Piers Anthony – Apprentice Adept 02 – Blue Adept – Anthony, Piers

Anthony, Piers – The Apprentice Adept – 2 – Blue Adept

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CHAPTER 1 – Unicorn.

A lone unicorn galloped across the field toward the Blue Castle. It was a male, with a glossy dark blue coat and red socks on his hind feet and a handsomely spiraled horn. As he moved he played a melody through that hollow horn, sounding like a mellow saxophone. The notes floated across the field ahead of him.

Stile walked to a parapet and looked down. He was an extremely small but fit man, a former jockey who remained in shape. He was dressed in a blue shirt and blue jeans, though there were those who felt that neither became his station.

His station was such, however, that he could ignore it with impunity-to a degree.

“Clip!” he exclaimed, recognizing the visitor. “Hey, Neysa-your brother’s here!”

But Neysa already knew it. Her hearing was better than his. She trotted out of the castle and met Clip at the front gate, crossing horns briefly in greeting.

Then the two went into their more extended ritual of reunion, prancing out side by side in unison as they played a duet. Neysa’s horn had the sound of a harmonica, and it blended beautifully with the music of the saxophone.

Stile watched and listened, entranced, and not by magic. He had always been fond of horses, and he liked unicorns even better. He was of course biased; Neysa was his best friend in this frame. Still-The two equines intensified the beat, their hooves striking the turf precisely. Now they went into the syncopation of the five-beat gait, the Unicorn Strut, their music matching it. Stile, unable to resist, brought out his good harmonica and matched the tune, tapping the beat with his heel as well as he could. He had a natural flair for music, and had sharpened his skill recently because it related so intimately to his magic. When he played, intangible magic formed around him. But he refused to let that inhibit him; the magic only became tangible when he invoked it in his special fashion.

When the unicorns finished their dance of delight, they trotted back to the castle. As they approached the gate they shifted to human-form, becoming a handsome young man and an elfishly small but also quite pretty woman. Stile hurried down to meet them in the courtyard.

“A greeting. Adept, and a message from the Herd Stallion,” Clip said. He was holding hands with his sister, somewhat to her mute embarrassment; he was more expressive than she. Both wore the garb of archaic Earth as interpreted by nonhuman viewpoint, more or less matching their natural equine colors.

“Thy greeting is welcome. Clip,” Stile said. “And thy message too, be it in peace.”

“It is. Adept. The Stallion is pleased to summon Neysa the Mare this season to be bred.” He paused, then appended his own remark: “At long last.”

“That’s great!” Stile exclaimed. “After three seasons denied, she will finally get her foal!”

Then he saw that Neysa was not reacting with the delight expected. Stile looked at her with concern. “Dost this not please thee, oath-friend? I thought it was thy fondest ambition to-”

Clip, too, was glancing at her with perplexity. “Sibling, methought I bore great tidings.”

Neysa averted her gaze. She was a well-formed girl an inch or so shorter than Stile-a stature that appealed to him though he knew this was foolish. She was the smallest of mares, barely fourteen hands; any shorter and she would have been classified as a pony: a member of the equine Little Folk. Her human-form merely reflected this, with only the tiny button-horn in her forehead signifying her true nature.

Stile had long since learned to live with the fact that most women and all men were taller than he, and of course Neysa was not human at all. That did not prevent her from being his closest companion in ways both human and equine.

Though she could speak, she was not much on verbal communication. Vivacity was not her way, though she had a certain filly humor that manifested subtly on occasion.

Clip and Stile exchanged glances. What did this mean? “Would a female know?”

Clip asked.

Stile nodded. “One would.” He raised his voice only slightly. “Lady.”

In a moment the Lady Blue appeared. She was, as always, garbed in variants of blue: blue corduroy skirt, pale blue blouse, dark blue slippers and star-blue tiara. And, as always, her beauty struck Stile with special force. “Master,”

she murmured.

Stile wished she wouldn’t do that. In no way was he her master, and she knew that well. But he was unable to take effective issue with the conventions of this frame-or with the half-subtle reminders she gave him. She considered him to be an imposter in the Blue Demesnes, a necessary evil. She had cause.

“Lady,” he said, maintaining the formality she required of him. “Our friend Neysa is summoned to be bred by the Herd Stallion, and have her foal at last-yet she seems not pleased. Canst thou fathom this, and wilt thou enlighten us males?”

The Lady Blue went to Neysa and embraced her. No aloofness in this acquaintance! “Friend of mine oath, grant me leave to explain to my lord,” the Lady said to Neysa, and the unicorn-girl nodded.

The Lady faced Stile. “It be a private matter,” she said, and walked sedately from the court.

She hadn’t even asked; she had known intuitively! “I’ll be back,” Stile said, and quickly followed.

When they were alone, they dropped the pretenses. “What’s the mystery?” Stile snapped. “She’s my best friend -a better friend than thou. Why won’t she tell me?”

“Thy magic is strong,” the Lady replied. “Thy comprehension weak. Left to thine own devices, thou wilt surely come to grief.”

“Agreed,” Stile said easily, though he was not pleased.

“Fortunately I have Hulk and Neysa and thee to look after me. Soon will I eliminate the major threat to my tenure as Adept, and will stand no longer in need of such supervision.”

What irony there was rolled off her without visible effect. The fairness and softness of her appearance concealed the implacable skill with which she fought to preserve the works of her late husband. There was nothing soft about her dedication to his memory. “Be that as it may-the mare feels un-free to leave thee at this time. Hulk may depart and I am not committed to thee as Neysa is. Therefore she prefers to postpone breeding until thou’rt secure.”

“But this is senseless!” he protested. “She must not sacrifice her own welfare for mine! I can offer her only hard- ship and danger.”

“Aye,” the Lady agreed.

“Then thou must talk to her. Make her go to the Stallion.”

“Who is as masculinely logical as thee,” the Lady said. “With every bit as much comprehension of her concern. Nay, I shall not betray her thus.”

Stile grimaced. “Didst thou treat thy husband likewise?”

Now she colored. “Aye.”

Stile was immediately sorry. “Lady, I apologize. Well I know thou didst love him alone.”

“Not enough, it seems, to save his life. Perhaps had he had a unicorn to guard him-”

There it was, that needle-sharp acuity. “I yield the point. There is no guardian like Neysa. What must I do to oblige her?”

“Thou must arrange postponement of the breeding, until she feels free to leave thee.”

Stile nodded. “That should be feasible. I thank thee, Lady, for thine insight.”

“What thou askest for, thou hast,” she said coolly. “Thou art now the Blue Adept, the leading magician of the realm. Only have the human wit not to offend the mare in the presentation of thy decision.”

“And how do I find the wit not to offend thee, bride of my defunct self? Thou knowest his tastes are mine.”

She left him, not deigning to answer. Stile shrugged and returned to the courtyard. He wanted the Lady Blue more than anything he could imagine, and she was aware of this. But he had to win her the right way. He had the power to convert her by magic, but he would not use it; she knew this too. She understood him in certain ways better than he understood himself, for she had experienced the love of his other self. She could handle him, and she did so.

Clip and Neysa had reverted to unicorn-form and were grazing on the patch of rich bluegrass maintained beside the fountain for that purpose. The two were a beautifully matched set, his blue against her black, his red socks complementing her white ones. Clip was a true unicorn in coloration; Neysa had been excluded from the herd for some years because her color resembled that of a horse. Stile still got angry when he thought about that.

Neysa looked up as he approached, black ears perking forward, a stem of grass dangling from her mouth. As with most equines, her chewing stopped when her attention was distracted.

“I regret the necessity,” Stile said briskly. “But I must after all interfere with Neysa’s opportunity. The Blue Adept has, as we know, an anonymous enemy, probably another Adept, who has murdered him once and seeks to do so again. I have no second life to spare. Until I deal with this enemy, I do not feel secure without completely competent protection and guidance. No one can do that as well as the mare. Therefore I must seek a postponement of the Stallion’s imperative until this crisis abates. I realize this works a hardship on Neysa, and is selfish of me-”

Neysa snorted musically, pleased, and not for a moment deceived. She resumed chewing her mouthful. Clip angled his horn at her in askance, but saw that she was satisfied, so kept silent.

One problem had been exchanged for another, however. It was not any mare’s prerogative to gainsay the Herd Stallion. Stile would have to do that himself, as the Blue Adept. In the informal but rigorous hierarchy of this world, herd-leaders, pack-leaders, tribe-leaders and Adepts were roughly equivalent, though the ultimate power lay with the Adepts. Stile would deal with the Herd Stallion as an equal.

First he had to settle things at the Blue Demesnes. Stile talked with his human bodyguard from the other frame, Hulk. Hulk was as big as Stile was small: a towering mass of muscle, expert in all manner of physical combat but not, despite the assumption of strangers, stupid.

“It is necessary that I leave this castle for a day or so,” Stile told him. “I must negotiate with the unicorn Herd Stallion, and I cannot summon him here.”

“That’s for sure,” Hulk agreed. “He never did have much of a liking for you.

Uh, for thee. I’d better go with thee. That unicorn is one tough character.”

“Nay, friend. I am in no danger from the unicorns. It is the Lady Blue I worry about. I wish thee to guard her in mine absence, lest my nameless enemy strike at me through her. Thou hast not magic-at least, thou hast not practiced it; but if no others know I am gone there should be no hostile spells. Against else, thy skills suffice as well as mine.”

Hulk made a gesture of acquiescence. “She is surely worth guarding.”

“Yes. She maintained the Blue Demesnes after her lord, mine alternate self, was murdered. Without her help I could not fill this office of Adept. I have the power of magic, but lack experience. I am reminded daily of this.” Stile smiled wryly, remembering how the Lady Blue had just set him straight about Neysa. “And-”

“And she is an extraordinarily attractive woman,” Hulk finished. “A magnet for mischief.”

“Mine alternate self had excellent taste.”

“That’s one thing I don’t quite understand yet. If only a person whose double in the other frame is dead can cross the curtain that separates one frame from the other, what about me? Do I have an alternate self here who died?”

Stile considered. “Thy tenure in the other frame of Proton was for twenty years. Was thy family there before thee?”

“No. I came at age fifteen for my enlistment. My time would have been up in a few more months. My family never set foot on Planet Proton. They live fifteen light years away.”

“So thy existence on this planet stems only from thy tenure as a serf,” Stile concluded. “Thou hast no natural existence in this other frame of Phaze. There is no alternate self to fill thy place in the alternate scheme. So thou art free to cross the curtain.”

“So I was not murdered,” Hulk concluded. “That’s a relief.”

Stile smiled. “Who could murder thee? Thou couldst pulp any normal man with the grip of one hand.”

“Except thee, when we played the Game.”

“The fortunes of chance,” Stile said. “How could I match thee, in fair combat?”

Hulk laughed good-naturedly. ‘Tease me not, little giant. Thy stature is as mine, in martial arts.”

“In mine own weight-class,” Stile qualified. It was good to talk with someone who understood Stile’s home-world and the Game.

They started off within the hour. Stile played his harmonica, accumulating his magic, then sang one of the spells he had worked out: “By the power of magic vested in me, make me blank so none can see.” He was unable to heal himself or cure himself of illness, but he could change his aspect before other people.

He held up his hand, then waved it before his face: nothing. He was invisible.

Neysa, of course, knew him by smell and sound. She was not spooked. “This way,” he explained, “it will not be obvious that I am departing.”

“A watcher could see that the mare carries a burden,” the Lady pointed out.

“That’s right,” Stile agreed, surprised. He considered a moment, then sang:

“By the power of magic vested in me, make me as light as I can be.” He felt the weight of his body dissipate. “Excellent.”

Both Hulk and the Lady looked perplexed. Stile laughed. “I shall answer thy questions in turn. Lady, thou knowest by my voice that I remain standing on the floor; how is it that I do not float to the ceiling? Because my spell is very similar to the last, and since no spell may be used twice in succession, much of its force was abated. I am not as light as I can be; my weight is perhaps a fifth normal. About twenty pounds, or a trifle more. Hulk, how is it that I do not glow like the sun, since that is also a meaning of the term I used, ‘light’? Because my words only vocalize what is in my mind, and my mind provided the definition of my terms. Had I wished to light brightly, despite already being invisible, I could have used the same spell, shifting only my mental intent, and it would have worked that way.”

“Methinks Stile likes magic,” Hulk muttered. “Personally, I do not believe in it.”

“Else mightest thou be Adept too,” Stile said, laughing to show the humor, though he suspected there was some truth in it. Every person could do some magic, but few could do strong magic. Stile’s own magic talent was reflected in the science frame of Proton as considerable ability in other things, such as the Game, and Hulk was almost as capable there. Hulk might be able to learn to be a magician, if he ever cared to try. Perhaps there were many others who could be similarly competent at magic, if they only believed they could and worked to perfect their techniques. But only one person in perhaps a thousand believed, so there were very few Adepts. Of course, the established Adepts ruthlessly eliminated any developing rivals, so it was safer to opt out of that arena entirely. The enmity of an Adept was a terrible thing.

Stile bid his final farewells, mounted Neysa, needing no saddle or bridle, and they joined Clip. The two unicorns trotted briskly out the gate. To an observer it would seem Clip was conducting his sibling to the breeding site, as required. The little bit of weight Neysa carried hardly made a difference.

It was good to travel with his unicorn again. Stile was not sure whether he could transport himself magically from place to place. If that came under the heading of changing his aspect before others, then probably he could; if instead it came under the heading of healing or changing himself, then he probably could not. So far he had deemed it expedient not to experiment; magic gone wrong could be fatal. So he needed transportation, and Neysa was the best he could ask for. She had been his first steed in this magic frame, and his first true friend. His love of horses had translated instantly to unicorns, for these creatures were horse’s: plus a musical horn that was also a devastating weapon; plus special gaits and acrobatic abilities beyond the imagination of any horse; plus human intelligence; plus the ability to change shape. Yes, the unicorn was the creature Stile had been searching For all his life without realizing it until he met one.

Neysa, in girl-form, had become his lover, before he had met the Lady Blue and realized that his ultimate destiny had to lie with his own kind. There had been some trouble between Neysa and the Lady Blue at first; but now as oathfriend to the Blue Adept, the unicorn needed no further reassurance. In this magic frame, friendship transcended mere male-female relations, and an oath of friendship was the most binding commitment of all.

It was ironic that now that Neysa could achieve her fondest wish-to have her own foal-that oath of friendship interfered. Neysa’s logic was probably correct; Stile did need her to protect him from the pitfalls of this barely familiar world until he could deal with his secret enemy. Unicorns were immune to most magic; only Adept-class spells could pass their threshold. Stile had reason to believe his enemy was an Adept; his own Adept magic, buttressed by the protective ambience of the unicorn, should safeguard him against even that level. As the Lady Blue had pointed out, the original Blue Adept had not had a unicorn to guard him, and that might have made the difference. He really did need Neysa.

They moved into a canter, then a full gallop as the two unicorns warmed up.

Clip and Neysa ran in perfect step, playing their horns. She took the soprano theme on her harmonica, he the alto on his saxophone. It was another lovely duet, in counterpoint, augmented by the strong cadence of their hooves. Stile wished he could join in, but he had to preserve his anonymity, just in case they were being observed. There were baleful things lurking in these peaceful forests and glades; the unicorns’ familiarity with the terrain and reputation as fighters made the landscape become as peaceful as it seemed. But there was no sense setting up the Blue Adept as a lure for trouble.

Clip knew the way. The unicorn herd grazed wherever the Herd Stallion decreed, moving from pasture to pasture within broad territorial limits. Other herds grazed other territories; none of them intruded on these local demesnes. Human beings might think of this as the region of the Blue Adept, but animals thought of it as the region of this particular herd. Werewolves and goblins and other creatures also occupied their niches, each species believing itself to be the dominant force. Stile made it a point to get along as well as he could with all creatures; such detente was much more important here in the frame of Phaze than it was in any nonmagical frame. And he genuinely respected those other creatures. The werewolves, for example, had helped him to discover his own place here, and the entire local pack was oath-friends with Neysa.

They galloped west across the terrain where Stile had first encountered Neysa; it was a spot of special significance for them both. He reached around her neck to give her an invisible hug, and she responded by twitching ear back and rippling her skin under his hands as though shaking off a fly. Secret communication, inexpressibly precious.

