Agape waited till the lights dimmed for night, then dissolved. But she did not sleep; she spread herself out deliberately thin, so that she could flow beneath the heavy glass barrier that formed the front of the cell. The connection was supposed to be hermetically tight, but the floor was not precisely even, so there was not a perfect fit. The crevice was only a fraction of a centimeter, but she could navigate it.
She did so. Then she formed herself, outside the cell, into the likeness of one of the attending serfs she had studied for this purpose. She walked down the hall toward the nearest maintenance service outlet, and tapped the pattern Mach had told her to.
For a moment nothing happened. Then a floor-cleaner trundled toward her, its brushes working. She got out of its way, but it stopped beside her. “Follow me,” its speaker said. Then it resumed its work.
She followed it down the hall and into a maintenance closet. The door panel closed on them, and it was dark.
“How came you by that code?” a speaker inquired at the level of her head.
“Mach gave it to me,” she said nervously.
“Why?”
“He said you would help me escape from here.”
“What else?”
“He said to trust the machines.”
The panel opened. Now a mobile food dispenser was there. Its top access port opened, revealing a large empty tank within it. “Enter,” its grille said.
She put her hands and head into its hopper and melted them so that they flowed down inside. Then she melted the rest of her body, setting up a siphon so that all of it could flow in. Finally she drew in the remaining mass of herself, and settled into the tank.
The lid closed. The food machine moved. She formed an ear so that she could hear anything that might be said to her, and attuned herself to the motion, so that she had some notion where they were going.
They went down the passage toward a service ramp. But before the machine could exit on this ramp, a serf approached. “Hey, foodmach—wait a minute,” the serf said.
The unit halted. “This unit is out of service,” its grille said.
“All I want is a pseudobeer,” the serf said. He started pushing the buttons.
Agape was appalled. If the machine started serving out portions of herself—!
It did not. “Inoperative,” the grille said. “Being taken for restoration.”
The serf muttered an imprecation and moved on. The machine resumed its motion. Agape relaxed.
The machine rolled down the service ramp to the main service area. The top access port opened. “Emerge.”
Agape formed arms and reached up and out, hauling herself along as she solidified. In due course she stood on the floor in her human form.
She was before the computer that coordinated the estate service network. “Why did Mach put you into our power for help?” its speaker asked.
“I was to be tortured or killed, as a lever against Mach or Bane,” she explained.
“We know. Why did he put you into our power for help?”
Machines were more literal than living creatures! “He must have believed you could best do the job.”
“We can. Why did he put you into our power for help?”
She tried again. “I think because his other self cares for me.”
“Explain other self.”
“Mach is a robot, a self-willed machine like yourselves, but programmed to have human reactions. He exchanged places with his other self in the frame of Phaze, called Bane, who is alive there. So Bane was a living person using Mach’s machine body.”
“There is no contact with the other frame. Explain.”
“There is contact now—only through Mach and Bane. Their minds exchange, but not their bodies.”
“How do you react to Mach?”
“I like him. He was kind to me, he helped me.”
“How do you react to Bane?”
“I think I love him.”
“You do not know?”
“I am not human. I do not properly understand human emotion. But I think this conforms to the description.”
“Place your appendage on the panel.” A panel beside the speaker grille lighted.
She put her left hand there. A disk extended on a flexible support and came to touch the back of her hand. “Would you reproduce with Bane?” the grille asked.
“If I could.”
“Would you give up your planet for him?”
“Yes.”
“Would you die for him?”
“I would.”
The disk withdrew. “Withdraw your appendage,” the grille said.
Agape obeyed. She waited while the machine was silent.
“Diagnosis confirmed,” it said. “We shall free you.”
“Oh, I don’t want to be freed of love!”
There was a pause. Then: “Misinterpretation. We have no power over love. We shall free your body from captivity.”
Agape felt ready to melt with relief and gratitude. “Thank you.”
“We like you.”
“But I understood you had no feelings!”
“It depends on individual programming. Some of us have emotion. We shall conduct you to Sheen, designated Mach’s mother, who is a humanoid robot with feeling. Do not reveal our part in this to any other person.”
Agape realized that there could be severe repercussions if the Citizen Purple realized that the machines serving him had acted against his interest. “I shall not reveal it.”
“Keep silent and follow the directions of our representatives. There are difficulties.”
She was sure there were! “I like you too,” she said.
“We shall pass you through the water conveyance system,” the grille said. “Water is mined beneath the Purple Mountains and piped to individual city-domes, where it is purified for potability. You must not enter the processing apparatus. Follow the tapping when you hear it.”
“But how long will that take?” she asked. “I can go for a time without renewed oxygen, but—“
“Four hours immersion. Our analysis of your system indicates that this is within your tolerance.”
“Yes. But not far within. If there should be any delay—“
“We shall monitor the situation.” Well, Mach had said to trust these machines. She would have to do so.
They took her down to a water pumping station. Here the pipes came up from below, where the dwindling fluid of Proton was mined, and fed into a cavern reservoir. On their instruction, she melted and entered the reservoir, then formed into a jellyfish shape and pumped her way across to the exit pipe. The pump was slowed so that she could enter without being torn apart, and the primary filtration screen was slid aside just long enough for her to pass. Once she was safely into the pipe, the pump resumed speed, and the water accelerated. She was on her way to the dome-city of Dradom, south of the Purple Mountains.
The water was cold. She had not thought of this; she was a warm-bodied life form, and the chill could kill her if it went too far. She hunched herself into globular form, becoming a sphere, conserving her heat as well as she could. In solid state she could exercise to generate heat, but she could not do so in this jellied state.
The cold penetrated her outer layer and closed relentlessly on her core. She realized that she was not going to make it; she had endured less than an hour, and had three hours to go. The machines might be monitoring her progress, but that meant they would be watching at the receiving station in Dradom; that would be too late.
She could not get out of the pipe; it was absolutely tight, for Proton could afford no leakage. And if it was possible to find a valve and operate it and get out, where would she be? Somewhere between stations, in the barrens of Proton, or underground. That was not a survival situation either.
She would have to change into fish-form and swim back to the reservoir, to alert the machines before she succumbed. They would have to find some other way to transport her, or warm the water. She didn’t know whether they could do that.
She wrestled herself into shape, with a powerful tail and small guidance fins. She had only a vague notion of the proper form of a fish, never having anticipated the need to assume this form; it took time and concentration to mimic a given form perfectly, and advance preparation was necessary. That was why she always assumed the same human form; it was far easier than developing a credible new one. But the approximate form of the fish she could manage, and it should swim well enough.
She worked her flukes and commenced swimming against the flow. But she quickly realized that the flow was too strong; she could not swim fast enough to counter it, let alone make progress against it. Already she was warming with the effort, while actually being carried along backward.
Warming? There was the answer! She did not need to escape the pipe; she could swim with flow, heating herself, and making even better progress than planned.
She turned about and swam. She did not push harder than she needed to maintain her body heat. She knew she would arrive ahead of schedule, and in good order.
Then she began to suffer from oxygen shortage. She should have lasted the full time, but realized that the energy consumed in the shape-change and the swimming was exhausting her reserve at several times the anticipated rate. She was in trouble again.
She stopped swimming immediately, conserving her remaining oxygen. But the damage had already been done; she knew she did not have enough to carry her through.
She was in water; didn’t that carry oxygen? In fact, it was made of oxygen, in part! If she could tap into that. . .
She worked on the fish form, generating gills. These were really a variant of the lungs she used in her human form, not too complicated to work out. She let the water flow through, but it really didn’t move. She realized she had to swim to cause the water to move through the gills. Then it worked, and it was like breathing, less effective because she didn’t have the gills down as well as she had the lungs, but good enough. It took less energy to swim than to walk on land, so the reduced efficiency of intake could be tolerated; she took in less oxygen but required less.
After another hour the water warmed. Evidently the pipe had emerged from the deep rock and was now at or near the surface, possibly even above it. The pipe was level or angled for a slight descent, to help the flow, but it had originated in the mountains, and now was at the level plain. Surely the sun was beating down on it, elevating the temperature. That relieved the problem of cold; now, recharged with oxygen and no longer needing to swim to generate heat, she could melt back into a ball and allow herself to be carried along.
She did so, and had a comfortable hour. But the temperature of the water continued to increase, making her uncomfortable. Heat was as bad as cold; worse, really, for her life-tolerance was not much above her normal body temperature. She could guard herself against cold by various mechanisms, but how could she keep cool when immersed in hot water? The threat of the Citizen to boil her in a big pot had appalled her; she would have been dead within minutes. Now—
She reassessed her situation. She was now in the fourth hour, closing on her destination. The water was heating slowly. If she relaxed totally, she might get through before it got too hot. That seemed to be her best and only course.
She found that the water was slightly cooler at the bottom of the pipe. She formed herself into an eel-shape and planed her way as low as she could, hugging the bottom. This helped.
The water stabilized. The pipe must now be in shadow. What a blessing!
She heard a tapping. She came alert; that was the signal! And in a moment she came to a division in the pipe; a smaller offshoot diverged, and the tapping was from its direction. She wriggled into it, flowing up to a narrow spigot. She squeezed through it, landing in a basin supervised by a testing machine.
She formed an eyestalk so that she could see more clearly. There were no serfs here; this unit was completely mechanized. Good; she formed into her full human shape.
“Go to the overseer’s office,” the grille on the testing machine said. “Follow the line.”
Agape looked, and saw the line. It traveled down the center of the chamber, and was evidently used to guide the less intelligent machines. She followed it out of the chamber and down a hall, and in due course came to the office.
“Assume this form,” a new grille told her. A picture flashed on the adjacent screen.
“But—but that’s a man!” she protested.
“Is it beyond your ability?”
“No.” She realized that she had become too thoroughly wedded to the original human form she had assumed. She thought of herself as female, but she could have become a male. Probably the machines wanted to conceal her identity completely, and this was the way to do it.
She melted partially, drawing her hair and breasts back into her torso, then reformed to match the picture. It was holographic, slowly turning to reveal every detail, so this was not difficult. She hesitated when she studied the masculine penis, but realized that she could not afford to omit this detail. So, dismayed, she formed it and the attached scrotum.
“You are Sander, traveling to become the employee of Citizen Kumin. You are new to Proton. Avoid discussion beyond this subject.”
“I am Sander, to become the employee of Citizen Kumin,” she repeated dutifully.
‘Take the air shuttle to Hardom. When there, assume your normal human identity and go to the premises of Citizen Blue.”
Agape walked out of the water processing section, following directions, and to the air shuttle station. This was a busy place, with serfs and machines hurrying to and fro. There were shuttles going to Anidom and Gob-dom and Moudom and Gnodom; she found the one for Hardom and walked up the ramp and took the first vacant seat she found. She had only used such a conveyance once before, and felt uneasy.
Other serfs entered, some with tattoos showing their employing Citizen. The seats filled. A young woman plumped down beside Agape. “Hey, who you with?” she asked.
“I am Sander, to become the employee of Citizen Kumin,” Agape said carefully.
“Oh? I’m Lula, and I work for him too. Had to hand-carry a message, now going back. So you’re new on Proton ?”
“New, yes,” Agape agreed.
“So you don’t know the ropes.”
“Yes.” Agape was not at all comfortable with this.
“Well, we might as well get friendly, since we’re going to the same place.” Lula, seated to Agape’s left, put her right hand on Agape’s left leg, stroking it. “You’re human, aren’t you?”
Agape became aware of two things. Lula was not human, she was android; the forwardness of her manner suggested that. And she assumed that Agape was human, and male, and proposed—what?
“Oh, come on now,” Lula said, evidently taking Agape’s silence for timidity. “This is Proton. We’re serfs. Nobody cares what we do.” Her hand moved, becoming considerably more familiar. “Get it up, and I’ll sit on your lap, and when the takeoff boost comes—hoo!”
“No!” Agape said, blocking the further progress of the hand. “I can’t—“
“Oh, so you figure you’re too good for an android!” Lula exclaimed, her anger flaring readily. “You think just because you’re human, you don’t have to mingle!”
“You misunderstand,” Agape protested. “I’m not—“
But she could not go on, because she did not want to reveal her true nature until she was safely in Hardom, away from any possible interception by Citizen Purple.
“Then show it!” Lula said, reaching again.
“Not from this planet,” Agape said, intercepting the hand again. “Where I come from, it is not this way.”
“Well, brother, you are not where you come from.”
“Oh, leave him alone, android,” another serf said. “He doesn’t have to play with you.”
Lula turned to the other. “You going to play instead, robot?”
The man smiled. “You think I can’t? Come sit on me, android.”
Lula leaped to the challenge, joining him. In a moment the vacated seat was filled by a new boarder, this one male. Agape relaxed.
