a special effort of concentration and longing—and suddenly experienced a strange wrenching. Alarmed, he eased off; had he blown a circuit? He felt quite strange.

Then he opened his eyes.

His room had changed.

2 - Fleta

Room? It was no longer a room at all! It was a forest glade. He was sitting on a rock in its center.

Mach blinked. Sometimes dust fouled his lenses and distorted his vision; the act of blinking normally cleared it.

The glade remained. Late afternoon sunlight slanted down to touch the thickly braided vines and leaves at one side, and grass grew ankle-deep in the center. None of this existed, of course, in his room.

Mach got up and went to the edge, intrigued to discover how far this illusion carried. He touched a broad leaf—and it felt genuine. He pulled on a vine, and it resisted his effort, being springy.

He had tried to switch places with his phantom twin— and found himself here. Was there really a twin, and had he really switched—or had he merely succeeded in establishing his belief in the impossible? Surely the latter—but this still represented a significant victory. He had achieved illogic!

Moved by the wonder of it, he walked around the edge of the glade. He found a path leading from it, twisting like a serpent between the large trees until it disappeared in the distance. Should he follow this? He looked down at himself, considering—and made another phenomenal discovery. He was clothed! He wore boots, trousers and a long-sleeved shirt—all blue. He had been so distracted by the living glade that he had not noticed his own condition!

His first reaction was shock. He was impersonating a Citizen! That could get him ejected from the planet! Only in very special situations, such as in costumed drama in the Game, were serfs permitted apparel.

His second was wonder. How had he come by such an outfit? Had he taken it from his father’s collection? Citizen Blue did prefer this color. But Mach would have had to be crazy to do such a thing, and that was a state a robot was incapable of achieving.

Or was it? Wasn’t believing the impossible a condition of insanity? If he could convince himself that he was in a glade instead of his room, could he likewise garb himself in his father’s clothing without realizing? If so, this effect was dangerous!

Quickly he removed the clothing. But he discovered as he did so that it fit him perfectly. This was odd, because Mach was five centimeters taller than Citizen Blue. The Citizen was a very small man whose enormous political power more than made up for his lack of physical stature. Mach could have been any height he chose, but did not want to create any awkwardness for his father, so he had compromised by assuming his mother’s height. This put him in the low-average range for women, and well below average for men. But he had long since realized that physical height was not the most important aspect of individual importance, so he was satisfied. But now—how could he have worn his father’s clothing without it binding on him? This clothing seemed to have been fitted specifically for his own body.

His thoughts were interrupted by an appearance in the sky. It seemed to be a huge, grotesque bird—but what a bird! Mach stared disbelievingly. He had studied birds, learning the major types, because Birdwatching was one of the events in the Game. No bird like this was listed. This one had a huge, misshapen head, and dangling breasts like those of an old woman.

A what, and what? Mach shook his head and looked again, but the creature had already disappeared.

He knew what it was, however. The description fit that of a harpy—a mythical construct, part avian, part human. The appearance of such a creature was of course another impossibility. Even if some sinister laboratory had crafted an android in that guise, the dynamics of flight would have rendered the harpy groundbound. The necessary wingspan and muscular attachments—

Mach found his heart beating rapidly. The implausibilities of his situation were threatening to overwhelm his equilibrium! He was not encountering just one unbelievable thing, but a complex of them! Trees, clothing, mythology—

His heart? He had no heart! He was a robot!

Mach set his right palm at his chest. He felt the beating of it. He lifted his left hand, set his right fingers against the wrist beside the large tendon and pressed in. Again he felt that steady beat.

He was breathing, too. He had always been able to breathe, so as to be able to talk, but it had been optional, never necessary, and he normally didn’t bother unless in company. Now he held his breath—and in moments was uncomfortable, exactly as if becoming starved for oxygen.

He reached under his left arm, seeking the stud that opened a panel there. He found none. Slowly he moved his fingers to his forearm. He pinched the skin there, hard.

Pain flared, and in a moment a red spot appeared where his fingernail had dug into the skin.

Mach had to lean against a tree to keep from reeling. He was alive! His body was fashioned of flesh; it had a heart, and it felt direct pain.

Now he knew that he had suffered a far greater breakthrough than he had anticipated. He had made his belief in the impossible total, and stepped into the realm of the living. Of course this could not be literal, but even as a dream it was astonishing, for robots did not dream. That new circuit had really performed! He had achieved what no robot had ever done before: fashioned a total illusion of life.

But now that he had done this, what had he really accomplished? Metallic insanity? Was his body lying on the bed while his brain was locked into its own program of fantasy? That could be fun for a while, but after a few hours he would be in trouble, because his mother would discover him and bring in a technician to repair the glitch. If the case were judged to be too extreme, they would reprogram his brain unit, wiping out everything he had accomplished here, including the memory of it. He would be forever after bound to his natural robotic state.

That, he realized, would be disaster. He was delighted to have achieved this breakthrough. To generate even the facsimile of life, even within his dream—in fact, the mere fact of the dream was extraordinary. He had to preserve and improve this ability—which meant he had to master the technique of releasing himself from it. It would be best if no one else know of this accomplishment, until he had perfected it.

He concentrated, trying to release the dream. Nothing happened. He remained in the glade, his heart still beating, his breath still breathing.

He didn’t know how to turn off the dream. But perhaps he wasn’t helpless. His dream had to have limits; if he explored beyond those limits, he might force it to abort.

He started down the path. He didn’t care where it went; he just meant to follow it beyond the definition that it had. To force the issue.

The path wound through the forest, following a contour. Parts of it were rocky, and he discovered that his feet were tender. Since he had gone barefoot for ail his existence, and his soles had been of toughened pseudoflesh, this was a surprise. But it was consistent with the illusion of living flesh, especially if it was supposed to have used boots.

He came to a fork in the path. Which way should he go? One path led downward, the other upward. He felt thirsty, which was another aspect of the verisimilitude of this dream, so he took the one leading down. There might be a river there.

There was indeed a stream. The water wended lazily through a swampy region. The path descended into this and disappeared. Mach considered, then got down flat and put his lips to the closest clear water he spied. He sucked, employing the physics that he had described to Agape.

Agape? How far away the alien female seemed now!

There was a sudden snort behind him. He jerked his head up, twisting about to look back. It was a man— with the head of a pig. The snout was flattened in the porcine manner, and cruel tusks glinted at the sides of the mouth.

Mach scrambled up. The pighead stepped aggressively forward. Somehow it reminded him of Ware, the android.

“Now look, creature,” Mach said nervously. “I don’t want to bother you. I just want to drink.” For the mouthful he had taken in wasn’t enough.

“Zdringk!” the pighead snorted. “Owrs!”