To the south was the great Purple Mountain range; to the north the White Mountain range. There was surely a great deal more to Phaze than this broad valley, but Stile had not yet had occasion to see it. Once he had dealt with his enemy and secured his position, he intended to do some wider explorations.

Who could guess what wonders might lie beyond these horizons?

They moved west for two hours, covering twenty miles. This frame used the archaic, magic-ridden units of measurement, and Stile was still schooling himself in them. Twenty miles was roughly thirty-two kilometers in his more familiar terms. Stile could have covered a similar distance in similar time himself, for he was among other things a runner of marathons. But for him it would have meant a great effort, depleting his resources for days; for these animals it was merely pleasant light exercise. Unicorns could travel twice this speed, sustained, when they had to, and faster yet for shorter distances.

Now the sun was descending, getting in their eyes. It was time to graze.

Unicorns, like horses, were not simple running machines; they had to spend a good deal of their time eating. Stile could have conjured grain for them, but actually they preferred to find their own, being stubbornly independent beasts, and they rested while grazing. Neysa slowed, found a patch of bare rock, and relieved herself in the equine manner at its fringe. This covered any sound Stile might make as he dismounted. Then she wandered on, grazing the rich grass, ignoring him though she knew exactly where he was. She was very good at this sort of thing; no observer would realize that an invisible man was with her, and the rock concealed any footprints he made.

Stile had brought his own supplies, of course; the Lady Blue had efficiently seen to that. No sense requiring him to make himself obvious by performing unnecessary magic to fetch food, apart from the general caution against wasting one-shot spells. He would sit on the rock and eat, quietly.

Stile levered himself down, careful not to put strain on his knees. Knees, as he had learned the hard way, did not readily heal. Magic might repair them, but he could not operate on himself and did not as yet trust the task to any other Adept. Suppose the Adept he asked happened to be the one who wanted to kill him? He could get along; his knees only hurt when flexed almost double.

He could still walk, run and ride comfortably. His former abilities as an acrobat had suffered, but there was still a great deal he could do without flexing his knees that far.

After grazing, Neysa came to the edge of the rock and stood snoozing. Stile mounted her, as she had intended, and slept on her back. She was warm and safe and smelled pleasantly equine, and there was hardly a place he would have preferred to sleep-unless it were in the arms of the Lady Blue. That, however, was a privilege he had not yet earned, and might never earn. The Lady was true to her real husband. Stile’s double, though he was dead, and in no way did she ever mistake Stile for that other man.

Next morning they were off again. They cantered gently until noon, when they spied the herd. It was grazing on a broad slope leading down to an extensive swamp. Beyond that swamp. Stile remembered, lay the palace of the Oracle, who answered one and only one question for any person, in that person’s life. The Oracle had advised Stile to “Know thyself”-and despite the seeming unhelpfulness of it, that had indeed been the key to his future. For that self he had come to know was the Blue Adept.

A lookout unicorn blew a trumpet blast, and the members of the herd lifted their heads, then trotted together to form a large semicircle open toward the two approaching unicorns. Perceiving that formidable array of horns. Stile was glad he was not approaching as an enemy. Neysa had drilled him in the use of his rapier by fencing with her horn, and he had come to appreciate what a deadly weapon it could be. This was another respect in which unicorns were fundamentally different from horses: they were armed-more properly, horned-and were as likely to attack as to flee. No sensible tiger, for example, would attempt to pounce on a unicorn.

They trotted into the open cup of the semicircle. The Herd Stallion stood in the center, a magnificent specimen of equine evolution. His body was pearly gray deepening into black legs, his mane and tail were silver, and his head golden. He stood some eighteen hands tall, and was splendidly muscled. His horn was a glinting, spiral marvel: truly a shaft to be reckoned with. He played a melodic accordion chord on it, and the circle closed in behind the new arrivals.

Stile felt his weight increasing. He saw his arms before him. His spells of lightness and invisibility were abating, though he had not terminated them.

The Stallion snorted. Clip and Neysa hastily spun about and retreated to the rim. Stile sprang to the ground before the Stallion. Stile was now fully solid and visible.

The Stallion shifted to man-form. He was huge and muscular, though not to Hulk’s extent. He had a short horn in his forehead. “Welcome to the Herd Demesnes, O Blue Adept,” he said. “To what do I owe the dubious pleasure of this encounter?”

So the closing of the unicorn circle nullified even the spells of an Adept!

Stile’s magic could prevail over a single unicorn, but not over the full herd-except in special cases. Of course his two spells were now a day old and must have weakened with time and use, since no spell was eternal. Still, the effect was worth noting. Stile was not in danger from hostile magic here, because the unicorn ring would also nullify the spells of any enemy Adept. He retained the basic privacy of his mission. “A greeting, Stallion. I come to negotiate.”

The man-Stallion put three fingers to his mouth and blew another chord that still sounded like an accordion. Two unicorns trotted in, supporting a structure on their horns. They set it down and retreated. It was a table fashioned of old unicorn horns, with attached seats. It was surely far more valuable than ivory, for much of the magic of unicorns was associated with their horns.

The Stallion sat, gesturing Stile to do the same. “What has an Adept to negotiate with a simple animal like me?”

Stile realized this was not going to be easy. The Herd Stallion was not partial to him, since Stile had embarrassed the creature in the course of their first encounter. He would have to explain carefully. “Thou knowest I was murdered not long ago.”

“Thou hast no need to negotiate for recognition of thy status or right to thy Demesnes,” the Stallion said, surprised. “We honor the way that is. Only this herd and Kurrelgyre’s werewolf pack know thou art not the original Adept. We accept thee in lieu, since thy magic is equivalent and thou’rt a being of integrity, as are we. No news of thy condition has escaped the herd.”

Stile smiled. “It is not that. Sire. I have not made a secret of my status. It is that I must secure my position and avenge my murder.”

“Indubitably.”

“I believe it is an enemy Adept I seek. Therefore I must approach the matter cautiously, and trust myself only to my most reliable companion. That, of course, is mine oathfriend Neysa. Therefore-”

“Now I chew on thy gist. A gravid mare would not be fit for such excursion.”

“Exactly. I therefore seek a postponement of her breeding, until my mission is done.”

The Stallion frowned. “She has missed two seasons-”

“Because she was excluded from the herd-because of her color,” Stile said grimly. “Her color has not changed.”

“Ah, but her status has! She has connections she lacked before. The animals of my herd have taken a fancy to her, and the wolves of the pack we oft have fought no longer attack, because of her. In all the herds of all the valleys of Phaze, none save her is steed to an Adept.”

“Steed and friend,” Stile said. “A friendship well earned.”

“Perhaps. In any event, that makes up for her deficiency of-”

“Deficiency?” Stile demanded ominously, reaching for his harmonica. He had intended to keep this civil, but this was a sore point.

The Stallion considered. They were within the unicorn circle, but it had not been proven whether that would stop a newly fashioned spell performed in the heat of the Blue Adept’s ire. No creature insulted an Adept, or anything dear to an Adept, carelessly. The Stallion retreated half a step, figuratively.

“Shall we say, her color pleases me now, and what pleases me shall not be cause for comment by any other unicorn.”

“An excellent statement,” Stile agreed, putting away his instrument. He had discovered that one unicorn seldom objected to praise or defense of another.

It would be beneath the Herd Stallion’s dignity to stud an inferior mare. “Her presence at my side pleases me now,” Stile continued. “Who in thy herd can travel the flying league faster than she?”

The Stallion raised his human eyebrow in an elegant gold arch. “Who besides me, thou meanest?”

Now Stile had to back off diplomatically. “Of course. I meant among mares-”

“I concede that for her size-”

“Is aught amiss with her size?” This was another powerploy, for Neysa was no smaller among unicorns than Stile was among men.

“It is a serviceable size. I am certain she will bear a fine foal.”

They were sparring, getting nowhere. The Stallion still intended to breed Neysa.

“I think thou didst not entirely withstand the oath of friendship,” Stile remarked. “The mare is more attractive to thee than she was before.”

The Stallion shrugged. It had been Stile’s potent spell that caused the other unicorns and the werewolves to swear friendship with Neysa, and the Stallion did not like to admit to being similarly affected. Yet he was proof against such gibes. “Perhaps. But here thy power may yield to mine, even as mine paled before thine in thy Demesnes.”

Stile had set the unicorn back, during that prior encounter. Now the Stallion was having his satisfaction. One offended a creature of power at one’s own risk, even if one had the power of an Adept. “I need Neysa, this season. How may I obtain postponement of the breeding?”

“This is a matter of honor and pride. Thou must contest with me in mine own manner, weapon to weapon. An thou dost best me in fair combat, thou winnest thy plea. An thou dost fail-”

Stile had a notion how savage such an encounter could be. “If?” he prompted.

The Stallion smiled. “An thou dost fail, I win mine. We contest not for life here, but only for the proper priority of our claims. I claim the right to breed my mares as I see fit and in mine own time; thou claimest the bond of friendship to this mare. It ill behooves us two to strive against each other on any except a civil basis.”

“Agreed.” Stile certainly had no need of a life and death combat here! He had hoped a simple request would suffice, but evidently he had been naive. “Shall we proceed to it now?”

The Stallion affected amazement. “By no means. Adept! I would not have it bruited about that I forced my suit against one who was ill-prepared. Protocol requires that a suitable interval elapse. Shall we say a fortnight hence, at the Unolympics?”

“The Unolympics?”

“The annual sportive event of our kind, parallel to the Canolympics of the werewolves, the Vampolympics of the batmen, the Gnomolympics of-”

“Ah, I see. Is Neysa to compete therein?”

The Stallion evidently hadn’t considered that. “She has not before, for reasons we need not discuss. This year I believe she would be welcome.”

“And no apology to be made for any nuance of color or size that any less discriminating creatures might note?”

“None, of course.”

Stile did not like the delay, but also knew he had no serious chance against the Stallion, who looked to weigh a full ton, was in vibrant health, and had quite a number of victory notches on his horn. The creature was in fact providing him time to reconsider, so that Stile could change his mind and yield the issue without suffering humiliation in the field. It was a decent gesture, especially when coupled with the agreement to let Neysa enter the general competition if she wanted to. Stile knew she could perform the typical unicorn maneuvers as well as any in the herd, and this would give her the chance to prove it at last. She had suffered years of shame; now she could publicly vindicate herself. “A fortnight,” he agreed.

The Stallion extended his hand, and Stile took it. His own hand was engulfed by the huge and calloused extremity with hooflike nails. Stile fought off his automatic resentment and feeling of inadequacy. He was not inadequate, and the Stallion was being honorable. It was a fair compromise.

The Stallion shifted back to his natural form. He blew another chord on his horn. The unicorn circle opened. Stile began to feel lighter. His body faded.

His spells were returning, as the anti-magic power of the unicorns diffused.

That also was worth noting: his spells had never ceased operating, they had merely been damped out temporarily.

Neysa stepped forward hesitantly. “The Stallion invites thee to participate in the Unolympics in two weeks,” Stile told her as he mounted.

She was so surprised she almost shifted into girl-form, which would have been awkward for him at the moment.

She blew a querying note, hardly daring to believe the news. But the Stallion made a chord of affirmation.

“And I will go there too, to meet the Stallion on the field of honor,” Stile added, as though this were an afterthought.

This time she did change shape. Stile found himself riding the girl-form piggy-back, his legs around her tiny waist. Hastily he dismounted. “Nay-” she said.

“Neigh indeed! If I weren’t invisible and featherlight, thou wouldst have been borne to the ground by my weight in most indelicate fashion. Get back to thy proper form, mare!”

Hastily she complied. He remounted, and she galloped away from the herd. It seemed that none of the unicorns had noticed anything-until one mocking saxophone peal of music sounded. Clip had been unable to hold back his mirth any longer.

Neysa fired back an angry concatenation of notes, then galloped harder. They fairly flew across the slope. Soon they were well away. “Just for that, thou shouldst make him participate in the Unolympics too,” Stile suggested, and she snorted affirmatively.

But now his own problem came to the fore. “Maybe I can ask the Oracle how to handle the Stallion,” Stile mused aloud. But that was no good; he had used up his single Oracular query before, in the process of discovering his Phaze identity.

“One other thing bothers me,” Stile remarked after a bit, as they galloped across the lovely plain. “Why is the Herd Stallion being so polite about it?

He could easily have insisted that I fight him today, and he surely would have won. He has no special brief for me, yet he treated me with extraordinary fairness.”

Neysa veered to approach an island copse of oat trees. Safely inside the tangle of growth, she made a shrug that hinted he should dismount. When he did, she shifted to girl-form again. “It is thy spell,” she said. “All the herd is oath-friend to me, and if he took me unfairly, humiliating thee, they would turn against him.”

Stile struck his head with the heel of his unseen hand.

“Of course! Even a king must consider how far his subjects can be pushed.” So his magic had indeed affected the Stallion, albeit circuitously, by affecting those the Stallion had to deal with.

Neysa stood, not yet shifting back, looking at him expectantly though of course her eyes could not focus on him. Stile took her in his arms. “I believe these are more words than thou has spoken to me in thy life before,” he said, and kissed her.

He turned her loose, but still she waited. He knew why, yet could not act.

They had been lovers, and she remained, in girl-form, the nicest and prettiest girl he knew, and he was not turned off by the knowledge that she was in fact a unicorn. But their relationship had changed when he met the Lady Blue. He found himself not constitutionally geared to have more than one lover at a time in a given frame. The irony was that he did not have the Lady Blue as lover or anything else, though he wanted everything else. If companionship, loyalty, and yes, sex sufficed, Neysa was his resource.

And there it was. His aspirations had made a dimensional expansion. He was not certain that he could ever have all of what he wanted, yet he had to proceed as if it were possible. And he had to explain this to Neysa without hurting her feelings.

“What we had before was good,” he said. “But now I must look forward to a female of mine own kind, just as thou must look forward to the breeding and foal that only a male of thine own kind can give thee. Our friendship endures, for it is greater than this; it has merely changed its nature. Had we any continuing sexual claim on each other, it would complicate my friendship to thy foal, when it comes, or thine to my baby, if ever it comes.”

Neysa looked startled. It was almost as if her human ears perked forward. She had not thought of this aspect. To her, friendship had been merely a complete trusting and giving, uncomplicated by interacting relationships of others.

Stile hoped she was able to understand and accept the new reality.

Then she leaned forward to kiss him again, locating him with uncanny accuracy-or was his spell weakening?-and as their lips touched, she shifted back to equine form. Stile found himself kissing the unicorn. He threw his arms about her neck and yanked at her lustrous black mane, laughing.

Then he mounted, hugged her again, and rode on. It was all right.

——————————————————————————

CHAPTER 2 – Lady.

Back at the Blue Demesnes, Stile uninvited the spells, became visible and full-weight, and turned Neysa out to graze. Then he talked to Hulk and the Lady Blue.

“I must meet the Stallion in ritual battle a fortnight hence,” Stile said. “At their Unolympics celebration. This is for honor, and for the use of Neysa this season-yet I know not how I can match him, and am bound to suffer humiliation,”

“Which is what he wants,” Hulk said wisely. “Not thy blood, but thy pride. He wants to take a thing of value from the Blue Adept, in public, not by theft or by technicality but by right.”

The Lady’s blue eyes flashed. In this frame, it was literal: a momentary glare of light came from them. She was no Adept, but she did have some magic of her own. Stile remained new enough to Phaze to be intrigued by such little effects. “No creature humiliates the Blue Adept!” she cried.

“I am not really he, as the Stallion knows,” Stile reminded her unnecessarily.

“Thou hast the image and the power and the office,” she said firmly. “It is not thy fault that thou’rt not truly he. For the sake of the Demesnes, thou canst not let the unicorn prevail in this manner.”

The preservation of the Blue Demesnes was of course what this was all about, to her mind. Stile was merely the figurehead. “I am open to suggestions,” he said mildly. “I would ask the Oracle how I might prevail, had I not expended my question in the course of achieving my present status.”

“The Oracle,” Hull; said. “It answers one question for any person?”

“Only one,” Stile agreed.

“Then I could ask it!”

“Thou shouldst not waste thine only question on a concern not thine,” Stile said. “Ask instead about thine own future here in Phaze. There may be an ideal situation awaiting thee, if thou dost but inquire as to its whereabouts.”

“Nay, I want to do it,” Hulk insisted. “Neysa is my friend too, and it was thou who showed me how to cross the curtain into this marvelous and not-to-be-believed world. The least I can do is help thee in this matter.”