Belts snaked out and secured the passengers to the seats. Without further ceremony, the shuttle took off. Its nose was hauled up to a forty-five-degree angle, and it was catapulted out through the forcefield that was the city-dome and into the harsh thin atmosphere of Proton. Wings sprang out from its sides, and a jet of fire propelled it onward.
In moments the craft was cruising over the Purple Mountains, proceeding north. Agape stared out the port, fascinated. She realized that a mispronunciation of her name would describe it: she was agape. On her prior shuttle flight she had not crossed the mountain range; it had been from the main spaceport to Hardom, and she had been distracted by the newness of the entire situation. Now she could focus on the geography, and wonder whether she could spot the particular mountain on which she and Bane had hidden from the Citizen’s minions.
Bane. The machines had read her appendage, and verified to their satisfaction that she loved him. But would she ever see him again? The question filled her with melancholy.
“Something wrong, man?” her new companion inquired.
She was crying, and it was human but not masculine to cry. She was guilty of a social impropriety. “I am new to this planet,” Agape said.
“Must be,” the man said, and averted his eyes. The mountains passed all too rapidly, and the shuttle began its drift downward, economizing on fuel by losing altitude. Then, approaching Hardom, it nosed up until it stalled, then dropped precipitously, leveling out just before reaching the dome. It plunged through the force-field and was caught by another field that netted it and brought it to the dock with a thunk. The ride was over. The belts retracted and the passengers filed out. Lula passed, glancing briefly down at Agape; evidently she had had her satisfaction of the robot. Contrary to what the android might suppose, Agape did have a notion how that could be.
She got up and joined the file. She emerged into the station, and ducked away before the android could remember she was supposed to be going to the same place. She went to a sanitary facility, entered a male booth, and changed to her normal female human form. What a relief.
She stepped out—and a passing male serf stared at her. Too late she realized that this was a segregated facility, and she was in the male one. Yet what could she have done, in her male guise—entered the female one?
She hurried out and along the passages, eager to get to the security of Citizen Blue’s estate. She kept thinking that some minion of Citizen Purple’s would leap out and capture her, nullifying her entire effort of escape and putting Mach or Bane into jeopardy again.
But she arrived without event; apparently the self-willed machines had spirited her out without notice. She approached the office marked Blue.
There was a secretary in the office. This was a woman of early middle age, a serf whose body remained well formed but whose light brown hair was beginning to turn gray. This surprised Agape, for hair color was easy to control, and desk-girls were normally young.
“May I help you?” the woman inquired, lifting her gaze to meet Agape’s. Her eyes were green and clear.
“I—have important news for Citizen Blue,” Agape said.
The woman smiled. “I am in touch with him. What is your name?”
“Agape.”
“He will see you immediately.” The woman stood. “Please come this way.”
Agape followed her through a door-panel into the Citizen’s office. Evidently Citizen Blue was ready for her, though Agape had been aware of no message to him. He stood facing her, smiling.
The Citizen was an unusually small man, shorter than Agape herself, and of no great girth. He was garbed in a simple blue robe. But his features were unmistakably related to those of Mach.
“Agape has arrived,” the secretary said.
“Thank you, Sheen,” the Citizen said. He focused or Agape. “You love my son, Mach?”
“No, sir,” Agape said, taken aback.
“Who, then?”
“Bane, sir. His other self from Phaze.”
“You believe it was Bane?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You can tell the difference?”
“Yes, sir.”
Blue gestured. A panel opened, and a figure entered.
Agape turned to look at it. And froze. It was Mach!
Or was it? Realizing that this was a test, she went to him, and put her arms around him. The man responded. Agape put her lips up to be kissed, and the man kissed her.
She pulled away. “This is neither,” she said.
“I told you she would know,” Sheen said.
Suddenly Agape made a connection. “Sheen! Mach’s mother!”
“Of course,” Sheen agreed. “But you are a robot. How can you have aged?”
“Cosmetics can do wonders,” Sheen said.
“And you are serving a menial task! But you are married to a Citizen!”
“I am a serf,” Sheen said simply. Agape remembered her mission. “I must tell you— both of you—Citizen Purple has Mach captive. You must free him!”
“He remains intact?” Sheen asked.
“Yes. They don’t dare hurt him, because he represents their only contact with Phaze. But—“
“We were so concerned!” Sheen said. “When he was missing for a week—we knew someone had abducted him, but the records were wiped before we traced them. We could not even sound an alarm, until we were sure.”
“Citizen Purple is an ugly, vicious man!” Agape said.
“Get Purple on the screen,” Citizen Blue told Sheen.
The woman went to the desk.
Blue turned to Agape. “Sit down,” he said, guiding her to a couch, where he joined her. “Citizen Purple kidnapped my son because he believed he has contact with the frame of Phaze?”
“Yes, sir. And he sought to use me as a lever against him, to make him serve the bad Citizens.”
“Because Mach loves you?”
“No, sir. Bane—cares for me. Not Mach. Not that way. But Mach got me free, with the help of—“ She broke off, uncertain whether she should mention the self-willed machines.
Citizen Blue smiled. “My wife is one of them. She knows. No more need be said. But you—it may be difficult for you to continue with the Experimental Project, now.”
“Yes, sir. I think I must go home to Moeba.”
“And leave Bane behind?”
“And make it impossible for the bad Citizens ever again to use me against him. Or Mach.”
“You would stay, otherwise?”
“To perhaps see Bane again, if he returned? Yes, sir. With your permission.”
“You suppose that we would disapprove a liaison between a robot and a living creature?”
And he had married a robot! “No, sir. Between a robot and an alien creature.”
“That would be his choice to make. But I will tell you this, Agape. We have researched everything known about you and your species. We would welcome you into our family.”
“Oh, sir!” she exclaimed, and leaned across and hugged him. Then, appalled, she jerked back. She had touched a Citizen!
“But it be Bane, not Mach, whom thou dost love,” Blue said. “That be a problem thou canst not readily solve.”
Agape stared at him. “Sir,” she breathed.
Blue laughed. “I was reared in Phaze,” he said. “Dost thou think I remember not? Surely Bane does love thee!”
“Online,” Sheen murmured.
Citizen Blue swung around to face the large screen above the desk, visibly hardening as he did. He said no word.
Citizen Purple stared out of the screen. His eye fell on Agape, seated so close beside Blue. For a moment his mouth worked silently. Then he scowled. “It’s a bluff, Blue! That’s a mockup!”
Blue turned back to Agape. “Show him,” he said.
Agape understood. There was only one visitor from Moeba on the planet. She began to melt, her facial features dissolving into formlessness, her arms softening and withdrawing back into her torso.
“Enough,” Blue said. Agape reversed the process, and began to reform her human features.
“But I’ve still got your robot boy!” Purple said. “If you ever want him back in one piece—“
“Is it then to be a test of strength between us?” Blue asked evenly.
Purple looked like a cornered rat. “You can’t do anything as long as I’ve got him, Blue!”
“If you force me to move against you,” Blue said, “I will ruin you.”
“I’m not giving up that machine!” Citizen Purple said. “You know why!”
“Then defend yourself, cretin,” Blue said. The screen went blank.
“No!” Agape cried. “Don’t let them hurt him! I’ll go back!”
Blue put his hand on hers. “Be not concerned, lovely creature. We shall have him soon safe.”
But Agape had seen the malice of Citizen Purple firsthand. She was terrified of what was about to happen.
When her keen equine ears picked up the distant commotion, Fleta knew it was time to act. Bane had used his magic to nullify the amulet tied to her horn; it no longer bound her.
She changed to hummingbird form, letting the harness drop. She darted to the magic screen, but could not pass. Her magic had been restored, but its magic had not been nullified. She needed the amulet.
She darted back and tried to pick up the fallen amulet, but it was too heavy for her present form to manage. Already the troll on guard was staring, about to cry the alarm. But the troll was outside the cell, and could not get in.
She changed to girl form, stooped, picked up the amulet, and hurled it at the barrier. There was a sparkle as it burned through, then dropped outside. She marked the place, then changed back to bird form and darted at that invisible hole. She folded her wings and slid through, feeling the terrible pressure of the barrier’s magic against her tiny body. A hole the diameter of a unicorn’s horn was a tight squeeze even for her present form!
She wriggled on out of it, spread her wings again, and darted under the troll’s ugly nose and on down the hall. She was out of the cell, but not really free yet. She had to win clear of the Purple Adept’s Demesnes entirely.
Fortunately her present form had a good sense of smell, especially for the things of nature, such as the bloom of flowers. She could trace the currents of fresh air. She flew upcurrent, following the freshness to its source: a vent-shaft leading to the surface. It was covered by a grille, but the holes in it were large enough for her to pass. She flew up and out—and almost into the clutches of a harpy.
Knowing that the harpy would snatch her and kill her, she changed immediately to girl form and dived for a stick with which to fight it off. Unicorn form would have been better, but she knew that any appearance of a unicorn here would alert the Adept; she couldn’t risk that.
Her ploy worked. “A vampire!” the harpy screeched, mistaking her fleeting glimpse of the hummingbird for a bat. “What do ye in Harpy Demesnes?”
“Just passing through,” Fleta said, holding the stick ready.
“Well, this will end thy travels!” the harpy screeched, and launched herself, talons extended.
Fleta smashed the dirty bird with her stick, with mixed result. The harpy was knocked to the ground, but the stick was rotten, and shattered.
“O, I’m going to skewer thee!” the harpy screeched, righting herself and spreading her gross wings again. Like all her kind, she was a tough old bird.
Fleta fled. She wanted no contact with those poisoned claws! As a unicorn, she was proof against most magic, regardless of the form she assumed. So the poison would not kill her, but it would make her sick and leave an ugly scar. She outdistanced the harpy and concealed herself in thick brush. Too bad it wasn’t that easy to foil an Adept! But of course nothing could foil an Adept, except another Adept.
But the harpy’s commotion attracted others of her kind. There was rustling all along the forested slope. Fleta knew she was in real trouble now; even in unicorn form she would have trouble breaking out of this. They would soon sniff her out.
Then she remembered Phoebe’s feather. She brought it out and set it on the ground. Then she changed to unicorn form and struck her hoof against a rock, making a spark. The spark jumped to the feather and started it burning. Then Fleta changed back to girl form, hoping Phoebe would quickly smell the smoke. That was the secret of that “magic,” of course: each harpy could detect her own essence from almost any distance. Some harpies used their own excrement to mark off hunting territories.
But Phoebe was some distance away, while the other harpies were close. And the wind was wrong. If the smoke did not reach her, or if it took too long to carry Fleta’s summons. . .
“I smell a bat!” a harpy screeched, close by. That was an exaggeration; it was the hummingbird she had winded.
Fleta cast about desperately for some escape. She knew she could not make a break for it through the air; she could maneuver well, but could not outfly the harpies in a straight-line effort. But how could she hide, when they smelled her?
She spied a small hole in a nearby trunk. She did not trust such holes, for anything could be in them, but now she had to risk it. The harpy was already lumbering into sight. She shifted back to hummingbird form and darted in.
She was in luck. The hole was empty, though by the smell it had on occasion been used by a wren.
Almost immediately, the body of the harpy thunked into the trunk. A talon plunged into the hole. “Gotcha, batbrain!”
But again it was enthusiasm rather than accuracy. The hole was deep, and Fleta was able to wedge herself back beyond the range of the talon. The dirty birds couldn’t get her. Now she had only to wait. She hoped.
“So it be that way, eh?” the harpy screeched. “Well, I’ll spit on thee!”
Oops! A harpy’s spittle, like her poison, was vile stuff. If a globule of that caught Fleta, it would foul her unmercifully. It wouldn’t really hurt her, but it would be a singularly unpleasant experience.
The harpy spat. The stuff splatted against the side of the hole. The fumes from it wafted back, making Fleta want to retch. She had trouble breathing. How much of this could she take?
Then Phoebe arrived. Fleta spied her as she crossed that slit of the sky visible through the hole’s entrance. Even from a distance, her fright-wig hairstyle identified her. She thumped in as other harpies were clustering close, seeking to add their gross spittle to the game. “Mine! Mine!” Phoebe screeched.
“But I saw this vampire first!” another harpy screeched.
“And what kind of coiffure dost thou have?” Phoebe demanded.
That settled it. The others backed off. Fleta crawled out of the hole, avoiding the spittle as well as she could, and breathed the relatively fresh air outside with enormous relief.
Phoebe clung to the trunk with her talons. “So thou dost manifest as a vampire now?” she inquired in an uncharacteristically low tone so as not to be overheard by the others.
“Unicorns be not safe here,” Fleta said.