He was claiming this drinking-spot? “Then I’ll drink farther along,” Mach said, trying to edge around the creature.

“Zrriverr owrs!” the pighead proclaimed.

“The whole river is yours? But that’s unreasonable!”

The pighead lowered his head and ground his tusks together. It seemed that he was not about to be reasonable. He reminded Mach even more strongly of the android.

Mach considered again. He was thirsty, and this seemed to be the only reasonable source of water. If he gave this up, he wasn’t sure where or when he would find another drinking place. He would have to stand his ground.

“I feel that I have about as much right to drink as you do,” he said. “Please allow me to—“

The pighead squealed with rage. Immediately there was a rustling in the vicinity, and the sound of feet striking the ground. Several other pigmen appeared— and several pigwomen too. All were naked and completely humanoid, the females quite attractively so, except for the heads. All looked menacing.

The pigheads blocked off the path. Mach had to retreat into the water. He discovered that the path continued under the surface, firm though slippery; he could proceed without getting dunked, as it was only knee-deep.

The pigheads followed him a little way, but then halted, snorting angrily. Mach went on—and abruptly stepped off the edge and landed up to his waist in water-covered muck. He should have watched where he was going!

There was a hiss. He looked—and spied a man swimming toward him. Relieved, but cautious, he scrambled back to the firm path, and stood knee-deep as the man came close.

And the man turned out to be only the head of a man. The body was that of a monstrous python, undulating through the water.

Mach had thought this was a dream. But he had never heard or read of either pigmen or snakemen, and his computer-type brain was not strong on creative imagination. If he had tried to populate this dream, he would have done it with conventional monsters. In fact, he would not have used monsters at all; he would have made it a completely satisfactory setting, for his own delight. This did not make sense.

“Ourss!” the snakeman hissed, his head lifting above the water. Beyond him, other heads appeared in the water.

Mach realized why the pigheads had stopped their pursuit. Their territory ended where that of the snake-folk began.

He looked back, but saw the pigheads still clustered at the edge of the swamp. He would have to proceed forward.

“I’m going!” he said, and sloshed along the path. He had to slide his bare feet forward under the water to make sure the firm path continued, lest he get dunked again. He wasn’t sure what the snakes would do to him if they caught him, but didn’t care to find out.

Fortunately there was no pursuit. As he moved he continued to ponder. If this was not the kind of situation his robot brain would or could have created, how could he account for his dream? The answer was that he could not. But the alternative was to assume that it was not a dream. That suggested that it was reality.

Had he really been transported to the land he had sought, Phaze? By switching places with his twin? Of course a physical exchange could not have occurred. But a mental one—that did seem plausible. His consciousness was in the body of his twin—and his twin’s consciousness must be in Mach’s own body.

Mach’s lips pursed in a soundless whistle. This thesis was reasonable—but what would a human person do in the body of a machine?

The path led to an island rising out of the swamp. Relieved, Mach sloshed toward it—and stepped off the path again, taking another messy dunking. The path curved about, as it had on land, and he had to check for it constantly.

He drew himself out of the muck, then proceeded to the island. It was thickly overgrown with reeds and brush and small trees, but the path was clear. This was certainly better than the water.

Mach rounded a bend—and came across a worse monster than before. It was a man—with the head of a giant roach. The antennae waved and the complicated insectoid mouth-parts quivered. The thing looked hungry.

Mach backed away—but another roach-head came onto the path behind him. He was trapped.

Well, not quite. He leaped into the brush to the side. Too late he discovered that it was solid brambles; the thorns raked along his legs and torso stingingly. Yet the roach-heads were blocking the path, their ugly mandibles working. He had not been programmed to abhor roaches; indeed, they did not exist in the natural state in the frame of Proton. But his living body evidently loathed the notion of contact with such creatures, and certainly he didn’t want those mandibles chewing into his tender flesh.

Trapped between unacceptable alternatives, Mach let his body govern. His head went back and he screamed. “Heeelp!”

There was a distant sound of music. Then an approaching beat. It sounded as if a horse were approaching.

Mach screamed again. He knew how to ride a horse; that was one of the Game challenges. If the creature were tame, or even if it weren’t—if he could somehow get on it—but of course it was tame, for he heard the music of the rider.

In a very brief time the beat became splashing. The horse was charging through the water. Maybe there was a patrol whose duty was to come to the aid of distressed travelers. Mach called again, making sure the rider could find him.

Now it thundered onto the island, the music of its rider becoming loud. It sounded as though a flute were playing, or several of them. The roach-heads abruptly scuttled into the brush, apparently not bothered by the brambles.

“Here!” Mach cried.

The horse came into sight.

It bore no rider. It was glossy black, with golden socklike coloration on the two hind legs. From the forehead sprouted a long spiraled horn.

This was a unicorn.

Mach was beyond caring at this point. “I beg you, beautiful creature—carry me from here!” he called.

The unicorn stopped. It was a mare, not large for a horse, but in fit condition. Her head turned toward Mach. She sounded a double note of query.

The horn was making the music! Citizen Blue had mentioned this, long ago, but Mach had assumed this was mere embellishment of a tale told to a child. Now he realized that it was literal. His father had come from this frame, and had known unicorns.

Mach pulled himself painfully from the brambles. His body was bleeding in several places. “If you will carry me—“ he repeated, afraid the mare would bolt before he could mount her.

But she made an acquiescent note. He came up to her and scrambled onto her back, taking firm hold of her glossy mane. “My gratitude to you, lovely creature!” he gasped.

She started walking, then trotting, wending her way on along the narrow path with sure-footed confidence. As she moved, she played a pretty double melody on her marvelous horn. Mach was good at music, both because he had been programmed for perfect pitch and because it was a useful talent in the Game; he knew quality when he heard it, and that horn was as good as an instrument could be. To think that a mere animal could do it so well! There was no further sign of the roach-heads; evidently the music warned them away.

The path proceeded to the other side of the island and back into the water. The animal trod it with confidence, evidently knowing exactly where to place he: hooves. The water swirled with fish, some of them large three vertical fins cut through the ripples toward them. The unicorn pointed her horn at the largest and blew triple-note chord of warning; the fin altered course immediately, approaching no closer, and the other two did likewise.

Farther along a thing like a crocodile lifted its Ion, snout, hissing. Again the unicorn blew her chord, and

the thing backpedaled. Mach was impressed; it was evident that this equine creature was not to be trifled with. How fortunate that she had come to his rescue!

But why had she done so? Mach remembered that his father had spoken of associating with a unicorn. Or his alternate self had done so. But he had never provided any details. “That life is past,” was all he would ever say. Mach had gathered that unicorns were not necessarily friendly to man; apparently it had been a remarkable thing for a man to befriend one. Yet this one had come right to him, a stranger, and rescued him.