“Let him go,” the Lady murmured.

Stile spread his hands. “If thou truly dost feel this way, go with my blessing. Hulk. I shall be in thy debt. I will arrange for thee a magic conveyance-”

“Nay, I can walk.”

“Not that far, and return in time to be of much help. I need to know how to prepare as soon as possible. If I must master a special skill-”

“Okay,” Hulk agreed. “But I’m not good at riding unicorns.”

The Lady smiled, and there seemed to be a momentary glow in the room. “Only two I know of have ever ridden a unicorn, except at the unicorn’s behest: my lord Stile and I. The Adept will summon for thee a traveling carpet-”

“Oh, no! Not one of those flying things! I’d be constantly afraid its magic would poop out right over a chasm or near a nest of dragons. I’m not the lightest of creatures, thou knowest. Can’t we find a motorcycle or something?”

“A motorcycle?” the Lady asked blankly.

“A device of the other frame,” Stile explained. “A kind of traveling wheel, rather like a low-flying carpet. It is an idea. Science is inoperative here, yet I might fashion a magic wagon.”

They went about it, and in the end Hulk had his motorcycle: two wooden wheels, a steering stick, a seat, a windshield. No motor, no fuel, no controls, for it was motivated by magic. Hulk had only to give it key verbal commands and steer it. Both men were clinically interested in the construction, determining how far magic would go, and where the line between functional magic and nonfunctional science was drawn.

Hulk boarded the magic machine and rode away in a silent cloud of dust. A flock of grouse took off, startled by the apparition. “I just hope he follows the map and doesn’t drive into a chasm or meet a monster,” Stile said. “He might hurt the monster.”

“Nay, Hulk is kind to creatures,” the Lady said, overlooking the humor. “He is a gentle man, under all that muscle. A clever and honorable man.”

“True. That is one reason I brought him here.”

The Lady rose and turned about, her blue gown flinging out sedately. Every motion she made was elegant! “Now we are alone, I would talk to thee. Adept.”

Stile tried to still his suddenly racing pulse. She could not mean she had had a change of heart about him; he remained an imposter in her eyes. Her loyalty to her true love was a thing he envied and longed for. Should such loyalty ever be oriented on him … “Any time,” he agreed.

They went to her apartment, where she bade him be seated in a comfortable blue chair. She maintained the blue insignia of these Demesnes with loving determination. It was a wonder, he thought with fond irritation, that she did not dye her fair hair blue. “Thy friend Hulk told me of thy life in Proton-frame,” she said. “I bade him do it during thine absence, as it behooves me to know of thee.”

Pumping Hulk for information: a natural pastime. “I would have told thee, hadst thou asked.” But of course she had wanted to obtain a reasonably objective view. What was she leading up to?

“Now I know, from that third party, that thou art much the way my husband was.

A man of great honor and skill, yet one who has suffered abuse because of size. Neysa, too, has told me of thy qualities.”

“Neysa talks too much,” Stile muttered. It was a joke; the unicorn was a marvel of brevity.

“Thou art a good man, and I wrong thee by mine aloofness. Yet must I am the way I am. I feel it only fair to acquaint thee with the way I was.”

“I do not seek to force information from thee. Lady,” Stile said quickly. But he really wanted to hear anything she wanted to tell him.

“Then it comes to thee unforced,” she said, with a fleeting smile that melted his heart. Could she, could she really be starting to soften toward him? No, she was not; she was merely doing what she felt was right, giving him necessary background.

Stile listened to her narration, closing his eyes, absorbing her dulcet tones, picturing her story in full living color and feeling as it unfolded.

Long and long has our realm of Phaze endured apart from other worlds, from that time when first it separated from the science frame of mythology. Three hundred years, while our kind slowly spread across the continent and discovered the powers that existed. The animal kingdoms too expanded and warred with each other and found their niches, the dragons to the south, the snow demons to the north, the giants to the far west and so on. Soon the most talented among the Human Folk became adept at magic, restricting others from its practice except in specialized ways, so that no more than ten full magicians existed at any one time. Only talent distinguished them, not honor or personal merit, and any who aspired to Adept status but was less apt at sorcery than the masters were destroyed by the established magicians. Today the common folk eschew all save elementary enchantments, and associate not with Adepts; likewise the animals keep largely to themselves.

I grew up in a village of fifteen families to the east, near the coast, far removed from strong magic except the natural spells of the deepwoods. I thought I might marry a local boy, but my folks wanted me to wait, to meet a wider range before deciding. I realized not their reason, then; they knew me to be fair, and thought I might waste myself on some farmer’s boy or fisherman if I chose quickly. Had they known whom I was destined to marry, they would have thrown me at the nearest pigherder! But they knew not that an Adept sought me, and we were well off, with good fields and animals, so that there seemed no need to go early into matrimony. My father is something of a healer, whether by nature or effort I know not, and I am too. We helped the ill or injured animals of the village, never making show of our talent, and never did the dire attention of a hostile Adept focus on us for that.

When I was nineteen the lads and lasses of mine age had already mostly been taken. But I loved the animals, and felt no loss. It has been said that the women most attractive to men are the ones who need them least, and so it seemed to be in my case. Then my horse’s foal wandered too far afield, returning not to our stable. I called her Snowflake, for her color was white as snow though her spirit was hot as peppercorn. Ever was she wont to take that extra step, and this time she was lost. I rode out on my good mare Starshine, Snowflake’s dam, searching, searching, but the prints we followed led into the deepwoods. Then I knew in my heart that Snowflake was truly in trouble, but I was nineteen and I loved that foal, and I went into that jungle though I knew it was folly.

And in that wood I came upon moss that shrouded whole trees and reached out for me, all green and hissing, and sand that sucked at my horse’s feet, and there were shapes and shadows looming ever-near and nearer, and I was afraid.

Then did I know I must turn back, that Snowflake was doomed, and I would be in dire strait too an I not give over this hopeless task presently. But still I adored my foal, as I adore all horses, and the thought of Snowflake alone and in straits in that wilderness tormented me, and I made pretexts one after another to quest beyond yet another tree or yet another looming rock. I thought I heard a tremulous neigh; gladly I dismounted and ran, but there was nothing, only a branch creaking in the rising wind.

A storm was coming, and that meant mischief, for in our region the trolls come out in foul weather, yet I dallied foolishly afoot. This time I was sure I heard a plaintive neigh. I pursued it, but again found naught; it was a will-o’the-wisp.

Then the brooding sky let down and in a moment I was drenched with the chill spillage of the heavens. A crack of thunder spooked Starshine, and she bolted for home, forgetting me, nor could I blame her. I fled for home myself, shivering with more than cold, but the reaching brambles tore at my skirts and the gusts buffeted me so harshly I could not see. I cried out, hoping to be heard at home, but this was futile in the fury of this storm.

It was the trolls who harkened, and when I saw the grim apparitions I screamed with much-heightened force. But the gross monsters caught hold of me, all gape and callus, and I knew I was done for. I had not saved the life of my pet; I had sacrificed mine own.

A troll clutched me by the hair, dangling me above the ground. I was now too terrified to scream. I feared for death, assuredly; more I feared for that which would surely precede it, for the troll folk ever lust after human folk.

Then came the beat of hooves, approaching. Now did I manage to cry out again, faintly, hoping Starshine was returning, perhaps ridden by my father. And the beat came nigh, and it was no horse I knew, but a great blue stallion with mane of purple and hooves like blue steel, and on it a manchild in blue-

“The Blue Adept!” Stile exclaimed, interrupting her. The Lady nodded soberly, and resumed her narrative.

I knew not who he was, then. I thought him a lad, or perhaps one of the Little Folk. I cried out to him, and he brandished a blue sword, and the trolls gibbered back into the shadows. The small youth came for me, and when the trolls saw what he sought, they let me go. I dropped to the ground, unhurt in body, and scrambled toward him.

The lad put down a hand to help me mount behind him, and I did, and then the blue stallion leapt with such power the trolls scattered in fear and I near slid off his rear, but that I clung desperately to my rescuer.

It seemed but a moment we were out of the wood, pounding toward our village homestead. The rain still fell;

I shivered with chill and my dress clung chafingly to me, but the boy seemed not affected. He brought me to mine own yard and halted the stallion without ever inquiring the way. I slid down, all wet and relieved and girlishly grateful. “Young man,” I addressed him, in my generosity granting him the benefit of a greater age than I perceived in him. “Thou’rt soaked. Pray come in to our warm hearth-”

But he shook his head politely in negation, speaking no word. He raised a little hand in parting, and suddenly was off into the storm. He had saved my honor and my life, yet dallied not for thanks.

I told my family of mine experience as I dried and warmed within our home before the merry fire. Of my foolish venture into the wood, the storm, the trolls, and of the boy on the great blue stallion who rescued me. I thought they would be pleased that I had been thus spared the consequence of my folly, but they were horrified. “That is a creature of magic!” my father cried, turning pale.

“Nay, he is but a boy, inches shorter than I,” I protested. “Riding his father’s charger, hearing my cry-”

“Did he speak thus?”

I admitted reluctantly that the blue lad had spoken naught, and that was no good sign. Yet in no way had the stranger hurt me or even threatened me; he had rescued me from certain horror. My parents quelled their doubts, glad now to have me safe.

But the foal was still missing. Next day I went out again to search-but this time my father went with me, carrying a stout cudgel. I called for Snowflake, but found her not. It was instead the blue lad who answered, riding across the field. I saw by sunlight that the horse was not truly blue; it was his harness that had provided the cast. Except perhaps for the mane, that shone iridescently. “What spook of evening goes abroad in the bright day?” I murmured gladly, teasing my father, for apparitions fear the sunlight.

My father hailed the youth. “Art thou the lad who rescued my daughter yesterday?”

“I am,” the lad replied. And thereby dispelled another doubt, for few monsters are able to converse in the tongues of man.

“For that my deepest thanks,” my father quoth, relieved.

“Who art thou, and where is thy residence, that thou comest so conveniently at our need?”

“I was of the village of Bront, beyond the low midvalley hills,” the lad replied.

“That village was overrun by trolls a decade past!” my father cried.

“Aye. I alone escaped, for that the monsters overlooked me when they ravaged.

Now I ride alone, my good horse my home.”

“But thou must have been but a baby then!” my father protested. ‘Trolls eat babies first-”

“I hid,” the lad said, frowning. “I saw my family eaten, yet I lacked the courage to go out from my hiding place and battle the trolls. I was a coward.

The memory is harsh, and best forgotten.”

“Of course,” my father said, embarrassed. “Yet no one would term it cowardice for a child to hide from ravaging trolls! Good it is to remember that nature herself had vengeance on that particular band of trolls, for that lightning struck the village and destroyed them all in fire.”

“Aye,” the lad murmured, his small face grim. “All save one troll cub.” At that my father looked startled, but the lad continued: “Thou searches! for the lost foal? May I assist?”

My father thought to demur, but knew it would draw blame upon himself if he declined any available help, even in a hopeless quest. “If thou hast a notion.

We know not where to begin.”

“I am on tolerable terms with the wild equines,” the lad said. “If the Lady were to ride with me to the herds and question those who may know …”

I was startled to hear myself defined as “Lady,” for I was but a grown girl, and I saw my father was similarly surprised. But we realized that to a lad as small as this I might indeed seem mature.

“This is a kind offer,” my father said dubiously. “Yet I would not send two young people on such a quest alone, and I lack the time myself-”

“Oh, please!” I pleaded, wheedling. “How could harm come on horseback?” I did not find it expedient to remind my father that I had gotten into trouble on horseback very recently, when I dismounted in the wood near the trolls. “We could range carefully-” Also, I wanted very much to see the wild horse herds, a thing seldom privileged to villagers.

“Thy mare is in mourning for her foal,” my father said, finding another convenient objection. “Starshine is in no condition for such far riding. She knows not thy mission.”

I clouded up in my most appealing manner. But before I spoke, the lad did. “I know the steed for her, sir. It is the Hinny. The mare of lightest foot and keenest perception in the wilds. She could sniff out the foal, if any could.”

I clapped my hands in that girlish way I had. “Oh, yes!” I knew nothing about that horse except that a hinny was the sterile issue of stallion and jenny, most like a mule but prettier, yet already I was eager to ride her.

My father, more sensible than I, brooded. “A hinny, and wild. I trust this not. Such crossbreeds bear little good will to men.”

“True,” the blue lad said. He never contradicted my father directly. “But this is not any hinny. She is the Hinny. She can be bred, but only by my blue stallion. For that price she will be the best mount anyone could ask. She is fit and wise in the ways of the wilderness; no creature durst cross her, not even a troll or dragon. Like unto a unicorn she is, almost.”

My father wavered, for he had a deep respect for good horses. To encourage his acquiescence, I threatened to cloud again. I had a certain talent at that, and my father had a certain weakness for it; oft had we played this little game.

“Canst thou summon this hinny here?” he inquired, temporizing. “I would examine this animal.”

The lad put fingers to his mouth and whistled piercingly. Immediately, it seemed, there was the sound of galloping, and an animal came. What a creature it was! She was shades of gray, lighter on the flanks and withers, darker at the extremities with a mane of both shades a good yard long that rippled languorously in the breeze. Her tail, too, was variegated gray, like carven onyx, and flowed like the waves of an ocean.

My father, prepared to be skeptical, gaped. “The speed of that horse!” he breathed. “The lines of her!”

“Thy daughter will be safe on her,” the blue lad assured him. “What the Hinny cannot defeat she can outrun, except for the unicorns, who leave her alone.

Once she accepts the commission, she will guard her rider with her life.”

But my father was already lost. He stared at the Hinny, the most beautifully structured mare ever to be seen in our village. I knew he would have given his left hand to own such a mount. “And she hearkens to thy summons,” he said, awed.

“Nay,” the lad demurred quickly. “Only to my stallion.”

Then he approached the Hinny and extended his hand, slowly, as one must do for a strange horse, allowing her to sniff it. Her ears were angled halfway back, silken gray. When they tilted forward, reassured, he addressed her directly.

“Hinny, I require a service of thee, for the price thou knowest.” The mare switched her nacreous tail and lifted her head.

She was by no means large, standing about fifteen hands tall, but she had a slender elegance that made her classic. She glanced sidelong at the blue stallion, and it was as if magic electricity lifted her mane. She was interested.

“A service for a service,” my father murmured, intrigued. He contemplated the lines of the blue stallion, recognizing in this creature the very finest of the breed. The foal of such a union would be special.

“Thou must bear this Lady,” the blue lad said, indicating me. “Thou must carry her on her search for her lost foal, and bring her back safely to her father.

I will travel with thee, assisting. An we find the foal not, but the Lady is safe, payment will be honored. Agreed?”

“How can a horse comprehend all that?” my father muttered skeptically. But the Hinny surveyed him with such uncanny certainty that he could not protest further.

The Hinny now oriented on me. I held out my hand and she smelled it, then sniffed along the length of my arm, across my shoulder and up to my face. Her muzzle was gray velvet, her breath warm mist with the sweetness of cured hay.

I loved her that moment.

The Hinny turned back to the blue lad, one ear moving forward with agreement.

My father found himself unable to protest; he too was enthralled by the mare.

And it seemed but a moment until arrangements were complete and we were riding out, the Hinny’s canter so gentle I could close my eyes and hardly know we were moving, yet so swift that the wind was like that of a storm. I had never before ridden a steed like her! It seemed but another moment, but when I opened mine eyes we were miles from my village, proceeding west toward the interior of the continent where the greatest magic lay. The groves and dales were passing like the wind. No horse could maintain such a pace, so smoothly-yet the Hinny ranged beside the blue stallion, now and then covertly turning a sleek ear on him; she desired the service only he could serve. I wondered fleetingly whether it could be like that for me as well, with only one man destined to be my husband. Little did I know how close to the truth that was, and that he was as close to me then as the stallion to the Hinny.

“Whither do we go?” I asked the lad.

“The wild horses should know where thy foal has strayed,” he replied. “They range widely, but my steed is searching them out.”

“Aye,” I said. “But will they not flee at the approach of our kind?”

He only smiled. Soon we spied a herd, and its stallion lifted his head toward us, and stomped the ground in warning. But the blue lad put his two hands to his mouth, forming a conch, and blew a whistle-note, and at that signal all the horses relaxed, and remained for our approach.

“They respond to thy whistle?” I asked, perplexed.