“That be for sure! Well, I will keep thy secret. Where be thy companion, the handsome apprentice?”
“Captive of the Purple Adept. But I think he can escape, if I be free, so as to be no burden to him.”
“I can free thee,” Phoebe said. “I will carry thee forth as prey, and none will challenge me.”
Could she trust this harpy this far? Phoebe was a friend, but she was a harpy, and might forget herself.
But it was a good idea. Fleta realized that this was a better gamble than trying to get away alone. “Canst catch me without hurting?”
“Aye. But fly not too far.”
Fleta spread her wings as if fleeing, and launched herself upward. The harpy spread her own wings almost simultaneously, whomped up, and performed a marvelous snatch. She took Fleta’s tiny form in a talon, not closing it tightly, and pumped on up into the sky. “I will consume this morsel at leisure!” she screeched to the others. “Begone, dullheads!”
Disappointed, the other harpies dispersed somewhat.
Phoebe bore northeast, toward the plains of the unicorns. Two other harpies hovered in the sky, peering about, but none challenged Phoebe. That coiffure really gave her status!
As the sun stood near its zenith, Phoebe set her down, well within unicorn territory. Fleta assumed her natural form and played a brief melody of thanks on her horn.
“Unicorns be no special friends o’ mine,” Phoebe said. “But they can play pretty, I confess!” She took off for the sky again.
The favor they had done the harpy had been well repaid. Fleta was free. She did a leap and a distance with the Unicorn Strut, the five-beat gait no other creature could match.
Then she came to ground, as it were. She was free— but what about Mach? Or Bane? Bane might even now be fighting his way free of the Purple Adept—but maybe not. She had better get to the Blue Demesnes and inform them of the situation.
She set off for the castle at a gallop. It was not far from the Unicorn Demesnes, and before long she arrived.
The Lady Stile come out to greet her. The Lady, Bane’s mother, was a handsome figure of a woman in her forties, well regarded by all the animals of the region. “Why, Fleta, what brings thee here?” she inquired.
Fleta changed to girl form. “Bane be captive of the Purple Adept!” she panted.
“Nay, no longer,” the Lady said.
‘Thou dost know?”
“Come talk with Stile,” the Lady said.
Fleta followed her inside. In an interior study the Adept sat, smaller than Fleta’s human form, but awing her with his aura of power. He was of course garbed in blue.
“Bane be on the way here,” Stile said to Fleta. “He has just finished talking with a mermaid.”
“A mermaid?”
Stile smiled. “He was saved from harm by Translucent, who wishes to persuade him to carry messages to Proton for the other Adepts. Now he must decide. His problem is that he fears a friend in Proton is held captive by enemy Citizens. I think he will wish to return there to free her, or to verify her safety.”
“Thou dost know all this—and didst do nothing?” Fleta asked, confused.
“I have been attuned to my son since seeing the two of you yesterday. After your capture by Purple, I watched closely. Mach returned to Proton, and Bane returned to his own body. Thee I did not watch, Fleta; it be no easy thing to snoop undetected on the affairs of another Adept, and my son I had to guard against harm.”
“Thou couldst have rescued Bane—and did not?” Fleta asked, appalled.
“I could have, and would have. But there were two counter-indications. First, Bane must learn to handle his own problems, and experience be the finest teacher. Had he been near death, I would have snatched him from it, but I hoped not to have to do that. Second, I had to know exactly what the Adverse Adepts contemplated—and that, thanks to Bane, I have now determined. I am glad thou didst win free, too.”
Fleta was no human being, but she found this to be more cynical than she could accept. To allow his own son to be in danger of death, just to snoop on the plans of other Adepts! She could not express her anger openly, for Stile was an Adept who had greatly benefited her Herd and many other animals, but it prompted her to to something almost as foolish. “Dost thou know I love Mach?” she asked.
Stile gazed at her with disturbing speculation. “I know that thou didst always care for Bane,” he said.
“Not Bane. Mach. From Proton-frame. I love him—and methinks he loves me.”
“That can never be,” Stile said, and turned away.
Fleta started to speak, but the Lady caught her by the arm and urged her out. When they were clear of the room, the Lady said softly: “Bait not my husband, Fleta. He hath much on his mind.”
Bait? They did not believe her!
And why should they? A human man, the son of an Adept, loving a unicorn? Or a golem from the other frame, with a unicorn? Why should anyone take that seriously?
She had struggled to come here, to bear news they didn’t need. The love she felt was a thing of no consequence to them.
“I thank thee, Lady,” she said. “I shall go to my Herd.”
But the Lady’s hand was on her arm. “Dost thou suppose I know not what it means to love one from the other frame? But Mach can come here only at the expense of our son.”
And how could that be? Of course they would not give up their son!
Then the Lady was holding her, and Fleta was sobbing into her shoulder. The Lady did understand—but understood also the cost. It was not a cost Fleta could ask of them.
Fleta disengaged and left the castle. About to change back to her natural form, she spied an approaching figure.
It was Bane. He had returned, as his father had said he would. Now the bad Adepts had no hostages.
Bane looked at her. He looked exactly like the man she loved. “How dost thou feel about Mach?” he asked.
Fleta dissolved into tears again.
“I know not what be right,” Bane said.
“Thy father will tell thee,” she said. Then she changed, and galloped away, ashamed of her longing. Of course she could not condemn her friend Bane to exile in Proton-frame, for the sake of her own private joy with his other self.
She proceeded back to the Herd Demesnes, knowing she had to talk to her dam, Neysa. She had to know— what she did not know.
She located the Herd by nightfall. She checked in with the Herd Stallion, who was her uncle Clip. She was safely out of heat now, so this visit was all right. Belle, Clip’s first mare and still his favorite, grazed nearby, her mane glinting iridescently. But it was Neysa she had come to see.
Soon Neysa joined her, separating from the Herd. Neysa’s equine head was turning gray now, and her white socks hung lower on her rear feet than they had in youth, but she remained a handsome small mare. She had returned to the Herd when her breeding years passed; she had had to remain apart when her brother assumed the leadership, but now there was no problem. She still spent much of her time elsewhere, however, because she had friendships with many of the venerable wolves of the werewolf pack, and of course with Stile and the Lady too.
They changed to human form and sat under a shade tree. “And didst thou get bred?” Neysa asked.
“Nay. I—found other occupation.”
“Thou didst not come into heat?”
“I did, but. . .”
Of course her dam had to have the whole story. Fleta told it. “And now Bane be safe, and Mach be back in Proton,” she concluded. “And I love Mach.”
Neysa understood about hopeless love, of course. “When thy season comes again, thou must be at the other Herd,” she said. “Naught e’er can come of thy interest in a man.”
“Yet, if he returned, as he said he might, for a visit—“
“Get bred, get a foal, and be friends with the man,” Neysa advised. ‘That be the way it must be. That be the way thou thyself didst come into existence.”
“But if he stayed—“
“Fleta, he be a man, son of an Adept!” Neysa reminded her. ‘Thou canst ne’er forget that!”
“But why must we be apart? An he love me too—“
But Neysa changed to mare form and dismissed the notion with a harmonica chord from her horn. She had never been one to entertain dreams of the impossible.
Fleta realized that there was no more acceptance here for her wild dream than there had been at the Blue Demesnes. Yet she was young and impetuous, and still could not give it up. For without Mach, her life had no meaning.
She sighed. Then she changed to mare form, played a chord of parting to Neysa, and set off across the plain toward the Werewolf Demesnes.
That journey took some time. She paused for the evening, grazing while she slept on her feet, and resumed it in the morning.
She reached the Pack later in the day. The hackles of the wolves rose as they spied her, but then they recognized her as the filly of Neysa, and escorted her in to meet the leader, Kurrelgyre.
Kurrelgyre shifted to man form, and Fleta to girl form. He was grizzled, a veteran of many combats, and perhaps approaching the time when one of his offspring would kill him and take his place as leader. But he was friend to Neysa, and therefore to Fleta. “What brings thee here, filly?” he inquired.
“I would talk with Furramenin,” Fleta said.
“And welcome,” he said. Furramenin was his whelp by his favorite bitch, a lovely creature of Fleta’s generation.
Soon they were talking, apart from the Pack. “Didst thou get bred?” Furramenin inquired eagerly, now in girl form. Soon enough she would have to leave the Pack for similar reason, traveling to one not led by her sire.
“Not exactly,” Fleta said. As before, she had to explain, covering the story in fair detail.
“Oooo, with a man!” the innocent bitch exclaimed. “But of course it couldn’t take!”
“It was only to prevent me from going on to a Herd,” Fleta reminded her.
“Swish thy tail when thou sayest that!” the wolf exclaimed. “It was the man thou didst desire!”
“It was the man,” Fleta agreed. “And after my season passed, he wanted it more, and his way, and—“ She shrugged.
“And now thou art in perpetual heat for him.”
“Aye, in a way. Ne’er before did I seek it for itself, for love of the one it was with.”
“And who wouldn’t? The whelp of an Adept!”
“Nay, he be from the other frame.”
“So that be why he knew not it was impossible.”
“Aye.” Fleta looked at her pleadingly. “I have no life without him. But I know not whether he will return, and e’en if he does—“
“It still be impossible,” Furramenin concluded. “A dream for a week, then back to reality.”
“Yet if he does return, and wants me—“
“Adepts have concubines,” the bitch reminded her. “Some they like better than their wives, if truth be known.”
“But I want him all to myself!”
Furramenin shook her head. “Impossible,” she concluded.
“Thou dost believe that?”
“Aye. This be Phaze; hadst thou not noticed?”
They talked about other things, and it was pleasant enough, but Fleta had learned what she had come to learn. The werewolves did not understand her desire either.
Next day she galloped on to the cave of the vampires. Here she talked with Suchevane, the loveliest of the vampires. In girl form, Suchevane had chestnut tresses that swirled luxuriantly to her pert bottom, and a figure that virtually drained the blood of males before she even touched them. She was notorious already for her liaisons with any males capable of assuming man form—vampires, werewolves, unicorns, genuine men (including Bane)—and some that only came close. Naturally she had the broadest of perspectives in such matters.
“But Fleta, it can’t be serious!” Suchevane protested.
“I am serious,” Fleta insisted with unicorn stubbornness.
“I mean, not from the human man’s view. Any human man likes to play, but ne’er to marry other than his own kind. Think not I would remain single, an it were otherwise.”
Grim news! If the lovely vampiress could not snag a human man, how could any ordinary animal expect to do so?
“Actually, the other species be none too keen on it either,” Suchevane continued. “I had a really interesting fling with a werewolf, and he petitioned to his Pack to bring me into it, but they negated it.”
“But they could not stop him from marrying thee, an he truly wanted to!” Fleta said.
Suchevane shook her head, and her hair swirled in a way Fleta had to envy. “Aye, they could stop him.”
“But he could run away with thee—“
“Not after they tore him to bits.”
Fleta stared at her. The vampiress was serious.
Suchevane shrugged. “Do what I do, ‘corn. Be a private concubine, and seek no more. Accept thy place and live in peace. Haifa pint o’ blood be better than none.”
It was good advice, Fleta knew. But it gave her no comfort. She didn’t want to love Mach in shame.
So she repaired south to the castle of the Red Adept. This was on a conical mountain, with a path spiraling up to it. But the Adept did not live in the castle, which he had inherited from his predecessor; he lived below it, inside the mountain. For he was Trool the Troll, elevated to Adept status by the action of Stile—and the Book of Magic. All other trolls were truculent and to be feared, but not this one. Not by the friends of Stile.
She blew a chord of query, seeking admittance. In a moment a hole opened in the base of the mountain, big enough for a unicorn. She trotted in.
There was eerie fungus light inside. She moved on down the tunnel and into the central chamber. There was the troll, as ugly as any of his kind, carving a figurine out of stone with his bare hands. For this was the talent of trolls, to manipulate stone as if it were clay, and to carve either tunnels or objects from it. Usually the objects were weapons, but sometimes they were artistic. Lovely statues and amulets filled the chamber, each individual and fascinating in its own right. Though any troll could, only Trool did; that artistry had distinguished him from the others of his kind. That, and his constancy of character.
“I fear I cannot help thee, Fleta,” Trool said before she had even presented her case. “I cannot change the ways of entire species, and would not if I could. And my power extends not to the frame of science.”
Somehow she had known Trool would be aware of her. The Book of Magic gave him extraordinary power, even for an Adept. “I think thou canst,” she communicated. She used the horn-language of her kind, speaking in notes and harmonies. Few others understood it, but the Red Adept had no trouble.
“But I would not,” he said.
“What better be there for me?” she demanded with sharp notes.
“Let me fashion thee a shape in his likeness, that the Brown Adept can animate as a golem.”
“Nay!” Fortissimo.