The water-path was finally headed for solid land again. Here the footing seemed to be especially intricate; the unicorn was almost doing a four-footed dance as she stepped along it. And here it was that a more formidable menace appeared.

From the deep water to the side emerged a huge and mottled reptilian head. It had two curling horns and greenish scales and widely spreading whiskers. Then the mouth opened, to reveal an array of teeth as formidable as any Mach had known of. Jets of steam issued from the metallic nostrils, forming swirling little clouds as they cooled and expanded.

The unicorn paused. It was evident that this was a threat she did not dismiss lightly. Indeed, as the monster lifted itself higher, Mach could see why. This was a literal dragon!

The dragon leaned forward, extending two front legs with ferocious talons. Its head swung on a sinuous neck. More steam issued, forming cloudlets bathing Mach with hot vapor. Viscous saliva dripped from the mouth.

The unicorn tilted her head so that her right eye bore directly on Mach, as if questioning him. He shrugged nervously. “If you don’t know what to do, I certainly don’t!” he said. He had been gaining confidence as the animal bore him to safety; now that confidence was rapidly draining away. He realized that the unicorn could not readily back away; the footing was so tricky that she probably had to move forward to achieve it. On land she could have fled the dragon; here she could not. Since it evidently had no fear of her horn, and appeared to be quite capable of destroying her in combat, this was a formidable threat.

The unicorn made something very like a shrug; the skin of her shoulders rippled. Then she faced the dragon and blew a new chord. This seemed to have about four notes, with a quaver and an especially penetrating quality; it made a shiver run down Mach’s back.

The dragon paused. Then it snorted more steam and cranked its jaws farther open. The gape of that mouth was horrendous; Mach realized that the dragon could snap off half his body with one bite, and perhaps intended to do just that. The unicorn’s chord of warning had not dissuaded it. This monster knew it commanded the situation, and it was hungry, and it intended to feed. Mach’s living heart was beating at a fast rate, and his living breathing was becoming noisy. He was afraid—if and this was an emotion he had never before experienced. He did not enjoy it.

The unicorn blew her chord again, louder. Again the dragon paused, the little ears below its horns swiveled to orient on that sound. Evidently the chord was a special type of signal, that did have some effect—but not enough to put this monster off entirely.

The dragon brought its head slowly down. The big nostrils pointed at Mach like the barrels of twin rifles. The torso expanded; evidently the dragon was taking deep breath, getting ready to issue a blast of steam that would cook man and unicorn in place.

The unicorn took her own deep breath. She set her self, pointed her horn straight up, and stretched out her neck. The hairs of her mane lifted, almost like the hackles of an angry dog. There was going to be one phenomenally loud sound!

Abruptly the dragon backed away. Its head traveled to the side and down to the water, and under the surface, and the sinuous neck and body followed. In a moment it was gone.

Mach relaxed quiveringly. The mare had bluffed the dragon away! For some reason the monster had feared the threatened loud sound more than the lesser sounds.

The unicorn resumed her motion along the path, picking her way toward the land. While she did this, Mach pondered the matter further. Surely the louder chord could not have hurt the dragon, if the fainter ones had not. Why, then, had it retreated?

His living brain was not as straightforward about logic as his robot brain had been, but this was not a difficult process. Obviously the chord was not a weapon in itself, but a signal—a call for help. Thus a faint one served as a warning, while a loud one would be heard all over the forest and bring reinforcements. Other unicorns, perhaps. One dragon might overcome one immobilized unicorn, but suppose several unicorns came? Yet the dragon had disappeared so swiftly and completely into the water that it was hard to see how other unicorns could have come in time to help, or how they could have located the dragon for revenge if they came too late to save their companion. So this didn’t make complete sense.

The unicorn reached land and picked up speed, resuming her trot. She resumed her melody; evidently she liked trotting to music. Where was she taking him? And why? She had put herself in real jeopardy to help him; why do this for a stranger? His logical mind struggled to make sense of things.

The path divided; without hesitation the animal selected one fork and trotted on. The forest was thinning now, with larger glades appearing, and finally open fields. They were ascending a slope that seemed to have no end; the unicorn’s body became warmer from the exertion, but she did not sweat.

Now the land fell away on either side; the path was mounting a ridge, perhaps a glacial moraine. It was hard to tell, because time had passed and dusk was closing; he could not see clearly to the base of the slopes. In due course they reached a ragged cliff; the path cut its way through to an interior crater that was open to the sky but otherwise closed. Here at last they stopped.

Mach slid off, glad to return to his own feet. He winced as he landed; he had forgotten the abrasion his soles had incurred. Also, his scratches stung. The interest of the ride had distracted him from such details, but now they intruded.

“Well, we are evidently here,” he said. “But I don’t know why you brought me, and I don’t suppose you can explain.”

The unicorn eyed him—and suddenly he had an ugly thought. Horses grazed on grass and ate grain and hay. What did unicorns eat? He had seen enough to know that their metabolism was not at all like that of mundane equines. Had this one brought him here—as prey?

The unicorn lowered her horn and stepped toward him. Abruptly terrified, Mach tried to run. But there was nowhere to run to; this was a closed region, with the unicorn blocking the only exit. He tried to climb the wall, but found no suitable handholds. He scraped his fingers against the stone in his desperate effort, incurring more scratches. He knew he was reacting foolishly, only making himself seem more like prey, but he had no automatic control over the emotion of this living body.

It was no use. If he was here to be eaten, he would just have to accept it. Defeated, he slumped against the stone wall, waiting for whatever was to come.

Nothing came. After a moment he turned around. The unicorn was gone.

She had brought him here—and left him. What did that mean? He wasn’t sure that he cared to guess.

His palpitating bodily processes settled down somewhat. His more sensible mind reasserted itself. He explored his prison. There was a mound of soft brush and hay at one side, evidently a sleeping place. This must be the unicorn’s lair, protected from most other creatures. He was relieved to discover no bones; if she brought victims here for leisurely consumption, there should be bones.

He considered trying to escape, but he was now so tired that he knew he would not get far. Tiredness was another new phenomenon for him, and he didn’t like it. And what was there for him outside? A jagged path, and a series of predatory monsters! Better to remain here and get some rest, and hope that the unicorn was after all beneficent.

He sat on the nest of brush. It was surprisingly comfortable. He leaned back against it. Before he knew it, he was asleep.

He woke in starry darkness. Something was wrong with his abdominal circuitry. He felt bloated. Had an oil valve clogged?

He checked at a service aperture, but found none; his fingers slid across unbroken skin. Then he remembered: he was in a living body!

That meant that he needed to release fluid, in the living manner. His robot body could eat and drink, but did not eliminate in the biological way; it simply regurgitated the material at a convenient time. Now he would have to perform in the fashion he had observed in human beings and androids.