“They know my stallion,” he said easily.

So it seemed. The wild stallion was a great buckskin with dark legs, not as large as the blue stallion. The two sniffed noses and thereafter politely ignored each other. The Hinny was ignored from the start; she was not quite their kind, being half-breed.

The lad dismounted, and I followed. It had been a long, fast ride, but both of us were excellent riders, and both our steeds were easy to use. They grazed, for horses are ever hungry. We passed among the small herd-and strange it was to be around these wild horses, who never ordinarily tolerated the nearness of man. I was in young delight. They were mostly fine, healthy mares, with a few foals, but one among them ailed. The blue lad went to this one, a spindly colt, and ran his hands over the animal’s body, and the dam watched without interference while I stood amazed.

“What’s wrong with him?” I asked, for I could not determine the malady. I, who thought I knew horses.

“Spirit worms,” the lad responded absently. “A magical infestation, common in this region.” Then he said to the colt in a singsong lilt: “Comest thou to me, the worms will flee.” It was nonsense verse, a joke-yet suddenly the colt perked up, took a step toward the lad, and there was a ripple in the air as invisible yet ugly somethings wriggled away. Instantly the colt seemed healthier, and his dam nickered gratefully. I realized that a little encouragement was all the colt had needed; he was not really sick, merely undernourished.

The blue lad approached the herd stallion and said: “We search for a lost foal, that went astray yesterday. Hast thou seen it, or dost thou know aught of it?”

The stallion glanced at me as though requiring news from me, and I said: “It is a filly, only a month old, pure white and lovely and helpless. I call her Snowflake.”

The stallion snorted.

“He says he has not seen the foal,” the blue lad said. “But he knows of one who collects white foals, and found one in this area, and that is the Snow Horse.”

“Where is this Snow Horse?” I asked.

“He knows not, for the Snow Horse ranges far and associates not with ordinary equines. Only Peg can tell where he might be now.”

“Peg?” I asked, perplexed.

“I will take thee to her.” We remounted our steeds and were off again like the wind. We ranged south across plains and woods, fording streams and surmounting hills as if they were nothing. We passed a young unicorn stallion grazing; he had pretty green and orange stripes, and his hooves were ebony, and his horn spiraled pearl. He started up, approaching us, and I grew nervous, for that the unicorn is to the horse as the tiger is to the housecat. But he merely ran beside us, and then drew ahead, racing us. He wanted to play.

The blue lad smiled, and leaned forward, and the blue stallion leaped ahead as though he had been merely idling before, and the Hinny set back her ears and launched herself after him. Oh, these fine animals loved a race! Now the ground shot behind in a green blur, and trees passed like arrows, and I clung to the Hinny’s quicksilver mane for fear I would fall, though her gait remained wonderfully smooth. We passed the unicorn.

Now the unicorn lengthened his stride and made great leaps, passing right over bushes and rocks while we had to go around them. He recovered the lead, flinging his tail up in a mirthful salute. But again the blue stallion bore down, and the Hinny’s body became like a hawk flying through a gale, and we pounded out a pace that passed the homed stallion again. Never had I traveled at such velocity! A third time the unicorn accelerated, and now his body was shimmering with heat, and fire blasted from his nostrils, and sparks cast up from his hooves, and slowly he moved ahead of us once more. This time we could not match him, for that our steeds carried burdens and were merely physical equines, not magical. Yet had we given that unicorn a good race, and made him heat before he bested us. Very few natural horses could do that.

We eased off, cooling, and I patted the Hinny’s shoulder. “Thou’rt the finest mare I ever met,” I murmured. “I could ride with thee forever and never be bored.” And so I believed.

Then we came to the purple slope of the great southern range of mountains, ascending until the air was rare and the growing things were stunted. There on a crag was a huge nest, and in it lay what at first I took to be a monstrous bird, for that I saw the feathers on it. Then the creature stood, perceiving our approach, and spread its wings-and lo, it was a horse!

“Peg,” the blue lad called. “We crave the favor of information. Wilst thou trade for it?”

Peg launched into the air, circled briefly, spiraled to the ground and folded her pinions. The white feathers covered her whole body so that only her legs and tail and head projected, and the tail also had feathers that could spread for aid in navigation in air. I had not before imagined how large such wings would be! She neighed, her nose flicking toward the nest.

“Mayst thou have what’s best for thy new nest, the lad said appreciatively, again in that lilt.

Then I noticed what I had not seen before: a pile of vines, perchance the refuse of some farmer’s harvest, too long and tough to be ground for fodder.

Peg went to them as though she too had only now become aware, tugging one out with her teeth, delighted. This was ideal fiber for her nest. She neighed again.

“She says the Snow Horse is moving toward its fastness in the White Mountains, and will be there by dawn tomorrow,” the lad said. “For us it will be a ride of more than a day; we shall have to camp the night.”

‘Thou dost understand the language of horses?” I asked, remembering how he had seemingly conversed with the stallion of the herd, too. There was so much I knew not, then!

He nodded. “How could I love them as I do, and not converse with them? Who is better company than a horse?” And of course I could not gainsay that.

We mounted and rode north. It was noon, and we had far to go; we slanted north and west, wending toward the white range. We halted for an hour when we came across a grove of apple trees; we fed ourselves and our steeds on delicious apples. The Hinny ate from my hand, and how I wished she could be mine for life, but I knew she was only on loan. I was not sorry this quest was stretching out; I wanted to save Snowflake, but I wanted also to be a little longer with the Hinny, and to experience more of the magic of the interior wilds of Phaze.

In the early afternoon we halted again, for our steeds had to graze and rest.

The blue lad found raspberries growing on a slope, and a streamlet with freshest water, and some ripe grain. He gathered dry wood and made a small fire; from his saddlebag he brought a pot. We boiled the grain until it was tender. I did not realize then that he had used magic to facilitate things; the farthest thing from my mind was that he could be Adept. He was only, after all, a boy!

He brought next from his saddlebag-he had a bag without a saddle, oddly-some material that he formed into a canopy for me beside the fire. I lay down to sleep feeling quite safe, for few wild creatures brave the fire, and the two horses were grazing near.

But at dusk, as I was nodding off, glare-eyed little monsters erupted from a trapdoor in the ground and swarmed toward me. They were goblins, huge of head and foot, vicious, out for human flesh. They feared not the fire, for they used it in their subterranean demesnes. I screamed.

The Hinny was nearest me, for I had been placed in her care. Now I discovered what that meant. She squealed and charged, her hooves striking like dubs, each strike crushing a goblin’s head, while I huddled beside the fire in tenor. The goblins fought her, for they liked equine flesh almost as well as human; they scrambled up her tail, clung to her mane, and tried to grab at her feet. There were so many! I saw one get on her head, and open its big frog mouth to clamp its sharp alligator teeth on her sweet soft gray ear- and suddenly I was on my feet and there, my hands on its grotesque rat body, hurling it off her and away.

Then the blue stallion arrived, his hooves making the very ground shudder, and he bellowed a battle-challenge that nearly blasted the hair from my head and I cowered in terror though I knew it was not me he fought. The goblins panicked and fled, the stallion pursuing; where his foot struck, the broken body of a goblin flew twenty feet across the flickering night and dropped like a clod of dirt. The stallion’s eyes flashed like blue fire and the snort from his flaring nostrils was like tempest-wind and the sheen of his great muscles danced about his body as he plunged and reared and kicked. In a moment the last living goblin had vanished down the hole, and the trapdoor clanged shut.

The stallion stomped it again and again until naught save rubble remained. It would be long before the goblins used that exit again!

I collapsed in reaction. Never in my life had I been so horrified, except perhaps during the episode of the trolls, for goblins come not into the villages of the man-folk. The Hinny came and nuzzled me, and I was ashamed for that I had let her fight while I did naught. But the blue lad told me: “She thanks thee for casting the goblin from off her ear; she knows what courage it required of thee for that goblins terrify young ladies.” Then I felt better, though by no means proud, and resolved to be less squeamish in future. I stroked my hands over the bruises and scratches and bites on the Hinny’s body, helping to heal them and abate the discomfort, and she nudged me with that so-soft nose and everything was nice.

The goblins came not again-and who would have, after tasting the wrath of the blue stallion? I slept safely until dawn. The blue lad was up before me, and had found ripe pears from whence I knew not, and we ate and mounted and were off again. I thought I might be sore from the prior day’s riding, but the Hinny’s gait was so gentle I suffered not at all. I wondered what the winged horse’s gait was like; what was the cadence of footfalls in air?

In due course we came to the White Mountains that bound our land ill the north, and ascended their foothills. The way grew steep, and there was hardly any easing as we crested ridges and drove on up. For the first time the Hinny’s gait became rough, as she labored to carry me on swiftly, and even the blue stallion was sweating, his nostrils flaring and pulsing with the effort.

We climbed slopes I would not have cared to navigate on foot, rising into the mountain range proper. The air grew chill, and wind came up, and I gathered my cape about me, shivering.

The blue lad glanced at me. “May I speak bold?” he inquired melodiously. “Thou art not cold.”

“Not cold,” I agreed bravely, for I knew that if we desisted this quest now, never would I find Snowflake, and evermore would I curse myself for my neglect. And, strangely, I no longer felt the chill; it was as if my clothing had become doubly insulative. It was of course his magic, that I did not recognize. I was so young then, and so innocent! We climbed on into the snows, and there in a cave halfhid in the white we found the lair of the Snow Horse.

He stood there awaiting us expectantly, a fine albino stallion whose mane and tail resembled glistening icicles and whose hooves were so pure white I could hardly tell where they left off and the packed snow beneath them began.

The lad dismounted and walked to the Snow Horse. I made to dismount too, but the Hinny swung back her head, warning me “no” with a backward glance, so I obeyed her and stayed put. I was learning already that here in the wilderness the final word was not mine.

In a moment the lad returned. “The Snow Horse did lure thy foal,” he said to me. “He thought her of his kind, for her color, but when they reached the snow she was cold, and he knew she was no snow filly and he let her go, never intending harm to her. But the snow demons came and took her ere she could return to thee.”

“The snow demons!” I exclaimed, appalled. Never had I heard good tidings of that ilk.

“Pray we are in time,” he said.

“In time?” I asked blankly. “Snowflake is lost forever! We can not brace snow demons, even if they have not yet eaten her.” I felt the hot tears burning mine eyes. “Yet if there is a chance-”

“A white foal they will save-for a while.” He mounted and led the way along the slope.

We made our way deeper into the snowy region, and the breath plumed out from the nostrils of our steeds, but still I was not cold. Then the blue stallion halted, sniffing the snow, and pawed the slope. I knew we were near the lair of the demons, and I shivered with fear, not with cold. Almost, I preferred to let the foal go-but then I thought of the demons devouring her shivering flesh, and horror restored my faint courage.

A snow demon appeared on a ledge above us. “Whooo?” it demanded, with sound like winter cutting past a frozen crag.

The blue lad did not answer in speech. He stood upon the back of his stallion and spread his arms, as if to say “Here am I!” I was both impressed and concerned. It was clever of him to keep his balance like that, but he could so readily fall and hurt himself. Though he acted as if the demon should recognize him and be awed, in fact it was a foolish posturing. An ogre or a giant might awe a demon; the lad was pitiful in his insignificance.

To my astonishment, the demon drew back as if con- fronted by a giant.

“Whiiiy?” it demanded.

The lad pointed to the Hinny, then moved his hands together to indicate small size. He had come for the foal.

The demon scratched its icicle-haired head in seeming confusion: no foal here!

The blue lad then did something strange indeed. He brought out a large harmonica-I had not known he carried such an instrument-and brought it to his mouth. He played one note-and the demon reacted as if struck. Sleet fell from it like droplets of perspiration, and it pointed down the slope. I looked-and there, in a patch of green in a narrow valley, stood my beloved Snowflake. The poor little filly was huddled and shivering, for nowhere in the White Mountains is it warm.

The demon faded back into its crevice, and we made our way down the steep slope to the valley. The way was tortuous, but the blue stallion picked out footholds where I thought none existed, and slowly we descended. It was like being lowered into a tremendous bowl, whose sides were so steep our every motion threatened to start a snowslide that could bury the foal. Oh, yes, we moved cautiously! At last we reached the patch of green. I dismounted and ran to Snowflake, and she recognized me with a whinny. The warmth that encompassed me seemed to enclose her too, and she became stronger. “Oh,” I cried, hugging her. “I’m so glad thou art safe! I feared-” But my prior worries were of no account now. The blue lad had enabled me to rescue Snowflake, even as he had promised.

Then I heard a rumble. Alarmed, I looked up-and saw the snow demons on high, pushing great balls of snow off ledges. They were starting an avalanche-and we were at the base of it! It was a trap, and no way could we escape.

For the first time I saw the blue lad angry. Yet he neither swore nor cowered.

Instead he brought out his harmonica again and played a few bars of music. It was a rough, aggressive melody-but what good it could do in the face of the onrushing doom I knew not. Soon the sound was drowned out by the converging avalanche.

The snows came down on us like the lashing of a waterfall. I screamed and hugged Snowflake, knowing our end had come. But as I braced myself for the inevitable, something strange happened.

There was a blinding flash of light and wash of heat, like as an explosion.

Then warm water swirled around my feet.

Warm water? I forced open mine eyes and looked, unbelieving. The snows had vanished. All the valley, high to the tallest surrounding peaks, was bare of snow, with only water coursing down, and steam rising in places. We had been saved by some massive invasion of spring thaw.

“It must be magic!” I cried, bewildered. “Unless this is a volcanic region.

But what a coincidence!”

The lad only nodded. Still I recognized not his power!

We walked up the slope, escaping the valley and the deepening lake that was forming at its nadir. I rode the Hinny, and Snowflake walked beside. It was a long climb, but a happy one.

At the high pass leading to the outside the cold intensified. From out of a crevice a snow demon came. “Yyoooo!” it cried windily, and with a violent gesture hurled a spell like a jag of ice at the blue lad.

But the Hinny leaped forward, intercepting that scintillating bolt with her own body. It coalesced about her front legs, and ice formed on her knees, and she stumbled, wheezing in pain. I leaped off, alarmed.

The blue lad cried out in a singsong voice, and the foul demon puffed into vapor and floated away. Then the boy came to minister to the Hinny, who was on the ground, her knees frozen.

“That bolt was meant for me,” he said. “Hinny, I can cure thee not completely, for knees are the most difficult joints to touch and thou canst not rest them now, but I will do what I can.” And he played his harmonica again, a few bold bars, then sang: “Hinny’s knees-now unfreeze.”

The ice vanished from her legs. The Hinny hauled herself to her feet. She tested her knees, and they were sturdy. But I could see some discoloration, and knew they had been weakened somewhat. It seemed she could walk or run on them, but special maneuvers might now be beyond her.

Then I realized what I should have known before. I turned to the lad. “Thou didst that!” I accused him. “Thou canst do magic!”

He nodded soberly. “I concealed it not from thee,” he said, like as a child caught with hand in cookie-jar. He was so shamefaced and penitent I had to laugh.

I put mine arm about his small shoulders and squeezed him as a big sister might. “I forgive thee,” I said. “But do not play with magic unduly, lest thou dost attract the notice of an Adept.”

He made no comment. Shamed am I to recall now the way I patronized him then, in mine ignorance! We remounted and went on out of the mountains, slowly, in deference to the Hinny’s almost-restored knees and the weakness of the foal.

At last we reached the warmth of the lowlands, and there we camped for the night. Snowflake grazed beside the Hinny, who watched out for her in the manner of a dam, and I knew the foal would not come to harm. We foraged for berries and nuts, which fortunately were plentiful and delicious. Such fortune was ever in the presence of the blue lad, for he preferred to use his magic subtly.

At dusk the sunset spread its splendor across the western sky, and in the east a blue moon rose. The lad brought out his harmonica again, faced the moon, and played. Before, he had produced only single notes and brief strident passages.

This time he started gentle, as it were tuning his instrument, warming it in his hands, playing a scale. His little hands were hardly large enough to enfold it properly, yet they were marvelously dexterous. Then, as the moon waxed and the sun waned, he essayed a melody.