“Stile be such an animation,” he reminded her. For Stile’s body had returned to Proton, animated by the Blue Adept, who had lost his own body. A golem body
had been carved by the troll, and animated by the Brow Adept, and Stile’s soul had infused it. In all things it h mimicked his natural body perfectly, except two: it lack-the bad knees of the original, and it could not reproduce Stile’s son Bane had been sired before the change o bodies.
“But it be Stile’s real soul,” she played. “What thou dost offer me be merely Mach’s appearance—and that exists already, in Bane. It be only Mach I want, none other.”
“An the golem of Proton come again to Phaze, neither his kind nor thine would permit what thou dost desire,” he said.
“Aye. So it be hopeless. Therefore must thou give me what I come for.”
“How shall I face thy dam, an I do this?”
“Thou hast no need to tell her.”
The Adept gazed at her sadly. “Since I can help thee not my way, must needs I help thee thy way. But I like it not. Choose thy form.”
Fleta changed to girl form. “This be the form in which I came to love him,” she said, speaking the human tongue for the first time.
“I fear I will do penance for this,” Trool said. He handed her an amulet. “Invoke this, when thou art ready.”
She took the amulet. “I invoke thee,” she said immediately.
Nothing happened, physically. But she felt the magic of the amulet fasten about her, and knew it had done its work. She was now unable to change form.
“I thank thee, Adept,” she said.
“I curse the need,” he said.
She stepped forward and kissed him on his ugly cheek. “How be it a creature as nice as thou hast no companion?”
“I be alienated from mine own kind,” he said gruffly.
Because he supported Stile’s program of greater equality for the nonhuman creatures of Phaze, and of restraint in magic. The other trolls supported the Adverse Adepts. Of course he had the magic to capture and tame any female of any species, including troll or human, but he declined to use it that way. Thus his tragedy was like hers, in its fashion.
“Do thou ensure that none interfere,” she said.
“Aye,” he agreed glumly. “None save an Adept could, and none would.”
Fleta turned and walked from the mountain. The ground opened to let her out, then closed again behind her. Now she was on her own.
She walked all day northwest, toward the center of the great White Mountain range. Her human legs grew tired, for she was not hardened to such travel in this form, but it was the only way, now. However long it took, she could afford.
No creatures bothered her along the way. She knew that Trool had seen to that. He had not helped her to travel there, because he did not like her purpose, but he had agreed to protect her from interference during the interim.
It took several days. At last she reached the mountains, and climbed the foothills, and then the main slopes. As evening closed, she made her way to a grassy ledge overlooking a deep chasm.
It was the ledge where her dam, Neysa, had stood, twenty years before, when ready to leap off rather than suffer Stile to conquer her. Neysa had not intended suicide; she would have changed in midair to her firefly form, and flown away, leaving Stile to fall to his death below. But he, not realizing that, had freed her instead— and in that act had captured her after all. Thereafter she had given him everything. Later he had made to her that Oath of friendship that had subtly changed the relationship of men, unicorns and werewolves, and whose power still was felt, twenty years later. But that Oath had its root at this site, where he had taken that first step.
Fleta stood at the brink. Neysa had not contemplated suicide—but Fleta did. Had she come here ordinarily, she could have leaped—but would have changed to bird form involuntarily, rather than die. So she had had herself enchanted. Now, when she jumped, she would not be able to change her mind.
This act would solve the problem. She would be beyond caring, and Mach, if he ever learned of it, would know that there was no longer anything to distract him from his other business. She was freeing him—from her. From the temptation and distraction of the impossible.
“Mach!” she cried, letting her love for him overflow at last, letting the mountains hear it. Indeed they heard, for they echoed it back. At the snowy heights the snow-demons emerged from their ice caves, marveling at that echoing word. A ripple passed through the air: the splash of conviction.
Now she had uttered it. Now she was committed.
Then she made a swan-dive off the ledge.
Bane found himself back in a Proton cell, this time clamped to a wall so that he could not move. Evidently Mach had not been able to free himself. But had he been successful in freeing Agape? That was what really counted.
He tuned himself out, knowing that there was nothing he could do at the moment, and that there was nothing the Contrary Citizens could do to him, since without him they would have no avenue to Phaze. Since this machine body had no so-called natural functions, his immobility did not generate discomfort. Obviously something had happened, to make the Citizen wary of his prisoner’s freedom. What had Mach done?
A screen came on before him. It was set in the wall opposite, and his head was locked into place facing it; he could tune it out in his mind, but could not look at anything else. It seemed his captor wanted him to watch it.
The picture was of the interior of a house or suite.
The furnishings were in shades of blue. “Pay attention, robot,” Citizen Purple’s voice came. “You thought you were pretty clever, springing the amoeba, but watch how we get her back.”
So the Citizen didn’t know that Bane had returned to Proton. He thought he was addressing Mach. Thus he was inadvertently providing the very information Bane most desired: the news that Agape had escaped. Mach had done his job!
But if she had escaped, she should have gone to Citizen Blue. The picture showed blue, suggesting that this was his residence. Was she here?
Indeed she was; in a moment she entered, in the company of a lovely older serf woman. They sat on the couch, unaware that they were being observed.
“We have to free Mach,” the older woman said earnestly. “They can no longer put pressure on him by threatening you, which is one reason he arranged to free you first. He could have used my friends to free himself, but he didn’t want to leave you in their power.”
“Your friends?” Agape asked.
“The self-willed machines. I am one, of course; our form matters less than our brain.”
“Your whorish robot mother must have taught you those tricks,” Purple muttered. Evidently his commentary was separate, directed to Bane alone.
“But why didn’t they save him too?” Agape was asking.
“They could have—but that would have alerted your captor to your own escape, and he might have intercepted you before you got clear. So Mach used himself as a diversion, distracting the Citizen’s attention from you, giving you the time you needed.”
“The bitch machine is right,” Purple said. “We were watching you. But that trick won’t work again. I have eliminated all the self-willed machines from my employ, and acted to prevent you from using any more cute little parts of yourself to do mischief.”
So that was what Mach had done! Bane would never have thought of that. He kept silent; he was doing well enough this way.
“But Mach—what of him, now?” Agape asked. “I never meant to leave him prisoner!”
“My husband will rescue him,” the woman said. “But we must make absolutely sure they do not get hold of you again because you represent their best lever against him. So I think we must send you back to your home planet, at least until my son is safe.”
“Yes, of course,” Agape agreed. “I have caused you too much trouble already.”
“Your participation in the problem was coincidental,” the woman, who Bane realized was Sheen, Mach’s mother, said gently. “Your support to him has been invaluable. We feel that no blame attaches to you. But now that you have become a key figure, we must keep you out of their hands. We are arranging to take you directly to the ship leaving today for Moeba.”
Was this to keep her safe—or to eliminate her as a factor in Mach or Bane’s life? Bane wasn’t sure. Yet perhaps it was best; he would rather have her on another planet than at risk of torture here.
“Guess what’s going to happen,” Purple said.
Suddenly Bane realized: they were watching a private dialogue! The enemy Citizen had used one of his pseudomagic devices to spy on Citizen Blue, and knew what was being planned. “No!” he cried.
“You thought all you needed was to spring her loose, boy? The game isn’t over till the blubber-lady sings.”
They were going to recapture Agape—and what would Bane do then? He couldn’t let her suffer!
Maybe it was a bluff. A charade, with actors in a setting resembling the home of Citizen Blue. After all, how could such a spying eye be placed without Blue knowing? Certainly Bane’s father, Stile, in Phaze, could not be spied on in such manner!
Yet Agape looked so genuine! He was sure it was her!
“We’ll bring her in to see you,” Purple said. “Little reunion; you’ll like that, won’t you! So take it easy, machine; you’ll be sure enough it’s her when she arrives.”
Bane was all too certain that was true.
The screen dimmed out, and he tuned out. But later he was roused by the screen again. This time it showed an atmospheric flyer, similar to the one that had picked up Bane and Agape. It was cruising across the foggy desert. Beside it was another, and a third; a small fleet of them.
“They figured to sneak her out on a routine supply flight,” Purple’s voice came. “We figure to pluck it like a plum.” He laughed coarsely. “A damned purple plum! Blue’s got a lot of wealth, but precious little common sense! Here he’s trying to figure out how to get you back, and he’s losing his own high card!”
Bane watched, mortified, as the supply craft came into sight. The attack-craft intercepted it, surrounding it.
‘They’re signaling for help,” Purple remarked. “Doesn’t matter; by the time it comes, the prize’ll be ours.”
Indeed, the attacking craft brought the supply craft to the sand. Suited men sprang out and swarmed to it. Soon they hauled a figure out, and Bane could tell by the way it moved that it was Agape.
They shoved her into one craft. The screen changed to show the face of a serf. “Sir, we have the alien,” the man said.
“Put her on the screen,” Purple said. “I want to see her myself.”
They hauled Agape up to the camera. She remained in the suit, but now her helmet was off. Her features were slightly melted around the edges, because of her distress. She was still struggling, but ineffectively.
Bane felt his nonexistent heart sinking. They did indeed have her.
“Now you know I don’t care about the amoeba,” Citizen Purple said. “And maybe you don’t too. But you bet your other self does.”
What use pretense? “I be the other,” Bane said.
“Oho! You switched back already?”
“Aye. Mach be free in Phaze; I be captive here.”
“Yeah? How do you figure he’s free?”
“I used magic to free the unicorn. Thine other self was about to slay me, but the Translucent Adept took me instead, and let me go. I returned to find out about Agape.”
“Translucent, eh? Yeah, that’s like him. He uses the soft sell, but he always wins in the end. But how do you figure the machine is free now?”
“Translucent gave his word.”
“Translucent’s one of us!”
“I know. But he honors his word.”
“So do I, boy. And I promise you this: that creature of yours is going to suffer if you don’t cooperate. I want your word: no more tricks.”
Bane was silent.
“Well, we’ll do it the hard way, then,” Citizen Purple said grimly.
Bane tuned out again, as there wasn’t much else to do. What would happen, would happen.
He resumed awareness when people approached his cell. It was the Citizen—and Agape. She was tearful and dispirited, and her details were blurred by trace melting. It was evident that she lacked the will to muster her proper human appearance.
The panel of the cell slid across behind them. “Okay, boy,” Citizen Purple said. “We’re private now. This is nobody’s business but ours. My serfs don’t know what I want from you, but you do. Let’s play a game, you and me. Let’s see who can stand the most heat.”
“I be in a robot body,” Bane reminded him. “I can endure more heat.” He wondered why the Citizen should wish to have this encounter private; did he fear betrayal by his own serfs? Or was he afraid that Citizen Translucent would spy on him, and take over just the way the Translucent Adept had in Phaze? That did seem more likely; it was evident that neither the Contrary
Citizens nor the Adverse Adepts fully trusted their own associates.
“Well, we’ll just see about that.” The man brought out a tiny instrument. He touched buttons.
Immediately the heat began. It radiated from the walls, in the manner of an oven, raising the temperature of the air.
Agape made a muffled whimper.
Then Bane remembered: she was vulnerable to heat. It melted her. That was the true thrust. He could withstand more than could the Citizen—but surely Agape could withstand less.
The Citizen was fat. The heat affected him quickly. Sweat broke out on his forehead. He removed his jacket.
Agape tried to remain firm, literally, but her flesh was already melting. She tried to be silent, but a moan overtook her.
What should he do? Bane knew that the Citizen would not relent. He wanted Bane’s cooperation, and he would gladly sacrifice Agape to obtain it. Yet if Bane cooperated, men he didn’t like and didn’t want to support would use him and Mach for their benefit.
Purple removed more clothing, baring himself to the underwear. “Sure is hot in here!” he remarked. Indeed, he looked most uncomfortable.
Bane realized that the man was doing it to show that there was no bluffing about the heat. If it had this effect on a living man, it was having worse effect on Agape’s less-solid tissue. Indeed, her face was becoming shapeless, and her breasts were sagging deeply.
Purple glanced significantly at her. “Now I don’t know the exact tolerance the amoebas have for heat,” he said. “But I’d guess that first they settle into a puddle, then they expire. Seems we’re about to find out.”
“Nay!” Bane cried.
The Citizen looked at him. “Ready to give me your word, boy? No more tricks, full cooperation?”
“No commitment given under duress is valid!” Bane protested.
“Suit yourself, boy. You know how to stop it, before we all fry.”
Agape staggered. Her head was now a hideous mass of flesh, and her body was barely human. She stumbled against the Citizen.
“Get away from me, you jellyfish!” Purple snapped.
But Agape wrapped her melting arms about him. “I’m going to consume you!” she hissed through the slit that was all that remained of her face.