He got up—and discovered that he was not alone. His hand brushed across the torso of another living creature. The unicorn?

He peered, and made out the vague outline. Not an animal, but a man! His hand helped define the leg, arm, breast—

It was female!

Mach withdrew. Evidently he had not awakened her, and that was probably best. How had she come here?

She must have walked up the path, arriving after he was asleep. Perhaps this was where she regularly spent the night. She had seen him, and had simply settled down beside. him.

That seemed too simple, but it would have to do for now. He needed to find a suitable place to relieve himself.

He felt about with his feet, but knew that there was no place within this enclosure. He would have to go outside. So he walked carefully in the direction he remembered the entrance to be, and found the wall. The starlight from above did help. He moved along the wall, finding the exit. A gentle breeze gusted through it, refreshingly cool. In the distance was the sound of some night bird.

He established himself at the edge of the path, aimed his liquid-disposal appendage, and let go down the mountainside. It was a great relief. However, this reminded him of his thirst, which had not really been slaked at the swamp, and this now manifested with renewed force. Another problem of the living state!

He returned inside the crater. He would just have to sleep until morning, and then see what offered. Perhaps the human female would know where there was water. And food—he would be hungry soon.

But as he came to the brush pile, he realized that the female was awake. Indeed, she was sitting up, peering at him.

“I—I was uncomfortable,” he said awkwardly. Natural functions were normally not discussed between the sexes in Proton, and he assumed it was the same here.

“Bane,” she said. Her voice was pleasant, having an almost flutelike quality.

“I don’t understand.”

“Bane—is thy game over?” she asked.

“Game?”

She sighed. “Not over. Then I will play it on with thee. Do thou kiss me, and we shall sleep.”

“Kiss?” he asked, perplexed.

She stood, rising lithely to her feet. She approached him, reached up, took hold of his head with both her hands, and brought her face to his. She kissed him on the mouth. “Long has it been since we played thus,” she said. “Come, now; sleep.” She tugged him toward the nest.

Mach followed, bemused. This girl seemed to know him, and she wanted to sleep. There were several meanings for that word, and he was not sure which one applied, so he simply lay down in the fragrant brush beside her, as she seemed to want. If she intended sexual expression, he could do that; as a robot he had the hardware, and was programmed to—but no, he wasn’t a robot anymore! Still, as a living man he had similar capacities, and she seemed to be an attractive girl; he could do whatever seemed to be called for.

She squeezed his hand, turned her head to the side, and slept. In a moment her gentle breathing signaled her condition.

Relieved, Mach did the same. He wondered whether she would still be there when morning came.

As it happened, she was. He woke to the pressure of her little hand, tousling his hair. “Wake, Bane!” she exclaimed. “What is the game today? Naked through the swamp again?”

That made him realize that though he was properly naked, she was not. She wore a black cloak that covered her body from neck to ankle. He remembered, now, that he had felt cloth about her body in the night; he had assumed it was a cover, not clothing.

Now he had to ascertain the situation. He had three alternatives. First, she might be in costume, considering this to be a play; indeed she had mentioned a game. Second, she might be a serf masquerading as a Citizen. That was of course dangerous. Third, she might actually be a Citizen.

He had to know. A Citizen always had to be addressed with the proper forms of respect. But a serf in Citizen garb had to be set straight immediately, before real trouble came of it.

“Sir, I must know,” he said, erring on the safe side. “What is your status?”

She looked at him, her green eyes seeming to twinkle. “ ‘Sir’? What speech be this, Bane?”

So she was not a Citizen. Just as well! ‘Then you are a serf?”

“Serf? Bane, if thou willst but tell me thy game, I will play it with thee. But I know not the rules of it.”

“What is this ‘thee’ business?” he asked.

She smiled. Her black hair framed her face, and she wore a pearl at her forehead; she was lovely in her joy. “A game of language!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands.

“No game. I just don’t understand. Who are you? Where did you come from? Why do you use the archaic forms? Why are you garbed?”

She cocked her head at him cannily. “So we call it not a game. That can I do. As for who I be, as if thou dost not know: I am Fleta, thy companion of yore. I speak as thy kind does; wouldst rather have me neigh? As for my garb—why there be no need for it, if this be the game!” And she reached down, caught hold of the hem of her cloak, and drew it up over her head. In a moment she stood before him naked, for she wore no underclothing. “Be that better, Bane?”

“Yes,” he agreed. She was a most comely figure of a young woman, perfectly formed and standing just slightly shorter than he. “But why are you calling me Bane? Do you know me?”

“What wouldst thou be called, then?” she inquired merrily.

“My name is Mach.”

She laughed. “What a stupid name!”

He frowned. “Is Fleta a more intelligent name?”

“Certainly! But I will try to keep my laughter down while I call thee Mach.” Indeed, she did try, but the laughter bubbled up from her stomach, caused her breasts to bounce, and finally burst out of her mouth. She flung her arms about him and kissed him, as she had in the night. “O, Bane—I mean Ma-Ma—“ A giggle overcame her, but she fought through it. “Mach! What a romp have we here! I feared thou hadst forgotten me in thy serious studies of blue magic; how glad I be to learn not!”

“Fleta, I have to say that I do not know you. What’s this about magic?”

“Ah, wait till I tell the fillies of the herd of this! Never played we music like this!”

“If you would just answer my questions,” Mach said somewhat stiffly.

“As thou dost wish,” she agreed. “But first may we eat? and O, I see thou art all scratched! Why dost thou not heal thyself?”

“Heal myself?” he asked blankly. “I think only time can do that.”

“With thy magic,” she explained. “Surely the game be not such that thou must suffer such smarts!”

“I don’t know anything about magic!” he protested.

She made a moue. “Or wouldst thou have the unicorn heal thee instead?”

“The unicorn!” he exclaimed, alarmed. “What do you know about that?”

She stared at him, then smiled again, dismissing his supposed ignorance. ‘Thy memory seems brief, lately!”

“A unicorn brought me here last night, after rescuing me from monsters in the swamp. I don’t know why; do you?”

She shook her head so that the lustrous hair swirled. “Who can know the mind of a ‘corn!” she exclaimed, laughing again. “Mayhap she thought thou didst call for help.”

“I did call for help,” he agreed. “But—but why should an animal do me any favor?”

“An animal,” Fleta repeated thoughtfully. “An thou hadst called her that, mayhap she’d have left thee in the swamp indeed!”

“Oh—are they sensitive about that sort of thing? Good thing she didn’t understand my speech.”

“Aye, so,” she agreed, twinkling again. “So thou dost not desire the ‘corn to heal thy trifling wounds with her horn?”

“With her horn?”

“Adepts be not the only ones who do magic!” she exclaimed. “Dost thou not remember the healing of the horn?”