I was tired, not paying real attention, so was caught by surprise. From that instrument emerged music of such beauty, such rare rapture as I had never imagined. The tune surrounded me, encompassed me, drew me into itself and transported my spirit up, high, into the ambience of the blue moon. I sailed up, as it were, into the lovely bluetinged clouds, riding on a steed made of music, wafting through blue billows toward the magic land that was the face of the moon. Larger it grew, and clearer, its landscape ever-better denned. As I came near it I saw the little blue men on its surface, blacksmiths hammering out blue steel. Bluesmiths, I suppose. Then I saw a lady in blue, and her hair was fair like mine, and she wore a lovely blue gown and blue slippers set with blue gems for buttons, and on her head a blue tiara, and she was regal and beautiful beyond belief. She turned and fixed her gaze on me, and her eyes were blue like mine-and she was me.

Amazed, flattered and alarmed, I retreated. I flew back past the blue mists like a feather-shafted arrow, and suddenly I was on the ground again. The boy stopped playing, and the melody faded hauntingly.

I realized it not then, but he had shown me the first of the three foundations of my later love for him: his music. Never in all Phaze was there a man who could make such-The Lady Blue paused, resting her head against her hand, suffering. Stile started to speak, but she cut him off savagely. “And thou, thou image, thou false likeness! Thou comest to these Demesnes bearing his harmonica, using it-”

“His?” Stile asked, astonished.

“Has it not the word ‘Blue’ etched upon it?” she demanded. “He had it imported from the other frame, to his order.”

Stile brought out the harmonica, turning it over. There, in small neat letters, was the word. “I conjured his instrument,” he murmured, awed and chagrined. “I must return it to his widow.”

She softened instantly. “Nay, it is thine. Thou art the Blue Adept, now. Use it well, as he did.” Then she returned to her narrative.

I shook my head. “Never have I heard the like, thou darling child!” I said.

“How could a lad thine age master music so well?”

He thought a moment, pensive in his concentration, as though pondering some weighty ethical matter. Then he replied: “May I show thee my village on the morrow? It is not far out of our way.”

“Was not that village destroyed?” I asked thoughtlessly.

“Aye, it was.”

I was sorry for my question. “Of course we can go there, if it please thee.

Unless the trolls remain-”

“No trolls remain,” he assured me gravely, and I remembered that lightning had destroyed the trolls.

Next day we came to the site. It was nothing, only a glade of greenest grass and a few mounds. All had been destroyed and overgrown. I was vaguely disappointed, having anticipated something more dramatic-yet what is dramatic about long-past death?

“May I show thee how it was?” he inquired, his small face serious.

“Of course,” I said graciously, not understanding what he meant.

“Go and graze;” he said to our steeds. They moved out gladly, and little Snowflake with them.

Then the blue lad played his harmonica again. Once more the absolutely lovely music leaped out, encompassing us, and some intangible presence formed. I saw a cloud about the glade, and then it thinned to reveal a village, with people going about their business, washing clothing, eating, hammering horseshoes, playing. I realized that this was a vision of his home as it had been, years ago, before the disaster. A village very like mine own.

The village was perhaps a little better organized than mine, however, more compact, with the houses in a ring and a central court for socializing and supervision of the children. Mine was a sea-village, mainly, open to the water; this was an inland establishment, closed against the threats of the land. The sun was shining brightly-but then the shadows moved visibly, and I knew this was to show time passing. Night fell, and the village closed down.

Then in the stillness of dark the trolls came, huge, gaunt and awful. Somehow they had broken through the enchantment that protected the village, and they descended on it in a ravening horde. Faintly I heard the screams as the monsters pounced upon sleeping villagers. Men woke fighting, but each troll was large and strong, and there were many of them. I saw a woman torn apart by two trolls who were fighting over possession; they laughed with great grotesque guffaws as her left arm ripped out of its socket, and the troll holding that arm was angry because he had the smaller share, and clubbed the other troll with it while blood splattered everywhere. But then a screaming child ran by, a little girl, and the troll caught that child and brought her to its face and opened its awful mouth and- and bit off her screaming head.

Then the image faded, mercifully, for I was screaming myself. Never had I seen such horror! The darkness covered all. After a pause, the dawn came. The trolls were hidden in the houses, gorged; they would not go abroad by light of day, and suffered no fires, for that they were the opposite of goblins in this respect and the light was painful to them. They had buried themselves under piled blankets, shutting out all signs of the day. They were safe; no villager remained alive.

No-one remained. A child, a boy-he emerged from the trunk of a hollow tree. It seemed he had been playing in it when the trolls descended, or doing something he wasn’t supposed to, like practicing spells, then had hidden frozen in fright until dawn made it safe to emerge. Now he stood, surveying the ruin-and it was the blue lad.

“Thou!” I exclaimed. “Thou didst witness it all! Thy village, thy family, most brutally destroyed!”

“Have no sympathy for me,” he replied grimly. “I was transformed that hideous night from youth to enchanter. I realized that no force but magic could restore the balance, and so-” He spread his hands. “Look what I did.”

I looked-and saw the figure in the image raise his hands, and I heard him faintly singing, though I could not make out the words. Then, suddenly, a ring of fire appeared, encircling the village, blazing ferociously. Magic fire, I knew, but still fierce and hot. It burned inward, not outward, while the blue lad watched. He must have spent his sleepless hours in hiding devising that terrible spell, perfecting it. It ignited the outer thatch cottages. Now the trolls woke, and ran about in the fire, burning, terrified- but they could escape only inward toward the center of the village. And there the fire pursued them, itself a ravening demon.

Now it was the trolls who gibbered in horror, and were granted no reprieve, as they huddled in the center of the village, heads covered, backs to the fire.

Inevitably it closed on them, torturing them before it consumed them, and then fain would I have felt sorry for the trolls, but that I remembered the woman torn apart and the decapitated child. No mercy for the merciless! The trolls fought each other, trying to keep place in the closing circle, showing not the faintest compassion for their fellows, only selfishness.

At last the dread fire burned itself out, its magic consuming flesh as readily as wood. Only mounds and ashes remained. All of the trolls had been destroyed.

Except- except there was a stirring in a mound, and from it came a little troll, that must have been deeply buried by its mother, so that it alone survived. Now it looked about and wailed, afraid of the coming day.

The blue lad spied it, and knew that this one could not have killed any people, and he cast a spell of darkness that clothed it, and let the little troll go. “Thou’rt like me,” the blue lad quoth. Then he turned his back on what had been his home, and walked away. The music stopped and the vision dissipated. I looked across at the blue lad. He had shown me his second major component: his power. Yet I did not realize, or perhaps refused to let myself know, the significance of this deadly ability.

“Thou-thou wast as thou art now!” I exclaimed. “Thou hast not changed, not grown. But the destruction of thy village occurred ten years ago! How could-”

“I was seventeen,” he replied.

“And now thou’rt-twenty-seven?” I asked, realizing it was true. “I thought thee twelve!”

“I am small for my size,” he said, smiling. He was as much older than I, than I had thought him younger. No child of twelve, but a full-grown man. “I-” I began, nonplussed.

“Thou didst ask how a person my age could play the harmonica so well,” he reminded me.

“Aye, that I did,” I agreed ruefully. Now that the joke was turned on me, I felt at ease.

The blue lad-blue man-summoned our steeds, and we proceeded on. We made good progress, and arrived the next day at mine own village. Almost, I had been afraid I would find it a smoking ruin, but of course this was a foolish fantasy born of the horror I had viewed. My folks rushed out to greet me in sheer gladness, and Snowflake was reunited with her dam Starshine, and all was gladness and relief.

Then the blue man said to his blue stallion: “Go service the Hinny; she has completed her pact with me.” And the stallion went off into the privacy of the forest with the Hinny, who must have been in heat-aye, in heat from the first time she spied that stallion!-and I was glad for her. She would have her foal, and well had she earned it.

My father’s gaze followed them. “What a stallion! What a mare!” he murmured.

“Surely that foal shall be like none known among us.”

The blue man shrugged, and said to me: “Lady, an thou ever needest me, sing these words: ‘Blue to me-I summon thee.'” Then he turned to my father, thinking me distracted by my tearful mother, for that my days-long absence had worried them much. “Sir, may I marry thy daughter?” he asked, as if this were a question about the weather.

My mouth dropped open in sheerest surprise, and I could not speak.

“Art thou the Blue Adept?” my father asked in return.

I was stunned again, knowing suddenly the answer. How could I have missed it, I who had seen his power!

Then the Blue Adept shook hands with my father and walked in the direction the horses had gone. No answers had been given, for none were needed. Normal people associated not with Adepts, and married them never.

The Lady Blue finished her narrative and looked up at Stile. “Now canst thou go about thy business. Adept,” she said.

“I thank thee, Lady,” Stile said, and departed her presence.

——————————————————————————

CHAPTER 3 – Proton.

Neysa carried Stile across the fields to the forest where the nearest usable fold of the curtain passed. “While Hulk remains away, and I am in the other frame, do thou protect the Lady Blue from harm,” Stile murmured as she galloped. “I have no better friend than thee to do this bidding.”

The unicorn snorted musically. He hardly needed to tell her! Were they not oath-friends?

They reached the curtain, where it scintillated faintly in the shadowed glade.

“I will try to return in a day,” Stile said. “If I do not-”

Neysa blew a word-note: “Hulk.”

“That’s right. Send Hulk after me. He knows the frame, he knows the Game.

Should anything untoward happen to me in Proton-frame-”

She blasted vehement negation. Her horn could sound quite emphatic on occasion.

“Oh, I’ll look out for myself,” he assured her. “And Sheen is my bodyguard there. She has saved me often enough. But in the remote chance that-well, thou canst go and get bred immediately, and raise thy foal-”

Neysa cut him off with a noise-note, and Stile let the subject drop. It had been difficult enough getting her to accept the fact of his Adept status; she was not about to accept the prospect of his demise. He hoped he would not disappoint her.

Stile faced the curtain. Through it he made out the faint outline of a lighted hall, and piles of crates. A person was walking down the hall, so Stile waited until it was clear. Most people had no awareness of the curtain, and there was a tacit agreement among curtain-crossers that the ignorance of such people be allowed to remain pristine. Then he hummed an impromptu tune as he undressed and folded his clothing carefully and hid it away in the crotch of a branch.

As he stood naked, Neysa shifted into naked girl-form, embraced him, kissed him, and laughed. “I am like Proton!”

“Takes more than nakedness to be part of Proton frame,” Stile said gruffly.

“Thou’rt full of mischief, unicorn.” He disengaged from her and resumed his humming before the curtain.

“Send me all into that hall,” he singsonged, stepping forward.

He felt the tingle as he passed through. He was in the hall, naked, alone. He turned around and faced Neysa, who was faintly visible beyond the curtain. She had shifted back to her natural form. “Bye, friend,” he called, and waved to her.

Then he went resolutely back and walked rapidly down the hall. It was strange being bare again, after getting accustomed to the mores of the other frame.

Soon the hall intersected a main travel route, where many naked serfs walked swiftly toward their places of employment. He merged with them, becoming largely anonymous. He was smaller than all the men and most of the women and some of the children, but he was used to this. He still resented the disparaging glances some serfs cast at him, but reminded himself that a person who made a value judgment of another person solely in consideration of size was in fact advertising his own incompetence to judge. Still, Stile was glad to get out of the public hall and into his private apartment.

His handprint keyed open the door. Stile stepped inside.

A naked man looked up, frowning. For a moment they stared at each other. Then the other stood. “Sheen did not tell me you would return this hour. I shall retire.”

“One moment,” Stile said. He recognized the man as his double: the robot who filled in for him while he was in the magic frame of Phaze. Without this machine. Stile’s absences would become too obvious, and that could make mischief. “I have not encountered you before. Does Sheen treat you well?”

“Sheen ignores me,” the robot said. “Except when others are present. This is proper in the circumstance.”

“Yet you are programmed to resemble me in all things. Don’t you get bored?”

“A machine of my type does not get bored unless so directed.”

“Not even when you are put away in the closet?”

“I am deactivated at such times.”

This bothered Stile, who felt sympathy for all oppressed creatures. “If you ever do feel dissatisfied, please let me know. I’ll put in a word for you with the mistress.”

“Thank you for your courtesy,” the robot said without emotion. “It does not fit my present need. I am a machine. Should I retire now?”

“When is Sheen due back?”

“In four minutes, fifteen seconds from … mark.”

“Yes, retire now. I’ll cover for you.”

The robot, of course, did not assimilate the humor. Robots came in many types and levels, and this one was relatively unsophisticated. It had no consciousness feedback circuits. It walked to the wall, looking completely human; it bothered Stile to realize that this was exactly the way he looked to others, so small and nondescript. The robot opened a panel and stepped into the closet-aperture behind. In a moment it was out of sight and deactivated.

Stile was reminded of the golem that had impersonated him, or rather, impersonated his alternate self the Blue Adept until he. Stile, arrived on the scene to destroy it. What was the difference, really, between a golem and a humanoid robot? One was activated by magic, the other by science. There were more parallels between these two frames than geographical Stile sat down at the table the robot had left. A game of cards-solitaire-was laid out. If the robot did not experience boredom, why was it playing cards? Answer: because Stile himself would have done this, if bored, sharpening obscure Game-skills.

The robot probably followed Stile’s program of acrobatic exercises, too, though it could hardly benefit from these. It was emulating him, so as to improve verisimilitude-the appearance of authenticity.

He analyzed the situation of the cards, then resumed play. He was deep in it when the door opened and Sheen appeared.

She was beautiful. She was only slightly taller than he, with over-perfect proportions-breasts slightly larger and firmer and more erect than the computer-standard ideal for her size and age; waist a trifle smaller, abdomen flatter, hips and buttocks fuller-and luxuriantly flowing fair hair. The average man wanted a better-than-average woman; in fact he wanted a better-than-ideal woman, his tastes distorted by centuries of commercialized propaganda that claimed that a woman in perfect health and fitness was somehow less than lovely. Stile’s tastes were average- therefore Sheen was far from average.

She reminded him moderately of another girl he had known, years ago: a woman smaller than himself, a female jockey he had thought he loved. Tune had been her name, and from that encounter on he had been addicted to music. Yet Sheen, he knew objectively, was actually a prettier and better woman. She had only one flaw-and he was not inclined to dwell on that at the moment.

Stile rose and went to her, taking her in his arms. “Oh- is someone here?” she asked, surprised.

“No one,” he said, bringing her in for a kiss. “Let’s make love.”

“With a robot? Don’t be silly.” She tried to break free of his embrace, but he only held her more tightly.

“It is best with a robot,” he assured her.

“Oh.” She considered momentarily. “All right.”

Oops. She was going along with it! “All right?” he demanded. “Just how far do you go with robots?”

“My best friends are robots,” she assured him. “Come to the bed.”

Angry now. Stile let her go. But she was laughing. “You amorous idiot!” she exclaimed. “Did you think I didn’t know you?” And she flung her arms about him and kissed him with considerably more passion than before.

“What gave me away?” Stile asked.

“Aside from the differences between man and robot that I, of all people, know?” she inquired mischievously. “Things like body radiation, perspiration, heartbeat, respiration and the nuances of living reactions?”

“Aside from those,” Stile said, feeling foolish. He should have known he couldn’t fool her even a moment. “Your hands are tanned,” she said. He looked at them. Sure enough, there was a distinct demarcation where his Phaze-clothing terminated, leaving his hands exposed to ‘the strong rays of the outdoor sun. All living-areas on Proton were domed, with the sunlight filtered to nondestructive intensity, so that only moderate tanning occurred.

And of course there were no demarcations on the bodies of people who wore no clothing. Not only did this uneven tanning distinguish him from the robot, it distinguished him from the other serfs of Proton! “I’ll have to start wearing gloves in Phaze!”

“No such heroic measures are necessary,” she assured him. She brought out some tinted hand lotion and worked it into his hands, converting them to untanned color.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” Stile said gratefully.

“You’d stay in Phaze the whole time, with that blue lady.”

“No doubt.”

“Well, this is another world,” she informed him. “I had a piece of you before you ever knew she existed. You have a good six hours before the first Game of the Tourney, and I know exactly how to spend it.”

She did, too. She was as amorous as she was lovely, and she existed only to guard and to please him. It was easy to yield to her. More than easy.

Afterward, as they lay on the bed, she inquired: “And how exactly are things in Phaze?”

“I killed the golem who was impersonating me, and gave my friend Kurrelgyre the werewolf advice on how to regain his standing in his pack-”

“I know about that. You returned here for the final pre-Tourney qualifying Game, remember? What did you do on your last trip there?”