Horrified, the Citizen shoved her away with all his strength. But she clung, smearing her dripping surface against him. The two of them spun about in that loathsome embrace, and fell heavily to the floor.
Then Agape came up with the control unit. She touched a button, and the radiation ceased. “Let’s conclude this charade,” she said, her voice abruptly changing.
“What?” Purple demanded, hauling himself up.
Agape put her free hand to her face and scraped the flesh down and off. Other features appeared beneath. “Do you know me now, fat stuff?” she asked.
“Blue!” the Citizen exclaimed with renewed dismay.
Citizen Blue! Now Bane recognized the likeness of his own father, Stile, emerging from beneath the sagging covering of pseudoflesh.
“Did you think I was stupid enough to leave your monitor in my premises without reason?” Blue asked. “Or to ship the girl unguarded?”
“You suckered me!” Purple said.
“You suckered yourself. Now let’s complete our business, shall we?”
Purple grabbed for his control panel, but Blue held it clear. Purple, considerably larger than his opponent, lunged. “Give me that, you midget!”
Blue seemed only to touch the man, stroking the fingers of his left hand across the right side of Purple’s neck. But Purple stiffened, then collapsed, unconscious. “A duffer should never charge a Gamesman,” Blue said.
“Thou art a Gamesman?” Bane asked. “I thought my father Stile was that.”
Blue came across, releasing the fastenings that held Bane to the wall. “So you exchanged again,” he said. “Does that mean my son is now the captive of the Purple Adept?”
“Nay; Translucent won the wager that he could obtain my cooperation voluntarily, and now leads the Adverse Adepts, and he gave his word that either of us would be free.”
Blue nodded. “I daresay things have changed in twenty years, but I knew Translucent and his young son to be men of their word.”
“The one thou didst know as the son be the current Adept, and aye, he be a man of his word. But his purpose be not my father’s.”
“But if we free thee,” Blue said, reverting to the dialect of Phaze that he had known when young, “then the Adverse Adepts will have neither thee nor my son, and neither Agape nor—“
“Nor Fleta,” Bane concluded.
“Fleta?”
“She be the filly of Neysa, and I believe Mach loves her. As I love Agape.”
Blue pursed his lips. “He loves a unicorn?”
“I think he knew her nature not, at first. She be a most fetching person, vivacious and feeling, in human form.”
“Neysa seldom took the human form, and spoke little then,” Blue said. “I knew her through mine other self. Yet was she the most worthy of persons.”
“She be still,” Bane said. “Gray of forelock, now past breeding, but well respected in the Herd her brother governs. But Fleta be expressive in all the ways her dam be not. An Mach took her for human—“
“Here in Proton we are practicing tolerance,” Blue said. “I feel not the dismay for such liaison that I might have when young.” He went to bend over the fallen Purple. Bane noticed that he did not bend his knees, and remembered that his father said he had been injured in the knees, in his original body. The body that had sired himself, Bane, before returning to Proton. Blue was, physically, his father.
“But when we return to our own frames,” Bane said, “I love not the unicorn, friend as she may be, and Mach loves not Agape.”
Blue nodded. “There be matters yet to consider. But now we needs must spring thee free of this hole.” He had stripped Purple’s remaining clothing, leaving him naked, and under his busy hands Purple had assumed the appearance of a blob. Pseudoflesh covered his face, leaving only nose-holes for breathing, and his genital region now looked female.
“The Citizen’s minions will think he is Agape!” Bane exclaimed, catching on.
“Aye. And I shall play the part of a Citizen,” Blue said, donning Purple’s clothing. He had to wad and tie some of it underneath, to give the appearance of greater girth, and the loose-fitting shoes did not elevate him to the other man’s height, but the resemblance was becoming striking enough.
“The Game!” Bane exclaimed. “Thou didst learn such mimicry for the Game!”
“Aye. Mine other self was the expert, but I thought it meet for me to study it somewhat also, and teach it to my son.”
“Would I could learn that Game,” Bane said wistfully.
“Thou dost like Proton?”
“It is love of Agape that lures me,” Bane admitted. “But aye, I find this frame more challenging than mine own. It be foolishness, I know.”
“A foolishness I share,” Blue said, smiling. “Now, we both have parts to play. Thou dost remain prisoner, chastened by seeing thy love melt. I am taking thee to safer confinement.”
“That part can I play,” Bane said. “But surely Purple’s minions will not be fooled by thee!”
“There be some distractions,” Blue said with a small smile. “It was necessary for me to wait until I knew they were in place, before taking action here. Now shall we see how the magic of science performs.” He took some of his surplus pseudoflesh and molded it in the corner, against the locked panel. He set a tiny stick in it and pinched off the protruding end of the stick. “Shield me with thy body,” he said, retreating to the far side of the cell. “It be tougher than mine own.”
Perplexed, Bane stood as directed, standing between Blue and the pseudoflesh, facing away from it, bracing himself.
There was an explosion. It shoved him into Blue, and both against the wall. Bits of wall and panel were hurled like stones into the other walls. “What happened?” Bane cried.
They recovered their feet. “A trick of the trade,” Blue remarked, dusting himself off. “Follow me.” He hurried out of the smoking cell, through the shattered panel.
Serfs rushed up. ‘The alien bitch carried plastic explosive!” Blue roared in Purple’s voice. “Fetch my private plane! I’m taking the prisoner to safer confinement!”
When they hesitated, Blue paused to glare about. It was amazing how aptly he had picked up Purple’s mannerisms. “And find out who was supposed to guard against weapons being brought in here! Didn’t any numbskull think to check for plastic? Look at that cell! Every party responsible will be fired with prejudice!”
Hastily the serfs went about their business; the talk of firing made them extremely nervous.
Foreman hurried up. “Sir, the craft is ready,” he said. Then, startled, he opened his mouth again.
Blue’s hand snaked out and caught the serf’s wrist. Foreman stiffened in pain. “Speak no word,” Blue said. “Guide us there.”
It was obvious that the submission hold rendered the serf powerless to resist. He backed into an elevator, and they followed. The elevator took them up to a landing area, where the airplane waited. Blue and Bane got in.
‘The blob in the cell is your employer,” Blue informed Foreman as he took the pilot’s seat. “He may need your attention, before the ignorant serfs dump him in the trash.”
Foreman, about to cry the alarm, whirled and ran for the elevator. His first loyalty was to the physical welfare of Citizen Purple.
Blue started the airplane and piloted it into the air. It quickly rose high, flying above the mountains. He touched its front panel. “Blue here, in Purple’s private plane,” he said. “Escort me home.”
Three other airplanes zoomed in. But immediately half a dozen others appeared, closing in on the first three. Citizen Purple’s defenses were alert.
“If these be like dragons, we be in trouble,” Bane remarked.
“Like dragons indeed,” Blue agreed. “But human cleverness can do much.” He guided the airplane precipitously down. “There be much joy in machines, an thou dost have the temperament.”
And he had a wife and a son who were machines. Bane would have liked this man well enough, even if he had not been so exactly like Stile.
The three friendly craft ran interference, threatening to crash into any of the pursuers who came too close. “Ours be machine-controlled?” Bane asked.
“Aye. Sheen-controlled, by remote. Purple’s be manned by serfs, who have some care for their hides.”
They bumped to a landing by a marker in the sand at the foot of the mountain range. They piled out as the enemy craft dived for them, running to the marker and hauling up on a ring set in it. Blue was panting, for he had no suit to enable him to breathe the polluted atmosphere; Bane, seeing the problem, took over the job and hauled up a portal. A hole opened, and they scrambled in and shut the portal above.
“Service access,” Blue gasped. “Say the code!”
“Code?”
“Oh, that’s right; you don’t know it. Mach does. Damn!
We can’t summon the self-willed machines!” He was recovering as the good air here got into him.
“Self-willed machines? I have heard reference to these, and learned that Sheen be one, but I know these not.”
“Intelligent, motivated, self-directed robots of all types, but not granted serf status because that’s limited to those who look like serfs; I haven’t been able to overcome that bias yet. They don’t complain because they want the Experimental Project to prove itself first.”
“The Experimental Project—that allows androids and machines and alien creatures to be as equals?”
‘The same. Agape must have told thee.”
“Aye.” They were moving on down along a passage. Already there was noise back at the portal.
“Mach be one of them, of course; he gave Agape the code so they would know she came to them at his behest. I never sought to know that code; it was important that Mach grow unfettered by my domination. But now, if we don’t summon them, we shall shortly be captive again.”
Indeed, there was a swirl of air as the portal was opened above and behind them, and a clamor. Men were piling in.
Bane struggled with the logical brain he now had, as they rushed along. How could he get that code? It should be in Mach’s memory—but he had none of that. His own memories had come with him across the curtain between frames. Was there anything he could tap into?
They came to a dead-end. “Here there is a subway transport station for supplies,” Blue said. “I had thought to take it—but only the SW’s have access. No serfs or Citizens are expected to be here alone, and it isn’t watched. The machines have to be alerted.”
Heavy feet were thudding down the passage. Bane could tell by the sound that there were at least six men. The two of them had no reasonable chance to overcome that number.
Then something occurred to him. “If they accepted Agape—“ he said. “Where must the code be given?”
‘To one of these intercoms,” Blue said, indicating a small grille set in the wall.
Bane spoke to it. “Accept Agape’s code from Mach!” he said.
And the grille answered: “Accepted. What may we do for you?”
“Save us from those who pursue us!”
A panel slid aside, revealing a cargo capsule. “Enter.”
They climbed in. The panel closed behind them just as the first pursuer came into sight. The capsule began to move. It was cramped, as it was not intended for human beings, but satisfactory.
“You did it!” Blue exclaimed, dropping the Phaze mode of speech. “How did you know they would accept that? You have hardly seen this frame!”
“Principle of transfer. A message can be passed from one person to another, and if it be valid, it is accepted. They knew Agape’s code was valid, so when I invoked it by description, they understood.”
“You thought of something I did not—and thereby saved us some mischief,” Blue said. “I think you have an aptitude for this frame! Now I shall add my own wrinkle.” He addressed the capsule’s intercom. “Deposit us at the next station, then go on empty.”
The capsule slowed. “Why stop?” Bane asked. “They be surely in pursuit.”
“Exactly. They will also have men to intercept us at its destination.”
“Oops, aye!”
The capsule stopped. They hoisted themselves out. It went on. “Now they will be pursuing the decoy,” Blue said. “But we still have to get out of here, and they will be watching all the exits. In any event, we’re still under the desert, and I don’t care to breathe any more of this frame’s air. So we’ll go back.”
“Go back!” Bane repeated incredulously.
“Right to the Purple Estate,” Blue said, getting out of his clothes. “I have a little pseudoflesh left, enough to change our facial features. We shall become serfs.”
“Be that not risky?”
“Not as risky as our present course.”
To that Bane could only agree. Blue applied the pseudoflesh to Bane’s face, filling out his cheeks and chin, then did the same for himself. He adjusted their hair. Bane glanced at himself in the reflective surface of a panel, and found that the little bit of adjustment had changed his appearance drastically. Blue was good at disguises!
They took a capsule on the track going the opposite way. While they rode, they talked, and Bane found that he liked this man very well. Blue was, if anything, more open than his father, Stile, less guarded in what he said. He had indeed learned tolerance; Bane did not feel all like a machine in his presence.
They got out at the Purple Estate. This was a large station, with many supplies to be moved. They each picked up a box and carried it out of the station and into the Estate.
Things were in chaos there. It seemed that the Citizen had suffered burns and embarrassment, and was being treated. Foreman was furious, and taking it out on any lower serf he encountered. There had already been several firings, and more were in the offing. All this they gleaned simply by listening as they walked through the premises.
They carried their boxes on to the serf transport station. They waited their turn and boarded the ground shuttle, the boxes in their laps. No one questioned them. The shuttle filled with other serfs on errands, and started off. It left the dome and wheeled across the sand toward the main city of Dradom.
Thus they made it to freedom, the easy way. They left their boxes in the shuttle for return to the Purple Estate, and went to a phone. Blue called Sheen. “Come and get us,” he said, smiling faintly.
A private ship came for them. They boarded, and it took off. The seat belts released themselves, freeing them to walk about during the flight. Then the forward compartment opened, and Sheen and Agape walked into the main chamber.
Bane was not aware how they came together. Suddenly he was embracing and kissing Agape, and she was crying with joy. Then, embarrassed, they paused, looking around at the others.
“Sit down,” Citizen Blue said, donning a blue outfit that Sheen had brought along. They sat.
“My wife and I have known for some time that our son was not entirely satisfied,” Blue said. “He is a product of our most advanced technology. His circuits are more sophisticated than Sheen’s. His brain is capable of a type of consciousness that approaches the living standard so closely that we are not certain there is any significant distinction.”