“You mean—that unicorn—when she approached me with her horn lowered—only wanted to—to touch my scratches and heal them magically?”

“Lo, now he remembers!” she exclaimed. “What else would she be about?”

“I wasn’t sure,” he confessed. “I was relieved when she left.”

Fleta frowned. ‘There be aspects of this game I understand not,” she said. ‘Thou dost not wish the return of the unicorn?”

“True,” he agreed. “But of course I cannot prevent it. Maybe we should get away from here before she arrives.”

She sighed. “Be that the way thou dost want it, so let it be. I had not thought to hear thee say the like, though.”

“Well, I’m sure unicorns can be perfectly good animals, and I do appreciate what she did for me yesterday. But I must admit I feel safer with you.”

“And thou dost not propose to conjure up a repast for us both?”

“What makes you think I could do such a thing?”

She laughed her merry laugh. “Sheer foolishness, Mach!” she said. “Come, I shall find us food.” She led him from the crater.

3 - Bane

Bane found himself in a chamber, sitting on a bed. A moment before he had been in the forest glade, seeking rapport with his other self. He had sung a spell to facilitate the exchange of identities—and it seemed that it had worked! Here he was in the other frame, while his alternate had to be in Phaze. Wait till he told his father of this success!

He looked about, trying to fix as much of this locale in his mind as possible before he reverted to his own frame. It was not that Adept Stile would doubt him, but that he wanted to have information that would establish the case beyond question. This was the first genuine contact with the frame of Proton since the two had separated twenty years ago. Of course no one else had seriously sought such contact; it had been generally agreed that total separation of the frames was best. But Bane had regarded it as a challenge, and when he had tuned in on the sendings of his other self, he had jumped at the chance to intensify the contact.

This was definitely Proton! Everything about the room was unmagical. The bed was formed of some substance unknown in Phaze, hard like wood but with no grain, and the mattress on it was like one big white sponge. There was a cabinet against the wall with a window in it that opened on blankness. Beside it were several books—no, they seemed to have no pages. But perhaps the folk of this frame didn’t read books. His father would know.

He looked down at his body. It was naked. That, too, aligned; Stile had mentioned that the folk of Proton went naked, all except the rulers. He was really here, in the body of his other self.

But he decided to make sure. If this were Proton, magic would not work here. “Make me rise, to realize,” he sang, composing a ditty on the spot, as he had been trained to do from childhood. It was his mind that really governed the spell, but it had to be in the right form: singsong and rhymed.

Nothing happened. He remained firmly planted on the bed. In Phaze he would now be floating above it. This was the final proof: he was definitely out of Phaze.

He clapped his hands, expressing the sheer joy of the accomplishment. What a breakthrough! To transport himself to the other frame, when others had believed it to be impossible. And he would be able to do it again, now that he knew exactly how. What a tremendous opportunity loomed!

But now he had better switch back, so they could each report their accomplishment to their folks. Bane sat on the bed, concentrated—and nothing happened.

Oops! He had used magic to facilitate the exchange— but here magic didn’t work. His other self would have to perform the spell—and would his other self know the spell?

Well, he could explain. All he needed to do was use their rapport to make it clear.

He concentrated again—and discovered, to his horror, that the rapport was gone.

The two selves had to occupy the same site in their respective frames, for the rapport to be achieved. They had to unify in their fashion, seeming almost as one. It had taken Bane a long time to discover the place where he could overlap his Proton self, and to be there when his other self was ready for that rapport. This was that occasion—but now the other self had moved off the spot.

Bane got up, casting desperately about for the other. He knew he could sense the other if he overlapped, or even if he came close—but where was the other?

He moved around the room, seeking that intangible spoor, the otherframe presence of the other self. There was no sign of it. He needed to cast a wider net, but the room restrained him. Where was the door? There seemed to be none.

Baffled, he studied the walls. Finally he decided that the one blank section he saw had to be it. There was no knob, no evidence of any aperture, but this was the strange scientific frame, so there could be another mechanism. He walked toward it, putting out his hand as if to push a door open.

It worked. The wall before him fogged and disappeared. He stepped out into a metallic hall.

Naked—outside the room? He didn’t trust this! He turned to go back into the room—but the wall behind him was now opaque and unbroken. He put his hand out, but it didn’t fog. He pushed against it, and it remained firm. It seemed that some other technique was required to enter, similar to a spell that limited access to only those folk who had the counterspell. A scientific spell—and he didn’t have it.

A person rounded a corner and came toward him. It was a woman—naked! Now what was he to do?

He fought to control himself, and found it much easier than he had anticipated. It seemed that folk really did go naked in Proton, male and female. So he should be all right. All he had to do was act natural.

The young woman approached him. “Hi, Mach!” she said brightly. “Looking for a game?”

A game. What did she mean? She was a voluptuous creature, as well formed as any he had seen, though of course he had not seen many naked before. Was it safe to say no? She evidently expected him to agree, so that seemed best. Then, after it was done, he could resume his quest for his other self, who had to be somewhere close.

“A game—yes,” he agreed. He remembered the games he had played as a child with Fleta. Some of them had become pretty intimate; it embarrassed him to remember, now. Fleta had a nonhuman sense of humor, of course.

“Well, then, let’s go!” she agreed. “I’m going to take you this time, Mach!”

Mach. That was evidently his other self’s name. That was helpful to know. But who was this attractive girl? She seemed to be his own age, nineteen, but that could be deceptive. Well, perhaps he would find out.

They walked down the hall. Bane followed her lead, hoping that his own ignorance didn’t show. He also tried to note the route they took, so he could return to the original spot. He was good at that sort of thing, but he had never tried it in a huge building like this. Was there no end to it? Where was the forest?

They threaded a virtual labyrinth, arriving at last at a strange complex. The girl took a stance before a kind of pedestal with a blank window set into it.

She glanced at Bane. “Well, get on over there, Mach,” she said. “You scared to play me?”

He went to the other side of the pedestal, where a similar window was set. But he did not know what was expected of him next.

The window lighted. A crosshatch of lines appeared. Across the top was written a combination of numbers and words, and down the side were letters and words. The top ones were brighter: 1. PHYSICAL, 2. MENTAL, 3. CHANCE, 4. ARTS.

“What’s keeping you?” the girl demanded.

Bane didn’t want to admit that he had no idea what to do, because obviously his other self understood this business, and he didn’t want to give away the fact that he was not Mach. “Why dost thou not make a suggestion?” he inquired.

She smiled. “Oho! The fish is eager! Well, I’ll be direct, Mach. The news is fresh that the cyborg dumped you, so I figure maybe you’ll fare better with your own kind. I don’t want to beat you, I want to win you. If you’ve got any interest, give me the physical. You won’t regret it.”