“The werewolves and the unicorns helped me to establish my identity as the Blue Adept,” Stile said, grossly simplifying the matter. “I do magic now. But I have to fight the unicorn Herd Stallion to preserve Neysa from breeding for a season.”

“I like Neysa,” Sheen said. “But doesn’t she get jealous of the Lady Blue?”

“No, they are oath-friends now. Neysa knows my destiny lies with my own kind.”

“With the Lady Blue,” Sheen said.

Stile realized he had carelessly hurt Sheen. “She is not of this world, as you pointed out.”

“That’s what you think. It’s a different world, but she’s here too. She can’t cross the curtain, can she? So she must have a double on this side.”

Stile suffered a shock of amazement. “That’s right! There must be another self of her living here. My ideal woman, all the time right here in Proton.” Then he caught himself. “An ideal-”

“Oh, never mind,” Sheen said. “We both know I’m not your kind, however much I might wish to be.”

“But why did you tell me-”

“Neysa helped you reach the Lady, didn’t she? Can I do less?”

There was that. Sheen identified with Neysa, and tried to emulate her reactions. “Actually, I can’t afford to go looking for her now-and what would I do if I found her?”

“I’m sure you’d think of something,” Sheen said wryly. “Men usually do.”

Stile smiled. “Contrary to appearances, there is more than one concern on this male mind. I am fated to love the Lady Blue, though she may not be fated to love me-but how can I love two of her? I really have no business with her Proton-alternate.”

“You don’t want to see her?”

“I don’t dare see her.”

“My friends can readily locate her for you.”

“Forget it. It would only complicate my life, and it is already somewhat too complicated for equanimity. How long can I continue functioning in two frames?

I feel a bit like a bigamist already, and I’m not even married.”

“You really ought to settle this.”

He turned on her. “Why are you doing this?” But he knew why. He had hurt her, and she was expiating the hurt by exploring it to the limit. There was a certain logic in this; there was always logic in what Sheen did. They both knew he could never truly love Sheen or marry her, any more than he could have loved or married Neysa. Sheen would always love him, but could never be more to him than a temporary mistress and guardian.

“You’re right,” she said, her pursuit abated by his pointed question. “It is best forgotten. I shall store it in the appropriate memory bank.”

“You don’t forget something by remembering it!”

“We have a Tourney to win,” she reminded him, aptly changing the subject in the manner of her sex.

“You understand,” he cautioned her. “I can not reasonably expect to win the Tourney. I’m not at my peak Game capacity, and in a large-scale double-elimination competition like this I can get lost in the crush.”

“And if you lose early, your tenure as a Proton serf ends, and you’ll have to stay in Phaze, and I’ll never see you again,” Sheen said. “You have reason to try. We need to find out who has been trying to kill you here, and you can only pursue an effective investigation if you become a Citizen.”

“There is that,” he agreed. He thought of the anonymous Citizen who had had his knees lasered and gotten him washed out as a jockey. The series of events that action had precipitated had paradoxically enriched his life immeasurably, introducing him to the entire frame of Phaze-yet still an abiding anger smouldered. He had a score to settle with someone-and Sheen was right, it was an incentive to win the Tourney if he possibly could. For the winner would be granted the ultimate prize of Proton:

Citizenship. Runners-up would receive extensions of their tenure and the chance to compete again in a subsequent Tourney. So he did have a chance, a good chance because of his Game abilities-but the odds of final victory remained substantially against him.

He wondered, coincidentally, whether the history the Lady Blue had recently related had any bearing. A snow demon had fired a freeze-spell at the Blue Adept, and it had caught the Hinny and damaged her knees. Stile had been lasered in the knees while riding a horse. Was this an example of the parallelism of the two frames? Things did tend to align, one way or another, but sometimes the route was devious.

“One Game at a time,” Sheen said. “If and when you lose, I’ll just have to abide by that. I know you’ll try.”

“I’ll try,” he agreed.

They reported on schedule to the Game Annex. Sheen could not accompany him inside; only Tourney entrants were permitted now. She would go to a Spectator Annex and tune in his game on holo, unless it happened to be one in which a live audience was permitted. She would lend her applause and opinion when feedback opportunity occurred.

There was a line at the entrance. There was hardly ever such a crowd-but the Tourney came just once a year. Six hundred serfs had to report at once, and though the Game facilities were extensive, this was a glut.

When he stepped inside, the Game Computer interviewed him efficiently.

“Identity?” a voice inquired from a holographic image of the capital letters GC suspended a meter before him at head height. The computer could make any image and any sound emanate from anywhere, but kept it token. Proton was governed by Citizens, not by machines, and the smart machine maintained that in memory constantly.

“Stile, serf, ladder 35M, Rung 5.” That gave his name, status, age, sex and the fact that he had qualified for the Tourney by holding the fifth rung of the competitive ladder for his bracket: the minimum entry requirement. He could have been first on his ladder had he gone for it earlier; he was actually one of the best players extant. But all that really counted was qualification. All had equal Tourney status.

“Stile 35M-5, assigned number 281 for Round One only,” the voice of the Game Computer said. A decal emerged from a slot. Stile took it and set it against his forehead. Now he was marked, for the purpose of this Round, with the number and name: 281 STILE. “Proceed to the 276300 sub-annex and encounter your opposite number. Your Game will be announced in due course. Respond immediately or forfeit.”

“Acknowledged,” Stile said. The floating GC faded out and he proceeded to the designated annex. For this Round, a number of waiting rooms and hall alcoves had been converted to rendezvous points. After the first few Rounds many of these would revert to their normal uses, as the number of entrants decreased.

Already the annex was filling. Each person wore the decal on his or her forehead, all numbers in the 276-300 range. Most were naked men and women, some familiar to him. But before Stile could fully orient, a clothed man stepped forward. “Salutation, opposite number,” the man said.

Stile was taken aback. This was a Citizen, fully garbed in tan trousers, white shirt, jacket and shoes. But he did bear the number on his forehead: 281, with no name. Citizens were generally anonymous to serfs. Anonymity was a privilege of status that showed most obviously in the clothing that concealed bodily contours. Serfs had no secrets.

“Sir,” Stile said.

“We are all equal, ad hoc,” the Citizen said. He was handsome and tall, a good decade older than Stile, and as self-assured as all Citizens were. “Come converse in a nook.” He put his hand on Stile’s elbow, guiding him.

“Yes, sir,” Stile agreed numbly. His first match was against a Citizen! Of course he had known that Citizens participated in the Tourney; he just had not thought in terms of playing against one himself. On Proton there were two classes: the Citizens and the serfs. The Haves and the Have-nots. Stile himself was employed by a Citizen, as every serf was; no unemployed serf was permitted on the planet beyond a brief grace period, and no employed serf could remain beyond his twenty-year tenure-with certain very limited exceptions. This was part of what the Tourney was about.

The Citizen guided him to a bench, then sat down beside him. This alleviated his third-of-a-meter advantage in height, but not his immeasurable advantage in status. “I am popularly known as the Rifleman. Possibly you have heard of me.”

Stile suffered a second shock. “The Tourney winner-fifteen years ago! I watched that Game … sir.”

The Rifleman smiled. “Yes, I was a serf like you. I won my Citizenship the hard way. Now the perennial lure of the Game brings me back. You never do get it out of your system! Who are you?”

“Sir, I am-”

“Ah, now I connect! Stile is the designation of one of the top current Gamesmen! I had not realized your tenure was expiring.”

“It had three years to go, sir. But I had a problem with my employer.”

“Ah, I see. So you had to go for double or nothing. Well, this is a pleasure!

I’ve entered other Tourneys since my ascent, but the moment I matched with a serf he would throw it into CHANCE, and two or three of those in succession washed me out early. It is hard to beat a person unless he thinks he can beat you. I’m sure you will give me an excellent game.”

“Yes, sir,” Stile agreed. “I don’t like CHANCE.” He didn’t like having to play a Citizen either, but that could not be said here. Of all the people to encounter this early! A former Tourney winner! No wonder the Rifleman’s opponents in other Tourneys-a Citizen could enter anything he wanted, of course, being immune to the rules governing serfs-had avoided honest contests.

CHANCE was at least a 50-50 proposition, instead of a virtually guaranteed loss. It was axiomatic that the poorer players preferred CHANCE, while the better ones disliked it, and the top players wished it would be abolished as a category.

Stile had been twenty years old, already an avid follower of Tourneys, when the Rifleman fought his way up to ultimate victory by shooting six target ducks against his opponent’s three. A highly skilled player, who had of course taken a name reflective of that victory.

But that had been a long time back. The man could be out of practice and out of shape. Unless he had been practicing privately. Yet why should a Citizen bother? He had nothing to win in the Tourney. A Citizen, almost by definition, had everything. Fabulous wealth, power, and prestige. If a Citizen saw an attractive serf-girl, he could hire her and use her and fire her, all within the hour. It would not even occur to her to protest. A Citizen could have a household of humanoid robots, virtually indistinguishable from living people (until one got to know them, which did not take long) to serve his every need.

The finest creature comforts of the galaxy were his, and the most exotic entertainments. Small wonder that many Citizens grew indolent and fat!

“I can virtually read your thoughts,” the Citizen said. “And I will answer them. I am not in the shape I was when I won, but I have practiced somewhat and remain reasonably formidable. Of course I lack motive, now; victory will not benefit me, and defeat will not harm me. Yet it would be satisfying to win it again.”

Stile was spared the awkwardness of answering by the Game Computer’s introductory announcement. “Attention all entrants. The Tourney roster is now complete: four hundred Citizens, six hundred serfs, and twenty-four aliens.

Pairing for individual matches is random each Round. The Tourney is double-elimination; only entrants with two losses are barred from further competition. Serfs among the final sixty-four survivors will receive one year extension of tenure. Those proceeding beyond that level will receive commensurately greater rewards. The Tourney winner will be granted Proton Citizenship. Judging of all matches in the objective sphere is by computer; subjective judging is by tabulated audience-response; special cases by panels of experts. Bonus awards will be granted for exceptional Games. Malingerers will forfeit.” There was a momentary pause as the computer shifted from general to specific. Now it would be addressing the annexes individually.

“Gamepair 276 report to grid.”

Hastily two serfs rose, a man and a woman, and walked to the grid set up in the center of the room. They began the routine of Game-selection.

“Ah, this is like old times,” the Rifleman said appreciatively.

“Yes, sir,” Stile agreed. He would have liked to follow the first couple’s progress, but of course he could not ignore the Citizen. “Not old to me, sir.”

“Contemporary times for you, of course,” the Citizen said. “I have followed your progress intermittently. You have played some excellent Games. Perhaps I misremember, don’t you happen also to be an excellent equestrian?”

“I was a winning jockey, yes, sir,” Stile agreed.

“Ah, now it comes back! You were lasered. Anonymously.”

“Through the knees, yes, sir.”

“That had to have been the action of a Citizen.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Citizens are a law unto themselves.” The Rifleman smiled. “Don’t forget, I was a serf for nineteen years, and a Citizen only fifteen. My fundamental values are those of the serf. However, I doubt that even most birthright Citizens would approve such vandalism. There are licit and illicit ways to do business, and no Citizen should need to resort to the illicit. A rogue Citizen would be a menace to other Citizens, and therefore should be dealt with firmly for a practical as well as legal reason.”

“Yes, sir.”

“As you know, I am in this Tourney merely for titillation. I now perceive a way to increase that interest. Allow me to proffer this wager: if you overmatch me in this Round, I shall as consequence make an investigation into the matter of the lasering and report to you before you depart the planet.

Agreed?”

No serf could lightly say no to any Citizen, and Stile had no reason to demur.

He wanted very much to know the identity of his enemy! Yet he hesitated. “Sir, what would be my consequence if you defeat me?”

The Rifleman stroked his angular beardless chin. “Ah, there is that. The stakes must equate. Yet what can a serf offer a Citizen? Have you any personal assets?”

“Sir, no serf has-”

The Citizen waggled a finger at him admonishingly, smiling, and Stile suddenly found himself liking this expressive man. No serf could afford to like a Citizen, of course; they were virtually in different worlds. Still, Stile was moved.

“Of course a serf has no material assets,” the Rifleman said. “But serfs often do have information, that Citizens are not necessarily aware of. Since what I offer you is information, perhaps you could offer me information too.”

Stile considered. As it happened, he did have news that should interest a Citizen-but he was honor-bound not to impart it. He happened to know that a number of the most sophisticated service robots were self-willed, acting on their own initiative, possessing self-awareness and ambition. Theoretically there could eventually be a machine revolt. But he had sworn not to betray the interests of these machines, so long as they did not betray the welfare of Planet Proton, and his word was absolute. He could not put that information on the line. “I regret I can not, sir.”

The Citizen shrugged. “Too bad. The wager would have added luster to the competition.”

As though the future of a serf’s life were not luster enough? But of course the Citizen was thinking only of himself. “Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir. I would have liked to make that wager, had I a stake to post.”

“Are you not aware you could make the wager, and renege if you lose? You really don’t have much to lose.”

Stile, under tension of the Tourney, was suddenly angry. “That’s reprehensible!” Then, belatedly, “Sir.”

“Ah, you are an honest man. I thought as much. I like that. Most top Gamesmen do value integrity.”

Stile was spared further conversation by the interjection of the computer.

“Game-pair 281 report to grid.”

The Rifleman stood. “That’s us. Good luck, Stile.” He proffered his hand.

Stile, amazed, accepted it. He had never heard of a Citizen shaking hands with a serf! This was an extension of courtesy that paralleled that of the Herd Stallion in Phaze: the disciplined encounter of respected opponents.

Phaze! Suddenly Stile realized what he had to offer. The knowledge of the existence of the alternate frame! The information might do the Citizen no good, since most people could not perceive the curtain between frames, let alone cross it, but it would surely be of interest to the man. There was no absolute prohibition about spreading the word, though Stile preferred not to.

But if he won the Game, he wouldn’t have to. This seemed to be an acceptable risk.

“Sir,” Stile said quickly. “I do have information. I just remembered. I believe it would interest-”

“Then it is a bargain,” the Citizen said, squeezing Stale’s hand.

“Yes, sir. Only I hope you will not share the information with others, if-”

“Agreed. This is a private wager and a private matter between us-either way.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Second call for Game-pair 281,” the computer announced. “Appear at the grid within ten seconds or both forfeit.”

“You bucket of bolts!” the Rifleman snapped. “Whom do you suppose you are addressing?”

A lens swung about to fix on the Citizen. The response was instant. “Abject apologies, sir. Time limit is waived.”

The Rifleman’s glance swept across the silent room. “You may laugh now.”

The remaining serfs burst into laughter.

“Rank hath its privileges,” the Rifleman said. He put his hand on Stile’s elbow, guiding him to the grid. This was a public mark of favor that awed the serfs present. Stile included. This Citizen had been friendly and reasonably solicitous throughout, but now he was being so when all eyes were upon him.

“You lout,” another Citizen said, laughing. “Now well all have to show favor to our serfs!”

“What is Proton coming to?” a third Citizen inquired. This one was a woman, elaborately gowned and coined, with sparkling sapphires on her wrists and ankles and a nugget of Protonite on her forehead, reminding Stile of Neysa’s snub-horn in her girl-form. Parallelism again, perhaps. This Citizen, too, was smiling, seeming almost like a person.

It occurred to Stile that even Citizens might get bored with their routine existences, and appreciate comic relief on rare occasions. The Tourney was a great equalizer!

Now he faced the Rifleman, the grid unit between them. This was a column inset with panels on opposite sides. The weight of the two men beside it caused the panels to illuminate. Stile’s showed four categories across the top: 1.

PHYSICAL 2. MENTAL 3. CHANCE 4. ARTS. Four more were down the side: A. NAKED

B. TOOL C.

MACHINE D. ANIMAL. The latter facet was highlighted: Stile had to select from the letters.

He experienced the usual pre-Game tension, made worse by the fact that this was no routine Game, but a Round for the Tourney. And made worse yet by the fact that his opponent was a Citizen. What column would the Rifleman choose?

PHYSICAL or MENTAL, surely; he was neither a gambler nor an artist, and he wanted a good game. He would want to get into 1B or 1C, tool- or machine-assisted physical games like tennis or shooting, where his major expertise lay, or into 2B where he might get into chess. He had won a Tourney Game dramatically in chess. Stile remembered now, on his way up; in fifteen years he had probably improved his game. It was necessary to stay clear of this: Stile could play chess well himself, but he had not had fifteen idle years to practice.