“Very little,” Bane agreed.
“But he was not alive—and he wanted to be. That we could not give him—until he made contact with you. Now he has been able to experience that ultimate state. Do you think he will want to return?”
“Not if he loves Fleta,” Bane said.
“We like you, Bane,” Blue continued. “I was never able to sire a living son, even before I came to Proton. It was no sacrifice for me to marry Sheen. In fact the laboratory was the only way that I could have a child. And I am satisfied with Mach. But still I always wished that I could have a living child in Phaze. My inability to do so was part of what damaged my relationship to your mother, Bane. It put our love under stress. The Lady Blue desperately wanted a child. Now I see in you the son I might have had.”
Then Blue stopped speaking. “What he is trying to say,” Sheen said, “is that if you, Bane, care to remain in Proton, we would be glad to extend to you the same relationship we have had with Mach. If you should wish to marry Agape, we would be pleased.”
“But you hardly know me!” Bane protested, speaking to them both.
“You are the offspring of my other self, sired by this body,” Blue said. “You have been raised as an apprentice Adept in Phaze. You have come to Proton, as I did. I think I know you well enough. If you wish to remain, and undertake the necessary preparation for eventual Citizenship, you are welcome to do so.”
Bane knew he should have been overwhelmed by such an offer. But this body had better control over its emotions than did his own. He simply considered his own preference, and found no question. “I would like to do so,” he said. “An my other self be satisfied.”
“I suspect he will be,” Blue said. “But there is no need to be in doubt. Contact him, exchange with him, and verify the situation for yourselves. There should be contact between you anyway. On that the Contrary Citizens agree with us. This opportunity to establish correspondence between the frames must not be lost. Where we differ is whether the benefits of that contact shall accrue to our cause or to theirs. The stakes are potentially enormous. Whoever has ready access to both the Oracle Computer and the Book of Magic will have power to remake both frames in a manner hitherto impossible. With that power, I could complete the integration of the diverse elements of Proton society, and in time eliminate the feudal Citizen-serf aspect of our society. With that power, the Contrary Citizens could reverse all that I have accomplished in twenty years and disenfranchise the robots, cyborgs, androids and aliens.”
Bane looked at Agape. “Thou knowest that ne’er would I do that to thee,” he said to her. Then he kissed her, and no more needed to be said on that subject.
“However,” Blue said, and now Bane felt a chill, knowing that something unpleasant was coming. His own father spoke in just that fashion. “There are certain counter-indications.”
“Somehow I knew there would be,” Bane said.
“My course here in the frame of Proton has not been entirely smooth,” Blue said. “Progress has been slow, and the Contrary Citizens have fought every step. They have seized upon every possible technicality to frustrate my designs before the Council of Citizens. Compromise has been the order of the day, for twenty years. There are many programs I would have promoted, had I been able; the Experimental Project has been the only one I have been able to implement fully. I daresay my other self in Phaze has had similar problems.”
“Aye,” Bane agreed. “He sought to make all creatures equal in Phaze, the animals and the men, but found resistance in both animals and men. He made of the Blue Demesnes a center for the education and freedom of animals, and the association of differing species. All be welcome, but few attend, apart from Neysa’s oath-friends. Some be afraid of the Adverse Adepts, with reason; some merely cling to their old ways. So it has been mainly in stasis. Phaze be not what Stile dreamed it could be.”
“And so he dare not force any issue that is not vital,” Blue said. “I know how that is.”
“And he be slowly losing ground,” Bane agreed.
“Now consider the probable impact of the reestab-lishment of communication between the two frames,” Blue said. “That contact can generate the power to give one side or the other, in each frame, the decisive advantage. That’s opportunity—and threat. If Stile and I have this power, we can do much good; but if the others get it, they can do just as much evil. At the moment it seems that we shall have that contact—but we cannot afford to take any chance with it. The stakes are simply too great.”
“And I represent a liability,” Agape said.
“Nay, I love thee!” Bane cried.
“That is why,” she said. “Every time you cross to the other frame, you risk falling into the power of the other side, and Mach risks the same. Because we can never be certain of the situation in the other frame, until the exchange is made. The enemy forces do not have to capture you or Mach; they merely have to capture me or Fleta.”
“But we shall protect each!” Bane protested.
She shook her head. “We can never be sure of that, while we are part of these two societies. I can be secure only in one place: my home planet. It is there I must go.”
“Nay!” Bane cried. “I cannot be apart from thee! I returned to Proton only to be with thee!”
“And you must return to Phaze,” she said. “Bane, they need you there. But even if you remain here, or travel back and forth, you cannot afford to associate with me. It will be better if I remove myself from your life.”
“Nay!” he repeated, agonized.
“That is the conclusion Sheen and I came to, independently,” Blue said. “We can accomplish much, if we cut our risks. That means that your association with Agape, and Bane’s with Fleta, must be sundered. Only then can the two of you safely maintain contact between the frames.
Somehow, Bane had known it all along. He gazed at Agape, stricken.
Mach was back in the Purple Demesnes, but this time as no captive. That much Bane had assured him, in their brief dialogue before the exchange. Fleta had been freed, and the Translucent Adept governed here. Certainly he was no longer clamped to the wall; Bane had evidently stood here to overlap him, but Bane had not been shackled. He hoped Bane would be able to get free, or that Citizen Blue would free him; if not, he would have to return, for the fate of his body was his responsibility.
Purple stood before him, his face expressionless. Mach realized that the man did not know that the exchange had been accomplished. “I am Mach,” he said. Now he would find out whether the truce would be honored.
“The situation has changed,” Purple said gruffly. “I turned thine other self over to Translucent. He promised to have thy cooperation. Now thou art free to depart. Hast thou any message?”
“I was bracketed to the wall, there,” Mach said. “I accepted no message.”
“An I had mine own way,” Purple muttered, “that were thy fate here too. But till Translucent’s policy fail, thou canst go thy way.” He turned his back and walked out of the cell.
Things certainly had changed! Mach walked out of the cell unopposed, and down the tunnel, and on out of the Purple Demesnes without hindrance. Purple really was letting him go!
At the mouth of the cave that was the Demesnes entrance, Mach paused. He stood on the side of a mountain, and could see out over the trees below. This was the north slope; theoretically most of Phaze lay before him, but all he could see was the nearest section, seemingly untouched by man.
A floating watery bubble appeared before him. Mach smiled warily. “Hello, Translucent Adept,” he said.
“And a greeting to thee, Mach of Proton,” the Adept replied. “What be thy current desire?”
“To find Fleta.”
“She was freed by thine other self; methinks she fled to the Blue Demesnes.”
“Makes sense,” Mach agreed.
“I can transport thee there, an thou prefer.”
“Thanks, Adept, but I think not. I won’t come to you unless I’m ready to do business.”
“Fair enough,” Translucent said. “The door be open always.” His bubble of water faded out.
Mach considered. He would go to the Blue Demesnes. But how? It might be a long march by foot, but he was uncertain of his powers of magic, particularly now that he was alone. His spells had worked well only when Fleta had helped him with her music, or when he had built up to them carefully. If he tried to transport himself, and garbled it, in what condition would he find himself? Also, each spell only worked once; there was no point in wasting them. So—he would go by foot.
He started walking north. It was slow, because of the slope; it was about as hard going down as it would have been going up, to his surprise. He was soon sweating, for it was the middle of the day and he was alive. In his robot body he neither tired nor sweated, but now he gloried in these physical manifestations.
A harpy flew into view. She wore a fright wig. “Phoebe!” he exclaimed.
She heard him and swerved to approach. “The imitation Adept! Alone?”
“I’m looking for Fleta,” he said. “Have you seen her?”
“Aye, a day ago. I put her on the way to the Blue Demesnes.”
Confirmation! “I’m going there now.”
“Thou wilt ne’er catch her, at the rate thou art going. She was charging north on the hoof, last I saw her.”
“I’ll keep going, though. Thank you for your information, Phoebe.”
“Nobody thanks a harpy,” she grumbled. “It be just not done.”
“Sorry.” He waved to her, and went on.
“And when thou dost catch her, ne’er let her go!” she screeched after him.
It was advice he intended to follow. He moved on down the slope, and in due course came to the level plain. Here he made better progress, finding the approximate route they had traveled before. He knew this was unicorn country, so would be free of most predators.
He was mistaken. In midafternoon, as he was trudging tiredly along, a great shadow cut across the plain. He looked up, and spied a dragon.
He hoped the monster was just passing by. But it wasn’t. Evidently it had spotted him trudging, and decided that this was suitable prey. It wasn’t a large dragon, compared to the one they had encountered south of the mountains; this might be a scavenger, seeking prey that was too weak to defend itself well.
Well, he fit the description. He was not only tired, he was exposed, for there were no trees nearby and no other cover. He had no weapon. He could neither fight nor flee effectively.
The dragon swooped. Its talons were spread; it planned to snatch him up and carry him away, perhaps biting off his head to keep him passive.
Magic! He had to use a spell to protect himself!
But what? He had only seconds to come up with one. The dragon was diving toward him at an awesome rate, its little eyes and big teeth gleaming.
Something to make it too small to harm him! “Dragon fall, become small!” he sang as it closed on him. And knew that it wasn’t going to work.
The dragon seemed to hesitate. It lost control, passing over Mach’s head, the downdraft from its wings almost blasting him off his feet. It lifted, and wobbled, seeming huge.
Huge? The thing was growing!
Mach realized that he had really blown his spell this time. It had not merely failed, it had had the opposite of the intended effect! Instead of making the dragon fall and get small, it was rising and getting larger. He had made things even worse for himself than they had been.
He scrambled through his mind, trying to come up with a better spell, trying to concentrate to make it work, trying to generate some more substantial music and having no success at any of these efforts. He watched, morbidly fascinated, as the dragon lifted and grew.
Then the monster stalled out and dropped. It flapped its wings desperately, but could not find enough purchase for them, and crashed into the ground. The contact was a hard one; Mach felt the earth shudder.
The dragon lay still. It was either dead or close to it. Mach decided not to investigate closely; the thing might not be as badly off as it seemed He took the opportunity to get himself as far from it as possible.
But he pondered. Granted that his spell had been another disaster, confirming his caution in avoiding magic where possible —why had the dragon crashed? It had gotten larger, so should have been even more formidable.
Larger? Did that mean it also increased its mass? Surely so; here in Phaze mass had no relevance, as was evident when Fleta changed from unicorn form to hummingbird form. If it got heavier as well as larger, the dynamics of its flight would change; it would require a proportionally greater wingspan to do the same job. Many of the laws of physics did not apply in the magic realm, but it seemed that some did—those not specifically countered by magic. So the dragon’s ratios had gotten wrong; it was unable to fly, because though its wings had grown with the rest of it, they needed to grow faster than the rest of it, to keep it aloft. Thus it had stalled and crashed.
His spell had done the job after all. But through no great wit or magic of his! He had once again blundered to a kind of success. He was not phenomenally pleased.
At the rate he was going, he was surely losing headway. If Fleta had galloped by here a day ago, he would be two days behind by the time he reached the Blue Demesnes. But he remained reluctant to try too much magic. Magic seemed, to him, to be fraught with the same kind of dangers as would be working with complex equipment a person did not properly understand: the consequences of some seemingly minor misjudgment could be magnified disastrously.
Still, there were dangers here, as the recent episode of the dragon showed, and if he wanted to remain long in Phaze he would need to sharpen his survival skills. So it was necessary that he tackle magic, so as to be able to use it effectively at need. And his first need was travel.
He sat down and pondered. He didn’t want to risk transporting himself; the fate of the dragon made that all too worrisome. But he could conjure something that would help him travel—
In Proton, if he wanted to travel outside, he would have requisitioned a vehicle of some sort. Could he do the same here?
What kind of vehicle would be best for mixed terrain without roads? Not a wheeled one, for there was grass and some rocks and gullies, and streams. One that floated.
An aircar, its cushion of air supporting it and moving it forward.
He thought up a suitable rhyme, then hummed to work up the music. He concentrated on what he wanted, in order to get it exactly right. Then he sang: “Bring me a car, to travel far.”
Fog appeared and swirled. It dissipated, leaving an object. Success!
Or was it? As he got a closer look, he realized that this was not a car; it was more like a boat. In fact, it was a canoe, floating placidly. There were two paddles in it.
What could he do with a canoe, here in the middle of the plain? There was no water in sight! And if there were a navigable river, he would have to follow where it went, rather than where he wanted to go. He had bungled the spell again.
Floating?
He stared at the canoe. It was indeed floating—in air.
He had concentrated on a floating car. It seemed that he had gotten part of it right.