Her words were indecipherable, but her manner suggested intimacy. This girl wanted romance! Bane didn’t want to get his other self into anything he might regret upon his return, but feared that turning down this offer could be awkward. “Just tell me what to do.”

She licked her lips. “So it’s that way, is it?” Her voice lowered. ‘Touch the one, lover.”

Bane realized that she referred to the print. He brought his finger to the lighted number 1 and pressed it.

Abruptly the first square of the pattern became bright, and the words PHYSICAL and NAKED. This was like the paper game, that his father had shown him, wherein one person chose from one border, and the other from the other, and where their choices intersected was the decision. The challenge was to outguess the opponent, so that what he thought would bring him success actually brought him defeat.

But what did PHYSICAL/NAKED mean? The girl’s attitude suggested one thing, but since they were already naked, he hesitated to assume too much.

The square expanded to fill the window. A new cross-hatch appeared, and new numbers and words. Across the top was written 5. SEPARATE, 6. INTERACTIVE, 7. COMBAT, 8. COOPERATIVE, and down the left side, more brightly, E. EARTH, F. FIRE, G. GAS, H. H2O. He recognized the four elements, earth, fire, air and water, which were fundamental to the various types of magic. Of course there was another element, more important—

“Come on, Mach,” the girl urged. “Make your play.”

So he touched a lighted word at random: GAS.

A new square illuminated, on the line he had selected, and in the second column. INTERACTIVE/GAS. He wasn’t sure he liked the notion. Then a smaller pattern of nine squares appeared, with a list of words down side: PILLOW-FIGHTING, SEX, TAG, TRAPEZE . .

“You know what Tilly wants!” the girl said. In the center square appeared the word SEX. “Make your pick, Macho!”

Uncertainly, he touched the word PILLOW. Immediately it brightened. Then, catching on, he touched corner square, and the word jumped into it. Who said there was no magic in the science frame!

Tilly put SEX into another corner. So it went, with Bane selecting a variety of terms, she only one. There they touched their lighted sides, and the chosen square] appeared: PILLOW-FIGHTING.

“Oh, damn!” Tilly swore. “You cheated!”

“I thought I would surprise thee,” he said, somewhat lamely. He had picked randomly again, but was just as glad it hadn’t finished with the word she so evidently desired. It was not that she was unattractive, but surely such a thing was no game between strangers!

“You surprised me,” she agreed. She smiled. “You surprised me when you even agreed to play! You never gave me a tumble before, you know.” Then she cocked her head at him. ‘Thee?”

Bane realized that he had made an error of language. The girl had consistently used “you.” That was evidently the way they spoke, here. In perpetual plural.

He smiled. “See? Surprised you again.”

She pursed her lips. “You are different today! Doris must have made you flip out.”

She had mentioned that he had been “dumped” by a “cyborg.” Was that a description of another person? If so, it must be Doris. So he—or at least Mach—was suffering from a romantic separation. And Tilly was eager to step in to take Doris’ place. Assuming he had interpreted the signals correctly. But how did this game of patterns of words relate?

“Well, come on, robot,” she said. “You want pillows, I’ll give you pillows! I’ll knock you into the muck!”

She led the way to another chamber. Bane followed, glad to let her maintain the initiative. He believed he knew what pillow-fighting was; it was a favorite game in Phaze. He had played many physical and mental games, and become quite good at several, including this one.

He was correct. This chamber was a huge muddy pit, with a heavy pole crossing it from side to side. A walkway around the edge provided access to the far side of the pole. A number of solid pillows were suspended from hooks near the entrance.

They each took a pillow. Bane made his way to the far side of the pole, then hiked himself onto it. Tilly did the same from her side.

How serious was this supposed to be? Tilly was about his own size, as he was small for a male, but she massed less because of the difference in proportions. He surely could knock her off the pole if he wanted to. But why dump a lovely young woman into the mud? He would have to take his cue from her, again.

They worked their way toward each other until they met in the center. Tilly grinned. “Dump or get dumped!” she exclaimed, and swung her pillow at him in a great circle.

Bane ducked his head, and her pillow passed over his head. Such a miss could cause a person to overbalance and fall untouched, but she was experienced; she simply continued her swing in a full circle and came at him again, bopping him soundly on the shoulder. Her proficiency caught him by surprise.

Bane started to fall. To restore his balance, he had to swing his own pillow hard. He caught her on the side of the head with a loud and harmless smack. But already she was swinging again, aiming for his face—and when he ducked, she brought her pillow down to score anyway.

This was fun! Apparently it was to be a real fight; she wanted to bop and be bopped. He whipped his pillow about in a confined arc, scoring on her bosom.

“So that’s the way you want it!” she cried gleefully. ‘Take that, machine!” And she whammed him on his own chest.

The contest turned out to be about even. Tilly was good at this, and kept her balance, and had surprising endurance for a woman; she did not seem to be tiring at all. Neither was he; in fact he wasn’t even breathing hard.

Breathing hard? He wasn’t breathing at all! He had been taking breaths only when he talked.

Stunned, Bane forgot where he was. Tilly caught him with a powerful whomp, and he lost his balance and spun down. He dropped into the mud below, chagrined.

But almost without pause, she dropped too. “I beat you, robot!” she cried, and smacked him on the ear with a handful of mud.

“Hey!” he protested. He scooped up some mud himself and dropped it on her fair hair.

“Oh, yeah?” she exclaimed with zest. ‘Take that!” She flung herself upon him, bearing him back into the muck, her body literally plastered against his. Their heads sank under the surface, but it seemed to make no difference; he felt no suffocation and his eyes did not smart.

He tried to extricate himself, but she held him tight, her face rubbing against his. There was mud on her mouth, but that didn’t stop her; she jammed her lips against his for a kiss.

Bane would have found all this far more intriguing if he had not been distracted by his discovery. How could he not be breathing, yet feeling no discomfort? That was impossible!

“Come on, react!” Tilly said in his ear. “Invoke your passion circuit, and we’ll do it right here!”

Passion circuit? She referred to him as if he were some kind of inanimate thing like the pedestal with the magic windows. What was it called? A machine.

A machine? She had called him that, and “robot.” Vaguely he remembered: a robot was a walking machine. His mother had mentioned one she had encountered that looked and acted exactly like a living woman, with a suggestive name, Sheen. Sheen, machine. But a good person, his mother had said.

Tilly wrapped her legs around him, hauling him in so close that the mud squeezed out between them. “Come on, make with the self-will! Mine’s all the way on! What’s that cyborg got that I haven’t got?”

Sheen machine. Mach machine. Circuits. Unbreathing. Tilly wasn’t breathing either, except when she talked. “We’re both machines!” he exclaimed, appalled.

“It took you nineteen years to catch on to that?” she asked, sliding against him. “But we can do it just as well as the live ones can! Let’s prove it!”