He was up against someone who really could play the Game. This could be the toughest opponent he would face in the entire Tourney. A good Game that he lost in a contest was no good; he needed a likely winner. His only real course seemed to be ANIMAL. Then he could get into horseracing or liontaming. His knees were weak, but this only became acute when he flexed them completely; he could do ordinary riding better than anyone he knew, and remained pretty good at trick-riding. His smaller weight would give him an advantage, for the Tourney made no allowances for size or sex. All games were unhandicapped. And he liked animals, while the Rifleman, an expert hunter, probably did not have as close rapport. Yes.

Stile touched D. Immediately a new grid showed: ID, PHYSICAL/ANIMAL. The Rifleman had chosen as expected.

Now the top line was 1. SEPARATE 2. INTERACTIVE 3. COMBAT 4. COOPERATIVE, and the sideline was A. FLAT B. VARIABLE C. DISCONTINUITY D. LIQUID. Stile had the letters again, which was fine. Horseracing was on a flat surface, and he had control of the surfaces. He did not want to get involved with trained sharks or squid wrestling in the LIQUID medium, and feared the Rifleman might be experienced in falconing in DISCONTINUITY, i.e., air. Mountain Rodeo would be all right, in the VARIABLE surface; Stile had bulldogged mountain goats before. But that category also included python tug-of-war in trees, and Stile did not care for that. So he stuck with A. FLAT.

The Rifleman selected 2. INTERACTIVE. So they were in box 2A. No horseracing, but there could be two-horse polo orThe new grid was upon them, nine squares to be filled in by turns. Lists of games and animals appeared.

The Rifleman met Stile’s gaze over the column. “Take it,” he said, smiling. He was giving Stile the advantage of first selection, rather than requiring the Game Computer to designate the turn randomly. Such minor courtesies were permitted; they facilitated the selection process.

“Thank you, sir.” Stile designated POLO/HORSE in the center box.

The Citizen put BASEBALL/ANDROID in the right upper box.

Oh, no! Stile had not considered that androids counted as animals for Game purposes. Baseball was played by modified twentieth-century rules: nine players per team. It was a ballgame, but there was some overlap in categories; ballgames could appear in several sections of the master grid. This was an animal-assisted ballgame, as was polo. The difference was, there were a number of animals here, not used as steeds but as actual players. Obviously the Rifleman was expert at this sort of game, while Stile was only fair. He had walked into a trap.

Sure enough, while Stile filled in other individual animal contests, the Rifleman filled in android team games: Soccer, Basketball, Football. And when they played the grid, the Citizen won: FOOTBALL/ANDROID.

Disaster! Stile had not played team football in a long time. He could pass, kick and catch a football, but an hourlong session with twenty bruisingly huge androids? What a horror!

There was no chance now to brush up on the antique Earth-planet Americana the Rifleman evidently liked. Stile had to play immediately, or forfeit. The Citizen did not bother to ask him to concede, knowing he would not. For better or worse, this had to be fought out on the field.

They adjourned to the bowl-stadium. It was sparsely attended by spectators, since there were several hundred Games in progress and serf interest was divided. However, a number began to file in as the news of a Citizen-serf-android match spread. It was not that serfs were interested in Stile, at this point; they merely hoped to see a Citizen get knocked about a little with impunity.

“In the interest of economy of time and efficient use of facilities, this Game will be abbreviated to thirty minutes playing time without interruption,” the Game Computer announced. “Each party will select twenty animal players, from which a continuous playing roster of ten will be maintained. Substitutions are limited to one per team per play, performed between plays. Proceed.”

The computer was certainly moving it along! And no wonder, for a second playing field was already being utilized, and the remaining two would surely be in use before Stile’s game finished.

They reviewed the androids. The artificial men stood in a line, each hulking and sexless and stupid but well muscled. Each carried a placard labeling its specialty: FULLBACK, HALFBACK, QUARTERBACK, and an array of offensive and defensive linemen. The capability of each was set within a standard tolerance; an android could perform exactly what it was supposed to do, no more and no less. Thus the outcome of the Game would be determined by the management and strategy and participation of the two human players, not the skill of the androids.

The largest imponderable was that of human skill. For this was not a remote-control game; the androids were there merely to assist the real players, who could occupy any position on their teams, but had to participate continuously. A good contestant would enable his team to prevail; a bad one would drag his team down to defeat. Stile feared that the Rifleman would prove to be good, while Stile himself, partly because of his size, would be less-than-good.

The Rifleman selected four pass receivers and a solid offensive line. He was going for an aerial offense, without doubt! Stile chose pass receivers too, and a passing quarterback, then concentrated on his defensive line. He had to hope for a stalled game and errors; as he saw it, defense was the refuge of incompetence, and that was apt to be him. He dreaded this Game!

It began. Chance gave Stile’s team first possession of the ball. His animals were in white, the Rifleman’s in black. The opposing team lined up like faceless demons from the frame of Phaze, darkly formidable. They swept forward, kicking the ball ahead, converging on its locale as it landed.

Stile’s receiver-android had no chance; he was down on the ten-yard line.

Yards, Stile thought. This was one of the few places where the old system of measurements prevailed on Planet Proton, because of the vintage and origin of this particular game. It was easiest to think of them as scant meters.

Now the onus was on him to devise a strategy of play that would bring the football down the field and across the opposing goal line. Stile had a hunch this would not be easy. He assigned himself to be a pass receiver, and scheduled the play for his runner. That should keep Stile himself from getting crushed under a pile of android meat. Of course he knew the androids were programmed to be very careful of human beings; Still, a tackle was a tackle, and that could be bruising. He was thoroughly padded in his white playing suit, of course, but he knew accidents could happen.

The play proceeded. The pass receivers dodged the opposing linemen and moved out on their patterns. Stile got downfield and cut back as if to receive the ball-and found himself thoroughly blocked off by the android pass defender.

Catch the ball? He could not even see it! The only way he could hope to get it, had it been thrown to him, was if it passed between the animal’s legs.

Fortunately he knew no pass was coming. Stile’s runner bulled into the line, making one yard before disappearing into the pileup. That, obviously, was not the way to go.

Still, this first drive was mainly to feel his way. The nuances were already coming back to him, and he was getting a feel for the performance tolerances of the androids. He should be able to devise good strategy in due course.

Next play he tried a reverse end run. He lost a yard. But he was watching the Black team’s responses. The androids, of course, lacked imagination; a really novel play would fool them, and perhaps enable his team to make a big gain or even score.

On the third play he tried a screen pass to one of his receivers. The pass was complete, but the receiver advanced only to the line of scrimmage before getting dumped. No breakthrough here!

Fourth down and time to kick the ball downfield. Stile signaled his kicker to come in-and realized belatedly that he had selected no kicker. None of his animals specialized in any kind of kick, and therefore could not do it. If he had his quarterback make the attempt, the job would surely be bungled, and the other team would recover the ball quite near the goal line. Yet if he did notA whistle blew. The referee, penalizing his team for delay of game. Five yards. He had to kick it away!

No help for it; Stile would have to kick it himself. He would not have the booming power of an android, and he dreaded the thought of getting buried under a mound of tackling animals, but at least he could accomplish something.

If he got the kick off promptly, he might get away without being bashed.

No time to debate with himself! He called the play, assigning the kick to himself. The teams lined up, the ball was snapped, and the enormous Black line converged on Stile like a smashing stone wave.

Stile stepped forward quickly and punted. Distracted by the looming linemen, he dropped the ball almost to the ground before his toe caught it. The ball shot forward, barely clearing the animals, and made a low arch downfield, angling out of bounds just shy of the fifty-yard line. Not bad, all things considered; he had gained about forty yards. He had been lucky, had the Black androids had the wit to expect an incompetent punt, they might have blocked it or caught it before it went out, and had an excellent runback.

Luck, however, seldom played consistent favorites. Stile had to do better, or the first bad break would put him behind.

Now it was the Rifleman’s turn on offense. The Citizen had stayed back during the prior plays, keeping himself out of mischief. Now he made his first substitution, bringing in one of his pass receivers. Stile exchanged one of his receivers for a pass defender. The first plays would probably be awkward, since most of Stile’s players were offensive and most of the Rifleman’s players defensive-but the longer the drive continued, the more qualified players could be brought in, at the rate of one per play. Of course the offensive and defensive lines were fairly similar, for Game purposes, so the exchange of as few as three backfield players could transform a team. All the same. Stile hoped the drive did not continue long.

The Rifleman assumed the position of quarterback. His animals lined up. The play commenced. Stile’s line charged in, but the Rifleman reacted with poise, making a neat, short bulletlike pass to his receiver on the sideline. It was complete; the pass had been too accurately thrown for the receiver to miss, too swift for the defender to interfere with. The Citizen had a net gain of eight yards.

The Rifleman-now Stile appreciated how this applied to football, too. The Citizen was a superior player of this arcane game, better than an android passer. Therefore he had a superior team-while Stile had an indifferent team.

Stile substituted in another pass defender-but the Citizen brought in another receiver. Stile could not doublecover. Those passes were going to be trouble!

They were. The Rifleman marched his team relentlessly downfield. Not every pass connected, and not every play was a pass, but with four tries to earn each first down, the offensive team had no trouble. All too soon the Rifleman scored. Then the Rifleman substituted in his own placekicker and let him make the extra point. The score was 70, the Rifleman’s advantage.

Complete team substitutions were permitted after a touchdown. It was a new game, with Stile receiving again, except that he was now in the hole. Five playing minutes had elapsed.

Stile’s team received the ball and attempted a runback. His animal got nowhere. Stile had his first down on the twelve-yard line.

It was time to get clever. If he could fool the defenders and break an android free, he might score on a single play. But this could be risky.

He set up the play: a fake run to the right, and a massive surge to the left, with every android lineman moving across to protect the runner.

The result was a monstrous tangle as stupid animals got in each other’s way.

His runner crashed into his own pileup, getting nowhere, and the referee imposed a fifteen-yard penalty for unnecessary roughness, holding, and offensive interference. Half the distance to Stile’s goal line.

Second down, long yardage, from the six-yard line. So much for innovation I Stile tried to complete another pass, this time to himself; maybe the Rifleman wouldn’t expect him to expose himself that way, and the surprise would work. A long bomb, trying for the moons, double or nothing.

The play commenced. Stile ducked through the line and charged straight downfield. The Rifleman cut across to guard him. Together they turned at the fifty-yard line, and Stile cut back to the appointed spot to receive the pass, and the Rifleman cut in front of him and intercepted it while it remained too high in the air for Stile to reach.

“Sorry about that, friend,” the Citizen said as Stile hastily tackled him and the whistle blew to end the play. “Height has its advantage.”

It certainly did. Stile had lost the ball again without scoring. He heard the roar of reaction and applause from the filling audience section of the stadium; the Rifleman had clearly made a good play. Now Stile would have to defend again against the devastating passing attack of his opponent.

He was not disappointed. Methodically the Rifleman moved the ball down the field until he scored again. This time he passed for the extra points, and made them. The score was fifteen to nothing.

The first half of the game was finished: fifteen minutes of playing time.

Stile had tried every device he could think of to stop his opponent from scoring, and had only managed to slow the rate of advance and use up time. The Rifleman had averaged a point per minute, even so. Stile had to move, and move well, in the second half, or rapidly see the game put out of reach. He needed a dramatic, original system of defense and offense. But what could he do?

Surprise, first. What could he do that really would surprise his opponent, while staying within the clumsy rules of this game? He couldn’t run or pass or kick the ball away-The kick. It was possible to score on the kick. Field goals, they were called, worth three points each. Except that he had no kicker other than himself. That was only slightly better than nothing, considering his near bungle of his first attempt to punt. The moment he set up for a placekick instead of a punt, those Black armored animals would be upon him. Even if he got the kick off, even if he somehow scored, he would wind up crushed at the bottom of the pile of meat. There was not any great future in that. If by some fluke he scored several field goals, enough to win, he would still be so battered he would be at a serious disadvantage in other Games of the Tourney. It would really be better to forfeit this one; it took two losses to eliminate an entrant, so he could afford that gesture.

No! He was not about to forfeit anything! If he lost, it would only be because he had been fairly beaten.

Still, the lack seemed to be his best chance. A surprise punt on first or second down, catching the Rifleman with his guard down. Then an attempt to force an error, an interception, or a fumble. Playing for the breaks. It would take nerve and luck and determination, but it was a chance.

Stile’s team received the kickoff. This time the ball bounced into the end zone, and was brought out to his twenty-yard line for play.

Stile called for the punt, after a fake pass. His quarterback would simply fade back and hand the ball to Stile, then serve as interference to the ladders while Stile got the kick off.

It worked. Stile got a beautiful-for him-punt off, escaping unscathed himself.

The ball was low and fast, skimming over the heads of the animals, bouncing, and rolling rapidly onward. No one was near it.

The Rifleman, playing the backfield, was first to reach the ball. But the thing was still hopping crazily about, the way an unround and pointed ball was apt to do, as if it were a faithful representative of its crazy period of history, and it bounced off the Citizen’s knee. Now, according to the peculiarities of this sport, it was a “live” ball, and Stile’s onrushing animals had the limited wit to pounce on it. There was a monstrous pileup-and Stile’s team recovered the football on the thirty-yard line of Black. A fifty yard gain!

“Nicely played,” the Rifleman said, smiling. “I was beginning to fear the game would be unconscionably dull.”

“No Tourney Game is dull,” Stile said. “Sir.”

Now he had the ball in good field position-but could he seize the opportunity to score? Stile doubted it. He simply did not have the ability to advance the ball consistently.

So he would have to attempt to score from this range. That meant a forty-yard field goal. No, Stile doubted he had the power or accuracy for that. He would merely be throwing the ball away, unless he could get closer to the goal. His androids evidently couldn’t do that, and Stile himself was too small to carry it; the pass interception had shown that. This was one game where no advantage could be achieved from small size.

Or could it? These android brutes were accustomed to dealing with creatures their own size, and were slow to adjust. An agile, acrobatic man his size-why not show them some of the tricks he could do? Stile was small, but no weakling, and the androids were programmed not to hurt real people. He just might turn that into an advantage.

In the huddle he had specific instructions for his center. “You will hike the ball to me-make sure you get it to me, for I am smaller than your regular quarterback-then charge forward straddle-legged. I clarify: hike the ball, then block forward and up, your feet spread wide. Do you understand?”

Dully, the android nodded. Stile hoped the creature would follow orders literally. These androids were the match of real people physically, but science had not developed their brains to work as well as the human kind.

Androids cast in petite female forms were said to be quite popular with some men, who considered their lack of wit to be an asset. Specialized androids were excellent for other purposes such as sewer cleaning. It just happened that in this Game, Stile had to push to the intellectual limit of the type. In a real game of football, as played on Earth centuries ago, such an android would have been fully competent: this was not that situation.

The creature did as ordered. Stile took the ball, ducked down-and charged forward between the animal’s spread legs. The slow-witted opposing androids did not realize what had happened; they continued to charge forward, looking for a ball carrier to tackle. Stile scooted ahead five, ten, and finally fifteen yards before the Rifleman himself brought him down. “Beautiful play!”

the Citizen said as they bounced together on the turf, their light armor absorbing most of the shock of impact. With a fifteen-point lead, he could afford to be generous. But the growing stadium audience also cheered.

Stile had his first down on the fifteen-yard line, but he knew better than to try the same stunt again. At any rate, he was now in field goal range, for his kicking ability- except that he still did not relish getting crushed in the blitz that would converge on the placekicker.

Then he dredged from his memory an alternative: the dropkick. Instead of having the ball held in place by another player for the kick, the kicker simply dropped it to the ground and kicked it on the bounce. A dropkick, unlike a punt, was a scoring kick. Its disadvantage was that it was less reliable than a placekick, since the bounce could go wrong; its advantage was that it could be done on extremely short notice. Short enough, perhaps, to surprise the androids, and enable Stile to complete it before getting tackled and buried.

He decided to try it. He took the ball as quarterback, faded back a few yards, then dropped it for the kick. The ball bounded up, and the androids ceased their charge, realizing that this differed from a punt.

Stile watched with gratification as the football arced between the goal posts.

It was wobbly and skewed but within tolerance. The referee signaled the score: three points.

“The drop kick!” The Rifleman exclaimed. “I haven’t seen one of those in years! Magnificent!” He seemed more pleased about it than Stile was.