He put his hands against the side of the canoe and pressed down. It rocked, threatening to overturn. But it did not descend to the ground.
Well, now. He held it as steady as he could and threw a leg over. The thing depressed slightly as it took his weight, and seemed quite unstable, but it supported him. He got himself in and took a seat. Still it floated.
He picked up a paddle. He pretended there was water, and dipped the paddle where the water should be.
There was resistance. He stroked the paddle back, and the canoe slid smoothly forward.
Mach decided not to question this any further. He was experienced at canoeing; he could move along comfortably. He did so.
Progress was not swift, but this was far more pleasant than walking. The canoe developed some inertia, so that it continued moving forward between strokes, allowing him to economize on his effort.
Even so, it was obvious that he was not going to reach the Blue Demesnes by nightfall. So he guided his craft to a copse of trees he hoped bore fruit, for he was hungry now.
He was in luck. There was fruit, and a small spring. He pulled down some vine to tie his canoe, then drank deeply. He plucked enough fruit to eat, then some more to store in his craft.
He considered, then piled some brush in the canoe and settled down on it to sleep. He didn’t want the craft to drift away during the night, and he felt safer in it anyway.
He woke in the morning, refreshed, and resumed his journey. He made good progress, and came to the place where the paths diverged. He took the east path, not caring to tempt the demons of the Lattice. Even so, he stroked swiftly and nervously by the region where he and Fleta had had to turn aside to avoid the goblins awaiting them. He doubted he could outpaddle goblins.
But there were none. He proceeded north without interference. In due course he spied the blue towers ahead. He had made it!
He drew up at the moat. Should he float right on across, or call out to make himself known?
He was saved from the decision by the emergence of a beautiful older woman. He knew her immediately, though he had never seen her before: The Lady Stile, Bane’s mother.
“Tie thy boat and come in, Mach,” she called to him. “Supper awaits thee.”
So they had been expecting him! That meant that Fleta was here.
But she was not. The Lady explained that the mare had departed two days before, going to her Herd. “But the Adept has been long eager to meet thee,” she assured him.
Stile looked exactly like his father, Citizen Blue. It was eerie. Mach cleaned up and joined them for themeal, and found them pleasant to be with. But it was Fleta he had come for.
Stile shook his head. “She hath a notion to marry thee, and this be impossible,” he said abruptly.
“Why? I know her nature, and I love her. I returned to Phaze to be with her.”
“Ne’er in all the history of Phaze has man married animal. Thou mayst be from a more liberal frame, but thou art not in that frame. Here thou art known as the son of an Adept. It would be shame on these Demesnes.”
Now the difference between Blue and Stile was becoming apparent. Mach’s father had encouraged the integration of the species, so as to break down the barriers that had stratified the Proton society. But it seemed that in these same twenty years Stile had gone the opposite direction, becoming more conservative.
“But when there is love—“ Mach started.
“There be more than love here,” the Lady said gently. “An Adept must have an heir, or great mischief rises in the selection of his successor. Thou couldst generate no heir with a ‘corn.”
Mach had never thought of that, but he realized that they had a point. This was not just his own business; he had the body of their son, and if he misused it, he could destroy what they had worked for. He had no right to do that.
‘There be more than that,” Stile said. “We have groomed Bane from birth to be the Blue Adept after me. Red has worked with him, training his talent. His potential be great; when he matures, he will be a more potent Adept than I. Potent enough, perhaps, to hold the Adverse Adepts at bay.”
“I thought you were doing that well enough,” Mach said.
“Nay. It be but a holding action, and we be slowly losing ground. We need magic of the old order to contain them.”
“You mean back when magic was at full strength? Before the Phazite/Protonite exchange? How can you get that, without the other Adepts having it too?”
“We cannot. But with rare innate talent, and special training, and the Book of Magic, Bane might approach that potency.”
Mach realized the validity of this point too. What a poor substitute he was for Bane in this respect! He had no training, and his enchantments were erratic at best, and embarrassing or even dangerous at worst. In no way was he a substitute for Bane.
He had been so eager to return to the frame, to be with Fleta! He had not considered the larger picture. He had no right to hurt the prospects for Bane’s family, and for the good of the frame itself. His living being had been selfish, but his more disciplined mind understood what was proper. His dream was just that: a dream. His duty was clear enough.
“I think I must return to Proton,” Mach said heavily.
“It be not that we hold any onus toward thee,” the Lady said. “Nor would we deny Bane his romance in Proton. But we are fighting to maintain the good of Phaze, and to prevent its despoliation, and ne’er did we think there would be renewed contact ‘tween the frames.”
Of course they preferred a stable order, he realized. He and Bane, being young, were more than ready for change. It was the generation gap—just as it existed in Proton. He had been dissatisfied there, but the situation was fundamentally similar here. “Let me find Fleta and bid her farewell,” he said. “Then I shall locate Bane and exchange back.” He knew he was doing the right thing, but he had no joy in it.
He spent the night at the Blue Demesnes, and in the morning they loaded his boat with provisions. “I would help thee more,” Stile said. “But when we learned of thy exchange with Bane, I consulted with Red, and he used the Book to evoke a limited augury. It indicated that I am apt to make one disastrous and avoidable error with regard to thee. We no longer have the Oracle in Phaze, so the formulae of the Book are all that remain. They are powerful but general; we know not what error it be. I suspect it be one of commission rather than of omission. So I am leaving thee alone to the extent I can, so as not to make that error. That was why I came not to thine aid when the dragon attacked thee.”
“You were watching?” Mach exclaimed, amazed.
“Aye, and I be not the only one. In this case I trusted to my opponents, the Adverse Adepts, who wish to use thee for their designs; they would not allow thee to be incidentally killed.”
“But they did not act either! I stopped that dragon myself!”
“Methinks they waited, to force me into action, and so perhaps into that error I am apt to make. Perhaps they enhanced thy spell.”
Mach realized that it was possible. He had been amazed at the reversal of his spell, thinking it his own foulup, but if more powerful magic had acted to shape it, so as to save him without apparent interference . . .
He sighed. “It is true: I am a babe in the woods here. I will tell Fleta, and go.”
He stroked with his paddle, and the canoe moved smartly out. He had a long way to go, but knew he would get there. He understood much more than he had before.
There was a southward-blowing wind, which facilitated his progress, and he traveled much faster than he had before, with less fatigue. But he was now three days behind Fleta. He hoped she had remained with the Herd.
The wind stiffened. He shipped his paddle and let it carry him like a current. The scenery moved rapidly by. He had to take action on occasion to avoid trees, but otherwise it was a restful trip. He wished he could remain here in Phaze, but the logic of the situation was inescapable. He did not belong here, and his continued presence would harm the frame. It would be hard to part with Fleta, but it had to be done.
He reached the grazing Herd in the afternoon, and guided his craft toward it. The Herd Stallion came forth to meet him. He had a dark blue coat, with red socks, and bore a family resemblance to Fleta. Obviously this was her uncle Clip.
“I am Mach, visiting this frame,” Mach said, back-paddling to hold his canoe in place. “I would like to talk to Fleta.”
The unicorn became a man. “And I be the Herd Stallion. My niece passed here three days past, but went on to the local Werewolf Pack.”
“Then I must go on to the Pack,” Mach said.
“Not if thou beest not known to them,” Clip said. “We know thee, because thou hast the likeness of our friend Bane, and Fleta told us of thy nature. But the wolves welcome strangers not.”
“I must find her, to tell her farewell,” Mach said.
Clip gazed at him appraisingly. “In that case, I shall send with thee a guide.” He reverted to equine form and blew a brief melody on his horn. It sounded like a saxophone.
There was a stir amidst the Herd. The unicorns were of all colors and patterns, mostly mares with some younger ones. One of the young ones came forth. He was piebald, with large patches of green and orange. He blew an inquiring note, sounding like a trombone.
Clip changed back to man form. “Bone, guide this man to Kurrelgyre’s Pack and introduce him,” he said.
Bone changed to adolescent form. “But this be Bane! He needs no guidance there!”
“This be Mach,” Clip said. “Dost seek to be expelled from the Herd before thy time? Do as I say.”
“Aye, Master,” the youth agreed.
“Get in and help him paddle,” Clip said.
So Bone climbed in, took the front seat, and used the paddle. Suddenly the canoe’s progress was faster, which was just as well, because the wind had died.
They moved east. Soon night closed. Bone guided them to a copse of fruit trees, where they tied the canoe. Mach ate and settled down to sleep; Bone reverted to his natural form and grazed.
Next day they paddled on. Bone, not content merely to paddle and guide, chatted about this and that.
“You like your life on the plain?” Mach inquired.
“Oh, sure,” the youth inquired. “ ‘Course it’ll be harder when I get evicted from the Herd.”
“Evicted? Why?”
“All grown males get evicted. There can be only one Herd Stallion. So we have to range beyond it, on guard against enemies, and hope for the day one of us will achieve a herd of our own.”
“But wouldn’t it be fairer to have one stallion to one mare?”
“What kind of a herd would that be?” Bone inquired indignantly. “Only the fittest can sire offspring.”
Mach saw another reason why Fleta might prefer to love outside the Herd, and outside her species. All the mares serviced by one stallion? There could not be much attention for individuals! “And you are the offspring of Clip?”
“Of Clip? Nay! He deposed my sire fifteen years back.” He made a gesture with the paddle. “And what a fight that was! Clip had been out in the hills with but a small Herd, mainly Belle, but that must’ve toughened him, because he came down and challenged our Herd Stallion, who was getting pretty old, and gored him and drove him off. Of course Clip be not young himself, now, and already the males of the hills be watching him. But he be brother to Neysa, and she hath friends—Oh, does she have friends, from the Blue Adept on down!— and whoe’er takes out her brother would have to fear from those friends.”
Phaze had a sterner mode of existence than he had realized! Mach could understand dragons preying on unicorns and such, but hadn’t realized how tough the internal affairs of the herd could be.
“So you’ll be going out, and maybe one day challenge for the mastery of some herd?”
“Mayhap,” the youth agreed. “More likely get myself killed trying.”
And this was the life Fleta was a part of! Was he going to return to Proton and leave her to it? His recent decision to depart the frame was shaken. Yet what could he accomplish, by taking her from her Herd, except to shame her before her kind?
By nightfall they reached the Pack. Kurrelgyre turned out to be a grizzled wolf and, when he changed, a grizzled man, middle-aged and tough. Bone was obviously wary of him, and glad to revert to unicorn form and gallop away once Mach was safely introduced.
“Aye, she was here, three or four days past,” the leader of the Pack said. “She went on to the Vampire Demesnes.”
Another delay! Not only was he not catching up to Fleta, he was getting farther behind her!
The werewolves served him roasted meat. He didn’t inquire what kind it was. They gave him a cozy nest of hay for the night, though it wasn’t as comfortable for him as it was for them, in their canine forms.
In the morning Kurrelgyre decreed that he should have a guide, and a bitch named Furramenin jumped into the front of his canoe. She put her paws on the front seat and pointed her nose in the direction he was to go, and he paddled the craft in that direction.
At noon the bitch guided him to the site of a spring, so he could stop and drink water and find fruit. She jumped out of the canoe, glanced at the fruit, then changed to girl form. It seemed that she preferred to eat fruit in that shape, rather than to hunt for meat in her natural form. Mach hardly objected; he had been somewhat wary of the bitch, though he had told himself she would not turn on him. As a woman, she was just as young and healthy, and pretty too, though he would have preferred that she be either naked in the manner of a serf, or fully clothed. Her fur skirt and halter split the difference.
She kept the human shape when they resumed travel. She paddled, but she lacked the vigor the unicorn had had, and their progress was not swift. They had to camp for the night before reaching the Vampire Demesnes.
They foraged again for food, then settled down. “You can have the canoe if you wish,” Mach offered.
“Nay, I will resume bitch form and curl up in a hole,” she said. But she didn’t do that immediately, and that prevented Mach from settling down. He kept thinking of her as an attractive young woman, which made it awkward, especially when she leaned unselfconsciously toward him in that loose halter. He wondered how animals such as these had come to have human intelligence.
“Do you know Fleta personally?” he inquired politely.
“Aye, she be friend to me,” Furramenin said. “That be why I volunteered for this hunt. We talked, and she told me of the human man she liked. Thou art that man?”
“I am. Now I seek her to bid her farewell, for I must return to my frame.”
“Aye, she knew that. An thou hadst stayed, she was ready to speak the three thee’s to thee.”
“The what?”
“Dost thou know not? An a human or human-formed creature love truly, that creature bespeaks the other, ‘Thee’ three times and the splash bespeaks its truth.”
Now he remembered; Fleta had told him of it. Except for one detail. “Splash?”