Bane was rescued from his predicament by a new voice. “Players vacate the chamber,” it boomed. “New contestants entering.”

“Oh, plop!” Tilly said, hurling a mudball out. “Why couldn’t you have hurried, Mach?”

They climbed out, and made their way to the shower at the side, where the mud was quickly rinsed away. Then they returned to the hall.

“Let’s go to my chamber,” Bane said, before she could come up with something worse.

She ran her hand caressingly across his shoulder. “Oho! So that’s why you held off!”

They walked back. Tilly knew the way, which was just as well, because Bane had lost track. Soon they stood before the section of wall he had stepped through.

“Well, say your code,” she urged him.

A code. Something he must utter, like a spell, to make the wall become porous? He had no idea what word was required. “I—I seem to have forgotten,” he said.

“Forgotten!” she cried, laughing. “As if a computer could ever forget anything by accident!” Then she sobered. “But you’ll not get out of it that readily, Mach. We’ll use my chamber.”

“Your chamber,” he agreed numbly. So machines did not forget. How long could he maintain this charade?

She led him to her chamber, nearby. She spoke a word, and the wall fogged. They passed through.

Her room was very much like his, small and almost devoid of decoration. Machines, it seemed, did not require many human artifacts.

“How would you like it?” Tilly inquired. “We’re private here; no limits.”

There was too much he didn’t understand. Bane decided it would be better to tell her the truth. “I must explain—I’m not what you take me for,” he said.

“Not through with Doris?” she asked. “Look, Mach, she’s so hot with that android now, you’d better write her off. She’s never coming back to you. What’s a cyborg, anyway, but a pickled human brain stuck in a robot body? I never did see what you saw in her. You’re a robot, Mach! And not just any robot. You’re going to be a Citizen one year.”

A human brain in a robot body? That sounded grotesque! “It’s not—not Doris. I don’t even remember her. It’s—I’m not Mach. And I think I need help.”

She eyed him. ‘This is a private game, right? What are you up to?”

“I’m from another frame,” he said. “I switched places—“

“Another frame,” she repeated. “What do you claim you are?”

“A human being. Alive. Only now I’m caught in—“

“So you want to pretend you’re not a machine,” she said. “That’s not a good game. It hasn’t been that long, historically, since we self-willed machines were granted the status of serfs. The Citizens would love to take it away from us. All they need is a pretext. You know that. So find some other game; this one’s dangerous.”

“This is no game!” Bane protested. “I’m from Phaze, the frame of magic, but—“

“All right, so you won’t get serious,” she said, pouting. “So let me show you something.”

“Show me?”

She brought her left hand to her face. She put her little finger between her teeth and bit down on it. Her white teeth sank into the flesh and tore a small hole in t. She worked at the wound, biting deeper. There was no blood.

“There,” she said after a moment, surveying the damaged finger. “I reached the nerve-wire. Now give me yours.”

“Mine?”

She reached out and caught his left hand, and brought it to her mouth. Bane did not resist. He watched while she put his own little finger to her mouth, and bit into it. He felt no pain, though soon the substance of his finger was torn open. It seemed to be padding, and deeper inside, a wire. Exactly like hers.

He was, indeed, a machine. Rather, his other self, Mach, was. A nonliving robot in human form. That much Tilly had demonstrated beyond question.

“Now I’ll show you how to bypass the clumsy human sexual process,” Tilly said. “We robots have something much better.”

She held his left hand with her right hand, and brought her left hand to it. She touched her chewed little finger to his, pushing them together so that their central wires touched.

Suddenly Bane was transported by a pleasure so wild and strong as to be unutterable. It originated in his finger, but was so potent that it spread immediately throughout his body. It was indeed like sexual fulfillment, but more intense, and it kept on and on, never diminishing. He realized that Tilly, too, was experiencing it. Her face was fixed in an expression of rapture.

Then the contact slipped, and the pleasure faded. Now Bane felt depleted. He sat heavily on the bed.

“See?” Tilly asked. “It continues as long as contact is kept, as long as our energy sustains it. Living people can experience it only for a few seconds, but we have no such limit.”

“No such limit,” Bane agreed, staring at his torn finger. This was illicit pleasure, surely—but what potency it had!

“Now tell me more about how you aren’t really a robot,” she said.

He realized that she was unable to believe his story. She was a machine, subject to the limitations of that state. Her imagination simply was insufficient.

Yet the truth was the truth. And he still had to locate his other self, so as to be able to change back. He certainly didn’t want to be trapped forever in this frame, where machines made love by touching torn fingers!

“We’ve recharged some,” she said. “Let’s do some more time.” She extended her little finger.

For a moment Bane was tempted. The pleasure was indeed compelling! But he realized that if he allowed himself to be caught up in that again, he might never want to resume his search for his other self, and that would not be right. He exercised what discipline he could muster. “No. I have another job to do.”

“You mean I wrecked my finger, and I’m going to get in trouble with the repair authority, and you’re not even going to let me get full measure from it?” she demanded.

“It—it’s an illicit pleasure,” he said. “We—we’re supposed to do it in the human fashion.”

Suddenly she was alarmed. “You aren’t going to tell!”

Telling—about the illicit act. That would surely bring trouble to them both, and further complicate his effort. “No. I just—just don’t want to do it anymore.”

“Then get out of here!” she cried angrily. “I never want to see you again!”

He walked to the wall. It fogged, needing no spell from this side, and he stepped into the hall.

So at last he was free of the robot woman. That was a mixed satisfaction; she was very pretty, and she had shown him a lot that he needed to know, about the Game and the premises. And physical pleasure such as he had never before known. But it was best that he stay away from her; he knew that. She was not, in his idiom, a nice girl. Rather, a nice machine. She would get in trouble, if not today, some future day.

But what was he to do now? He still hardly knew his way around these premises, and it was evident that his other self was long gone from this region, and now he had an injured finger that would be difficult to explain.

He needed help. But where was he to find it?

Disconsolately, he walked down the hall. Other naked young folk passed him, and he acknowledged their greetings, but kept his left hand curled into a fist to conceal the finger.

Obviously he wasn’t going to locate his other self by aimless wandering. He had to get smart about his search. He had to figure out where he was in relation to Phaze, knowing that the geographies of the two frames were identical, and where Mach would be likely to wander, and go there. Simple enough, surely; he could step outside and study the landscape. He knew the features of his world, and could normally locate his position by a simple survey of the horizon.

But where was outside? This building seemed endless!

He set about it methodically: finding his way out. If he went in any single direction far enough, he had to come to the edge of the building. Then he would follow that edge until he found an exit. It was like locating water in the wilderness: keep going down, and sooner or later water would appear, for it also sought the lowest regions.