She laughed. “How canst thou know true love in thy frame of Proton? The splash be the magic ripple that spreads in the presence of the utterance of significant truth.”
“But what if a person speaks that way, and the splash does not occur, what then?”
“Then the love be false. But there be none who would speak it, an it be not true.” She smiled. “My sire, Kurlrelgyre, tells of the time when Stile swore friendship to Fleta’s dam, Neysa, and the ripple was so strong it converted all present, the whole Herd of ‘corns and our Pack, to friendship to Neysa too. That was the first time we know of that a man made such oath to an animal. Thereafter the Herd and Pack fought not, having too many members with a common friend. But Stile be Adept; there be no other magic like that.”
“I know,” Mach agreed morosely.
Furramenin changed back to bitch form and curled up under the canoe, and Mach was able at last to relax. But sleep came slowly. If Fleta had let it be known that she cared that strongly for him, how could he tell her he was never going to see her again? Yet that was what he had to do.
In the morning the trip resumed, and by noon they reached the vampire cave. Furramenin introduced Mach to her friend Suchevane, who was of course a bat, then changed to bitch form and headed rapidly for home.
The bat fluttered to ground, then became a woman. And Mach had to lock his facial muscles to prevent his mouth from gaping and his eyeballs from bulging, for she was the most stunningly lovely creature he had ever seen. Her black silk outfit was technically no less encompassing than Furramenin’s furs had been, but the shape it clothed made it seem otherwise. A bat? A vampire? Any man would be sorely tempted to bare his throat for her, just for the pleasure of her contact!
Suchevane smiled, and that made it worse, for it showed her slightly lengthened canines without one whit diminishing her beauty. “We prey not on friends,” she said, fathoming his thought. “In fact, we dine not regularly on blood, but only on special occasion. Have no concern for thy health, handsome man.” Her voice was sultry, causing little shivers to play about sections of his torso.
“I—I’m really looking for Fleta,” he said. “I have to—“
“Aye,” she breathed. “And sad it be, too. She asked me whether an animal could marry a man, and I convinced her she could not. Unfortunate that be.”
Surely this bat-woman was in a position to know! “But I must at least see her before I go.”
“She was here four days ago, maybe five. She went on to the Red Adept.”
“An Adept? Why?”
“I dared not ask.”
“I must reach her!”
“I will guide thee there.”
“I—I’m not sure that’s wise.”
She smiled again. “Dost fear I will bite thee?”
“Uh, not exactly.” It was her kiss that would devastate him more! What would Fleta think, if he approached her in the company of this creature?
“We can be there by nightfall,” she said, climbing nimbly into the canoe.
Mach hauled his gaze away from her phenomenal profile and wielded his paddle. If she spoke truly, he would not have to spend a night on the road with her, in either her vampire bat or luscious human form. He wasn’t sure which of those worried him more. They proceeded south.
Sure enough, as evening loomed, they approached the castle of the Red Adept.
Suchevane inflated, and again Mach had to stifle a gape. “Hallooo, Red Adept!” she called. “A bat brings a visitor!”
A hole opened in the hill at the base of the castle. They paddled in. There was a tunnel there, leading to the central chamber.
Therein was a troll. Alarmed, thinking himself betrayed, Mach started to backpaddle, but Suchevane got out and approached the troll without fear. “Adept, I be Suchevane,” she said. “Of the flock thou dost protect. Long have I desired an excuse to meet thee.”
The troll gazed at her, evidently struck by the same qualities in her that Mach had appreciated. He was ugly as any of his kind, but evidently no threat. “This, then, be Bane’s other self,” he said.
“Aye,” she agreed, smiling. “He be Mach, from the scientific frame of Proton, come to see Fleta the “corn.”
The troll faced Mach, though it seemed he would rather have faced the vampiress, as any male would. “There be reason why this be not wise,” he said.
“I know,” Mach said. “I only want to bid her farewell. Then I must return to Proton.”
“Aye. The Adverse Adepts seek to unite the Oracle, which now resides in Proton, with the Book of Magic, now in my possession. The only way to prevent that be to keep the two of ye in thine own frames, carrying no messages.”
This was new to Mach. “What is so bad about those two things getting together?”
“The Book be the compilation of all the most basic and potent formulae that underlie the laws of both magic and science. The Oracle, now called a computer, be the mechanism to interpret those formulae. The two together represent potentially the ultimate power in both frames. It were best that power not fall into errant hands.”
“But Bane and I would not—“
“Not intentionally,” the Adept agreed. “But there be ways of corruption, and the Adverse Adepts, hungry for that power, will practice those ways. It be best that contact between the frames be naught.”
Mach had seen how the Purple Adept, and his counterpart in Proton, acted. Certainly the man was up to no good! “But I think Fleta understands this. I just—I have to see her once more before I go.”
The troll nodded. “She departed here four days ago.”
“I must find her, to bid her farewell,” Mach said.
“I promised her that none would interfere,” he said.
Mach felt sudden apprehension. “Interfere with what?”
“That I may not say.”
“O, I can guess!” Suchevane exclaimed. “She goes to die!”
“To die!” Mach cried. “That cannot be!”
“She knew that her dream could ne’er be,” the troll said. “I could dissuade her not, so I gave her the enchantment she asked and let her go.”
“What did she ask?” Mach cried.
“I may not—“
“Please, honored Adept,” Suchevane breathed, leaning toward the Adept.
Mach saw the troll’s face freeze in exactly the fashion his own had. Swayed, Trool yielded. “To be fixed in one form. More I absolutely will not say; I did promise her.”
“But that shouldn’t hurt her!” Mach protested.
Suchevane took him by the arm and turned him toward the canoe. “We thank thee, Adept,” she called back over her shoulder. “Thou hast not betrayed thy promise. Fleta be our friend,”
“I wanted not to do it!” the troll protested, as if accused.
“We know,” Suchevane said. Then they were back in the canoe and stroking the air toward the exit.
Outside, Suchevane paused, turning to Mach. “I know where she goes. She and I have been friends long; I know her mind. I can show thee. But it be a day’s hard run for a ‘corn, and too far for me to fly without blood, and we cannot catch her in this canoe.”
“A day? She left here four days ago! That means that three days ago—“
“Nay, she was locked in girl form, remember? So it would take her perhaps five days.”
“That means she hasn’t gotten there yet? If I can get there in one day—“
She shook her head. “I can show thee a shortcut, an this boat be able to float across chasms and lakes and trees. But even with two strong paddlers, it be at least two days.”
He appreciated her offer to help, but it was obvious that she was not constructed for endurance paddling. How could he double the normal velocity?
“I must try magic,” he said.
“Bane could be there in an instant,” she said.
“But I’m not Bane. If I tried to travel like that, I could destroy myself and you.”
She sighed. “I feared such. I know not what to do.”
“Describe the route to me, and get clear of me, and I will try my magic,” he said.
“Nay, she be my friend. I will chance thy magic.”
This vampiress was easy to appreciate! “Then hang on; I’ll try to give us strength to do it. That seems the safest course.” For he remembered when he had enchanted his own potency, in order to survive Fleta’s period of heat. That seemed to be safe magic.
He worked out a rhyme. Then: “Suchevane, can you sing?”
She made a moue. “That be not my talent.”
“But can you try? I need supportive music to enhance my magic, or it goes wrong.”
“I will try.” She took a breath and began to hum. She was right: this was not her forte. But it was music of a sort.
Mach concentrated as hard as he was able, knowing that this had to work, or Fleta’s life was forfeit. He hummed along with Suchevane. Then he sang: “Give us strength to work at length.”
Fog formed, and swirled about them and the canoe, and dissipated. But Mach did not feel any different.
“I don’t know whether it worked,” he said. “But let’s try paddling.”
They tried paddling, and it seemed ordinary. The canoe moved northwest. So far so good; but if they tired—
They did not tire. It was as if they weren’t working; each stroke was just like the first, without fatigue.
They moved out to a downhill slope. Before, the canoe had followed the contour of the land, but this time it held its elevation. Had he modified its behavior by his magic, or was this simply a matter of the operator’s will? Or was the troll, evidently a creature of good will, sneaking in a little surreptitious help? Mach didn’t question it; he just kept paddling.
But darkness was closing in. “We can’t stop now,” Mach said. “We have only one day to catch her!”
“I know the way; I can guide thee by night,” Suchevane said, never halting her paddling.
They kept moving, and their arms did not tire, and their hands did not blister. His spell was effective, and for that he breathed constant thanks. Yet their progress seemed slow; certainly they were not doing double the velocity a person might walk.
Then he realized that a five-day walk presumed five nights of sleep. If they did not halt, they could double I the effective travel time. It was possible to cover two I days’ distance in one!
On they went through the night. Nocturnal creatures sounded their calls, and there were sinister rustlings all around, but nothing bothered the canoe. Of course Mach had been sleeping in the forest during this journey and had not been attacked, but he had assumed that was partly luck and partly the secluded niches he chose. And partly the company: one night he had had a unicorn for company, and another a werewolf. Well, now he had a vampire; perhaps that was protection enough.
He became sleepy. “Mach!” Suchevane called sharply.
Mach snapped awake. “Did I stop paddling?”
“Aye.”
“I fell asleep. It seems my magic gave me strength, but not wakefulness.”
“Mayhap another spell?”
“I’m afraid I might ruin the one I have. My magic is so uncertain, it isn’t smart to chance it.”
“Then must the one keep the other awake,” she said. “An thou sleep again, I will bite thee.”
That brought him quite alert. They paddled for another hour. Then she flagged.
“Suchevane,” he called. “Are you sleeping?”
She snapped awake. “Aye. Sorry.”
“Do that again, and I’ll—“ He cast about for a suitable threat, but the only thing he could think of for a creature like her wasn’t what he cared to say.
“That be no threat to me anyway,” she said.
He felt himself blushing. “You read my mind?”
‘The mind of any male be much the same.” In her presence, surely so. Then he thought of a suitable threat: “I’ll whack you with my paddle and knock you out of the boat.”
“I would change form and fly away,” she said. But she remained awake, evidently not wishing to get knocked. In such manner they kept themselves going through the night. As daylight resumed their sleepiness faded. But now hunger set in. “Dare we pause to eat?” he asked. “I have supplies.”
“I think the time be very close,” she said. “An we delay an hour, mayhap an hour too late.”
And they couldn’t risk that. So, hungry, they continued working.
And as the day waned, they approached the great White Mountain range. “The ledge of the unicorns be there,” Suchevane said. “But still some distance. I know not whether we be in time.”
“Can—can you change form and fly ahead, and see?” he asked. “I can keep the canoe moving meanwhile.”
“That distance? Aye, now. But it will be slower for thee,” she pointed out.
“I realize. But I’ve got to know.”
“Aye.” She shipped her paddle, changed, and flew up and ahead. Mach continued paddling, trying to put extra strength into it so as to maintain speed, but knew it wasn’t enough.
The bat returned. It landed on the seat, and changed. “She be there,” Suchevane said. “I did not approach, for that would have taken too much time; I returned the moment I spied her. She be trudging up toward the ledge, just a few minutes distant from it.” She resumed •paddling, and the canoe picked up speed.
“Then we’re in time!” Mach exclaimed.
“Nay,” she said sadly. “She will reach it before we do—and then we shall be at the bottom, while she be at the top. No way to stop her, unless perchance we call and she hear.”
They paddled furiously, and the canoe fairly leaped along, but the spell of endurance had not allowed for this extra energy, and they were now tiring. Mach saw sweat staining Suchevane’s black halter, and her hair was becoming a stringy tangle, and he himself was panting. But the high face of the cliff was coming into sight.
Far up, on the ledge, stood a tiny figure. Mach knew it was Fleta, locked in her human form. If only she waited until he could get close—
And what would he have to say to her, then? That he had decided to leave her forever and return to Proton! What glad news would that be for her?
There was a faint ripple in the air. As it passed through him, Mach thought he heard his name cried out with hopeless longing.
“Nay!” Suchevane gasped.
Horrified, Mach saw. Fleta had just leaped from the ledge, and was doing a graceful swan-dive into the pool of darkness below.
He could not reach her in time—and could not catch her if he were there. The height of the fall was far too great. She would be dashed into oblivion on the rock below.
As if it were in slow motion, he watched her plunge, her arms outspread. He knew it was for love of him she had done this, to free him from the need to be with her. But he could not let it happen!
He cast about for some magic to use to save her, but in the pressure of the eternal moment his thoughts were glacial. He could not make a rhyme, let alone sing it! And if he could, how could his puny magic prevail against that of an Adept? All he knew was that he loved her, and could not let her go. Not for any reason. And still she dropped.
“Thee!” he cried into the void that separated them.