But when he tried, he discovered that the halls did not go in single directions. They curved this way and that, and made right-angle turns, and took magically moving stairs to upper floors, and magically descending chambers to nether regions. It was like one huge labyrinth that threatened to get him hopelessly lost before he really got started. In the wilderness he could have coped readily enough; this foreign environment had him baffled.

He would have to inquire. But the others thought he was Mach, who should know the way out; to ask would only get laughter, or perhaps some interaction like that with Tilly, the opportunist female machine. Better to avoid that.

So he continued to walk the halls, his frustration mounting. The others he passed glanced at him with increasing perplexity, but did not interfere.

Then a young woman approached. She had flowing red hair, very full breasts, and a kind of rippling walk that forced him to avert his eyes lest he suffer an embarrassing reaction. He hoped she would not try to talk with him.

“Oh, Mach!” she cried. ‘They said you were here! Please, if I may conversationally merge—“

He was stuck for it. Bane faced her. The pupils of her eyes were so dark they were like the water of deep wells. “Of course,” he said guardedly.

She took a breath, and her flesh jiggled. Bane set his tongue between his teeth and bit down, trying to distract himself by the controlled pain—but there was no pain, just a kind of electrical tingle of warning. He locked his eyes on her face, trying to tune out the peripheral vision.

“I felt it needful to express my sorrow,” she said, bringing her beautiful face close. Her complexion was so clear it almost shone. “I did not mean to be the agent of your loss of woman.”

Loss of woman? That must refer to the way Mach had gotten dumped by the cyborg. Maybe he could learn something useful. “I really remember not.”

“But it was only this noon!” she protested. “We met in the pool, and Narda exchanged companions, taking Rory while you had to take me. Then Doris caught you together with me, and made a dramatic exclamation, and Ware came to her aid, and you lost her, and it was all because of me!”

There were too many names in a rush, but this did help clarify things. Tilly the robot had told him he had been dumped by Doris the cyborg, who had gone to an android male. Apparently it had been because of a misunderstanding involving this female. An easy misunderstanding to have, considering her appearance! And this one was apologetic. Maybe she could help him.

“I bear thee no malice,” he said carefully, still keeping his eyes clear of dangerous territory. If only she had some clothing on! “I know it was an—an accident. I— I misremember thy name.”

“Agape,” she said quickly. “I chose it because it means instant love, such as I feel for this society, that lets me participate though I am an alien. Perhaps I should have chosen more carefully, but I was so eager—“

“It’s a perfect name,” he said, looking down the hall. “Thou art—alien? From—elsewhere?”

“You know I am alien!” she exclaimed. “You saw me imbibe! And you did not wince! I am so grateful! I arrived only yesterday, and you helped me so much! And then I hurt you so much, without ever knowing! I wish there could be some recompense I could offer, but—“ She spread her arms in a helpless gesture that attracted his gaze before he could stop it. He turned away.

“As it happens, there is,” Bane said, realizing his opportunity. “If thou couldst show me the way outside.”

“Outside? But that is unlivable!”

“I be a machine. Methinks I can survive it.”

She smiled. “That must be so. Mach, I do not know the way, but surely I can find it. We have but to inquire of a maintenance unit.”

“Maintenance unit?”

She glanced at him with the same perplexity the others had. “Why do you act as if you do not know? And why do you avert your gaze from my body? Have I become repulsive to you because of what you saw at noon?”

He had tried to tell the truth to Tilly, and had made no headway. He decided to try again. “Agape, I must tell thee something thou mayst believe not.”

“I will believe!” she exclaimed.

“I be not Mach. I be his other self, a living person using his body. I be called Bane.”

“You are not making humor?” she inquired. “I am not supposed to laugh?”

“No humor. No laugh,” he agreed.

‘Then this is the reason you cannot find your way around these premises,” she said. “You are totally new here!”

“That be it exactly.”

“Just as I was yesterday.”

“So does it seem.”

“But why don’t you look at me?” Time for more honesty. “I be accustomed not to seeing women without clothing. I fear embarrassment.”

“From me?” she asked, amazed. ‘Thou art an extremely, uh, attractive creature.”

“Oh, what delight!” she exclaimed. “I never imagined! But I confess I do not know exactly how your species manifests this type of interaction.”

Bane started walking, wishing that he could get away from this subject. Agape came right along with him. “I be sure I know not how thy species does, either,” he said. “But if thou canst help me get outside—“

“Oh, yes!” she said enthusiastically. “Let me inquire of a menial!” She crossed to a panel set into the wall, and touched a button. “Please, some directions?”

“Aid required?” a voice came.

“We wish to find the outside.”

“Follow the mouse.”

A small panel slid aside at the level of the floor, and a thing very like a mouse emerged. But instead of legs it had little wheels, and instead of a tail it had an upward spike. It zipped down the hall.

They followed. The mouse careened around a corner, then moved to a blank section of wall. Its spike emitted a beeping sound.

‘This must be it,” Agape said. She touched the wall with her hand, and it fogged. They stepped through it, into a chamber containing bulky suits suspended on frames.

A large wheeled object approached them. “Serfs wish egress?” Its voice came from a grille on top.

“Wish to go outside,” Agape said. “Is this permissible?”

“Permissible,” the machine agreed. “The robot can go as is; the android must don protective gear.”

“Oh, he is not really a robot, and I am not an android,” Agape said.

The machine considered. “What definitions are applicable?”

“Call me robot,” Bane said quickly. “I be the only one who needs to go out.”

Agape turned to him, her lovely face seeming to melt a little. “You do not wish my company? I had understood that you found me attractive.”

There seemed to be another misunderstanding here! ‘Thou dost wish to come outside?”

“I wish to help you, as you in your other guise helped me. And if you continue to find me attractive, I wish to do with you what the females of your species do with the males.”

Bane paused. It was evident that the mores of Proton differed somewhat from those of Phaze. But the fact remained that he needed help, and that she was willing to provide it, and he liked her company more than he thought was appropriate, considering that his other self might not feel similarly. If he found Mach, and exchanged places, and Agape tried to be too friendly with the robot. . .

“I be trying to return to my frame,” he said. “When I do that, it will be Mach in this body again. I know not whether he would desire thy company.”

She nodded. “I have no knowledge either. I thank you for your caution, Bane. But while you are here, I would like to be with you, because I understand how you must feel. You are an alien in this world, as I am, even though you look normal for your species.”

Fairly spoken! “Then don some gear and come along!” he said. “I shall be glad to have thy company a while longer.”

The menial machine selected a suit for her, and soon Agape was ready. Then they stepped into a tiny chamber she called a “lock” and the door closed on them. In a moment, Bane knew, another door would open, and he would finally see the outside.

1 - Mach

2 - Fleta

3 - Bane