But now it was Stile’s turn to kick off to the Rifleman. He decided to gamble again. “Do you know the onside kick?” he asked his teammates.

Blank stares were returned. Good-the animals had not been programmed for this nuance. Probably the other team’s androids would not know it either, so could reasonably be expected to flub it. The Rifleman would know it-but Stile intended to kick the ball away from him.

He tried it and it worked. Stile’s team had possession of the football at midfield. “Oh, marvelous!” the Rifleman exclaimed ecstatically.

Back in the huddle. “Number One will field the ball,” Stile told the animals, referring to the Rifleman’s shirt designation. “Charge him, box him in, but do not tackle him. I will tackle him.”

Uncomprehending, the androids agreed.

Stile punted on first down. This time he had the feel of it, and hung the ball up high, giving his players time to get down to it before it landed. The Rifleman, alert to this play, caught the ball himself, calling his own players in around him. Thus the two groups formed in a rough circle, Stile’s animals trying to get past the Rifleman’s animals without actually contacting the Rifleman.

Perplexed by this seeming diffidence, the Citizen started to run with the ball. That was when Stile shot between two of his own players, took a tremendous leap, and tackled the Rifleman by the right arm where the football was tucked. He made no bruising body contact, for that would have brought a penalty call, but yanked hard on that arm.

As the two twisted to the ground, the ball passed from the Citizen’s grasp to Stile’s. Stile was of course adept at wresting control of objects from others; he had specialized in this maneuver for other types of games. Once again, his team had possession of the ball.

“Lovely,” the Rifleman said, with slightly less enthusiasm than before.

The ball was now just inside the twenty-yard line. Stile drop-kicked another field goal. Now he had six points. And eleven minutes remaining in the game.

He knew he would not get away with another onside kick. The Rifleman would already have alerted his team to that. This time Stile would have to play it straight, and hope to stop the Citizen’s devastating drive.

Stile kicked it deep, and it went satisfyingly far before being fielded by a Black android. Stile’s androids were alert to this routine situation, and they brought the carrier down on the twenty-yard line.

Now Stile had to stifle the passing attack. He decided to concentrate on rushing the passer and hoping for an interception. He himself would cover one of the Rifleman’s receivers, while double-covering the other with androids.

This seemed to be effective. The Rifleman faded back for his pass, did not like the situation, but did not want to run or get tackled. So he overthrew the ball, voiding any chance for an interception. According to the quaint conventions for this sport, all parties knew exactly what he was doing, and it mandated a penalty for deliberate grounding, but none was called. Because if deliberate grounding of the ball was done with discretion, it was presumed to be a throwing error instead of what it obviously was. Presumably this sort of thing added luster to the game.

On the second down the Rifleman tried a pass to the double-covered receiver, but two androids were better than one and again it went incomplete. Good: one more such failure and he’d have to turn over the ball on a kick. Stile was at last managing to stifle the Citizen’s passing attack.

On third down, the Rifleman rifled the ball directly to the receiver Stile was covering. He aimed it high, to be out of Stile’s reach, but reckoned without Stile’s acrobatic ability. Stile leaped high to intercept it-and was banged aside by the receiver, who had not realized what he was going to do. No android would have leaped like that. A referee’s flag went down.

The penalty was offensive pass interference. Stile’s team had the ball again.

This time the Rifleman’s congratulation was definitely perfunctory.

The ball was on the Black thirty-five-yard line. Time remaining was nine minutes. Those incomplete passes had expended very little time. Still, Stile was getting nervous; he really needed to break loose and score a touchdown.

“Number 81-can you receive a lateral?” he asked. “Yuh,” the animal agreed after a brief pause for thought.

“Then follow me and be ready.” Stile turned to a lineman. “When the ball is hiked, you turn, pick me up, and heave me over the Black line.” He seemed to remember an ancient penalty for such a trick, but it was not part of the Game rules.

“Duh?” the android asked. The concept was too novel for his intellectual capacity. Stile repeated his instructions, making sure the animal understood what to do, if not why.

When the ball was hiked. Stile tucked it into his elbow and stepped into his lineman’s grasp. The android hurled him up and over. Stile had been given such a lift in the course of gymnastic stunts, and was pretty much at home in the air. He flipped, rolled off a lineman’s back, landed neatly on his feet and charged forward toward the goal line.

This time, however, the Rifleman had a couple of guards in the backfield, and they intercepted Stile before he had gone more than ten yards.

Now Stile lateraled to Number 81, who was right where he was supposed to be.

What these creatures did, they did well! The android caught the ball and bulled ahead for eight more yards before being stopped.

They were within kicking range again. Stile decided not to gamble on another running play; he drop-kicked another field goal. The score was now 15-9, with eight minutes remaining. At this rate, he could do it-provided he had no bad breaks. Unfortunately, he was overdue for one of those. He had been playing extremely chancy ball.

Should he try another onside kick? No, that would only cost him yardage at this stage. He had to make the Rifleman travel as far across the field as possible, so that he had the maximum opportunity to make an error. So Stile played it straight.

This time he managed to put the ball all the way into the end zone. The Rifleman put it into play on the twenty-yard line. This time, wary of passing into Stile’s double coverage, he handed it off to his runner. But the android proceeded without imagination and was downed at the line of scrimmage. Any play left purely to the animals was basically wasted time; the capacities of the androids had evidently been crafted for that. The human players had to make their physical and/or mental skills count.

Now Stile was sure the Citizen was beginning to sweat. The Rifleman knew that if he failed to move the ball, he would have to turn it over-and then Stile would find some devious way to score. A touchdown and extra point would put Stile ahead in the closing minutes. But the Citizen was unable to advance the ball. What was he to do?

What could he do? He risked another pass to his double covered android receiver. It was perfectly placed, threading between the defenders to reach its target. How that man could pass! But one defender managed to tip it, and the receiver did not catch it cleanly. The ball squirted out of his grasp, bounced on the ground, and one of Stile’s animals, not realizing the ball was dead, fell on it.

It was obviously an incomplete pass. But the referee signaled a fumble. Now it was Stile’s ball on the thirty-two yard line.

“Now, wait,” Stile protested. “That’s a miscall. The receiver never had control of the ball.”

“Aren’t you aware that these referees are programmed to make at least one major miscall per game?” the Rifleman called to him. “That’s to emulate the original style of play, back on crazy Earth. You happen to be the beneficiary of that error.”

The referees were robots, of course; Stile hadn’t noticed. They could be set at any level of competence. “But that’s luck, not skill!”

“There’s an element of luck in most games. That lends a special fascination.

The human species loves to gamble. Play, before you draw another delay-of-game penalty.” The Rifleman did not seem upset, perhaps because this change of-possession was obviously no fault of his own.

Hastily, Stile played. He accepted the hiked ball, faded back for a pass, found his receivers covered, saw three huge animals bearing down on him, dodged them all, circled behind one and safely overthrew his covered receiver.

The moment he released the ball, he hunched over as though still carrying it.

The turning android saw that and grabbed him, not having seen the ball go.

The tackle was bruising despite the armor, but at least the padding protected him from more than superficial abrasion. A flag went down.

Roughing the passer. Fifteen-yard penalty. First down. Once again Stile was within field goal range.

He drop-kicked again, of course. The audience cheered. The stadium was almost full now; news of this game was evidently spreading. But he had to keep his attention on the field. Now he had twelve points, and six minutes to go. Maybe he could pull it out after all.

But the Rifleman had the ball again, and now he was determined. There were not going to be any more breaks or mistakes.

Stile’s misgivings were well taken. The Rifleman shot his passes too high and fast for Stile to intercept, settling for swift, short gains. When Stile tried too hard he got tagged for interference. Slowly and erratically, but inevitably, the Citizen hammered out the yardage.

On Stile’s thirty-yard line, the Rifleman’s first pass attempt failed. On second down his run got nowhere. On third down Stile gambled on a blitz, sending eight of his animals in to overrun the quarterback before he could pass. It worked; the Rifleman was sacked. Loss of six yards.

Now it was fourth down, and the Rifleman had to kick out. He tried a placekick and field goal, but was too far out; the ball fell short, to Stile’s immense relief.

Stile had the ball again, with four minutes remaining. Time enough-if he could move the ball.

He moved it. He had his animals open a hole in the center, and he slipped through for several yards. He had his passer send a screen pass to him, and he dodged and raced up the sideline for several more yards. He was wise to the ways of the androids, now; he knew their little individual foibles. Some were faster than others; some were less stupid. One android did not have the wit to outmaneuver another, but Stile did. He could get past them- so long as he did it himself, not delegating the job to an animal of his own. So long as he carried the ball himself, he could progress; that was the key. That was why the Rifleman had succeeded so well in moving the ball at the outset, while Stile floundered. The Rifleman had drawn on his own abilities, not limited by those of the androids. Now Stile was doing it too-and had been doing it, every time he kicked. Now, so late in the game, understanding came. It really was a game of two, not of twenty-two.

But this was bruising. The constant exertion and battering were taking it out of him, and Stile could not maintain the drive. It stalled out on the Rifleman’s forty-yard line. Too far for another field goal. Stile had to punt, regretfully.

He went for the coffin comer, angling the ball out of bounds at the four-yard line. That forced the Rifleman to play in his own end zone.

The Citizen was showing overt nervousness now. He did not like being backed up this way. He tried a pass, but it was wobbly and off-target, incomplete.

Now it was time to strike. Stile caught the arm of his center as the lines reformed. “Make a hole to spring me through,” he said, and (he creature nodded. The androids were slow thinkers, but they did orient somewhat on the needs of their supervisors. This one now understood what Stile wanted.

When the ball was hiked, the android shouldered into his opposite number, lifting him entirely off the ground. Stile scooted through, so low that his flexing knees hurt, and emerged directly in front of the Rifleman.

“Oh, no!” the Citizen exclaimed. Losing his poise, he tried to run from Stile instead of throwing the ball away. It was a mistake; he moved right into a pocket of White linemen and was downed in his own end zone.

It was a safety: two points. The score was now 15-14, with two minutes left to play. And Stile’s team would get the ball.

It was put into play by a free kick from the Rifleman’s twenty-yard line. The kicker, under no pressure from the opposing line, got off a booming spiral that lofted high and far. One of Stile’s receivers took it on his thirty-yard line and ran it all of two yards before getting buried.

Now Stile was highly conscious of the clock. He dared not give up the ball again, for the Rifleman would surely consume the remaining time in a slow drive and win by a single point. But how could Stile move it down to field goal range against the desperation defense he knew he would encounter?

Answer: he had to do it himself. He would get battered, but it was the only way.

“Run interference for me,” he told his three most competent animals. “You two in front, you behind. Right end run. You two receivers go out for a fake pass.

And you, you runner-you fake a run to the left.” He was pulling out all the stops. If the Rifleman anticipated his strategy, he would swamp Stile with a blitz. It had to be risked.

But the Citizen, too, was tiring. He was in fit condition -but Stile was not merely fit, he was an excellent athlete in peak condition, strongly motivated.

His toughness and endurance were counting more heavily now. The Citizen stayed well back, avoiding physical contact whenever possible. In effect, he had dropped off his team. That meant that not only did Stile have eleven effective players to ten, but he had the most animated team. Now he could put together a sustained drive-theoretically.

His animals blocked and Stile ran around the end. And -it worked. He made several yards before his escort fell in assorted tangles. Now a huge Black android pounced on him for the kill-and Stile cut in under the brute and threw him with a solid shoulder boost. It was partly the disparity of size that enabled Stile to come in low, and partly surprise that put him in close instead of where the android expected him. The creature went tumbling across Stile’s back and rolled to the turf.

Suddenly Stile was in the relative clear, and still on his feet. He accelerated forward, drawing on his reserves of energy, determined to make the most of his opportunity. Dimly he heard the roar of the crowd, excited by the dramatic run. The stadium had been constantly filling, and now more than half the seats were filled-and it was a fairsized chamber, sufficient for perhaps a thousand. Stile knew these spectators didn’t care who won the Game; they merely responded to unfolding drama. Still, their applause encouraged him. His bruises and fatigue seemed to fade, and he shot ahead at full speed. Five yards, ten, fifteen, twenty-S

In the end it was the Rifleman who caught him. The man was not to be tricked by a martial arts throw; after all, he was a former Tourney winner who had to be conversant with all forms of physical combat. He caught Stile by one arm and swung him around and down. He tried to wrest the ball away, but Stile was on guard against that, and plowed into the turf without giving it up.

He was now on the Rifleman’s forty-five-yard line with a first down. His ploy had paid off handsomely.

On the next play Stile tried a short pass, from android to android. While he himself faked another run. This was not as spectacularly successful as his last play, but it was good for eight more yards. Most of the attention had been on Stile’s fake, and the Rifleman’s pass defense had loosened up.

Then a quarterback sneak, good for three more yards, and a first down on the thirty-four-yard line. He was getting near field goal range-but now he had only thirty seconds remaining. With no time-outs, he had no time to spare for fancy planning. “Give me the ball,” he said. “Protect me.”

But this time he got nowhere; his strategy had been too vague. Fifteen seconds remaining. Time for one final desperation measure. “Take a lateral,” he told his primary pass receiver. “Step clear and lateral back to me.”

Stile took the hiked ball, stepped back, lateraled to his receiver, and shrugged at the onrushing tacklers as they struggled to avoid him. The Rifleman didn’t want any game penalties stopping the clock at this point!

The android lateraled back. Stile stood alone, having been forgotten by the tacklers. As the pileup formed about the pass receiver. Stile dodged forward, passing confused androids of both teams who somehow thought the play had ended, and were slow to reorient. He cut to the left, getting clear of the central .glut, then forward again. He had made it to field goal range!

Then he heard the final gun. He had used up all his time in the course of his maneuvering, and now the game was over. There would be no more plays, no chance to dropkick the winning field goal.

Stile slowed to a walk, disconsolate. So close-only to fail. To reach the fifteen-yard line in the clear, and have to quit, defeated by a single point.

Then, from the front tier of seats, he heard Sheen’s voice. “Run, you idiot!”

And he saw the animals of both teams converging on him.

Suddenly he realized that the game was not quite over. The play was still in session. Until he was tackled, it was not finished.

But the Rifleman, more alert to the situation than Stile had been, was now between him and the goal line. The Citizen was calling directions to his troops. Stile knew he could not make it all the way.

He began running across the field, toward the center, where more of his own animals were. “Protect me!” he bawled.

Dully, they responded. They started blocking off the pursuit. Stile cut back toward the goal, making it to the ten yard line, the five-A Black android crashed through the interference and caught Stile from behind.

Stile whomped down in a forward fall, and the ball squirted from his grasp. A fumble at the worst possible time! The androids knew what to do with a loose ball. Animals of both teams belly flopped to cover it. In a moment the grandest pileup of the game developed. The whistle blew, ending the play and the game.

The delirious cheering of the crowd abruptly stilled. Obviously the ball had been recovered-but where, and by whom? It was impossible to tell.

Slowly, under the supervision of the referees, the androids were unpiled. The bottom one wore a White suit, and lay just within the end zone.

Stile had six more points.

Now the crowd went absolutely crazy. Serfs and Citizens alike charged onto the field. “Let’s get out of here before we’re both trampled to death!” the Rifleman exclaimed, heading for the exit tunnel.

“Yes, sir!” Stile agreed.

“By the way-congratulations. It was an excellent Game.”

“Thank you, sir.”

They drew up inside the tunnel. Here they were safe; the crowd was attacking the goal posts in some kind of insane tradition that went back before Planet Proton had been colonized. “I have not forgotten our private wager,” the Rifleman said. “You played fair and tough and made a remarkable game of it, and you prevailed. I shall be in touch with you at another time.”

“Thank you, sir,” Stile said, unable to think of anything better.

“Now let’s get out of these uniforms.”

“Yes, sir.”

Then Sheen was trotting toward them, her breasts bouncing handsomely. She was ready to assume control of Stile’s remaining time in this frame. It would be several days before all of the Round One matches cleared, since there were 512

of them. But Stile would not be able to linger long in Proton-frame; he had to get back to Phaze and find out how to handle the Unicorn Herd Stallion in combat. Otherwise his tenure in Phaze could become even shorter than his tenure in Proton.

But Sheen was aware of all this. She took him in tow, stripping him of his armor in literal and figurative fashion. Stile was able to tune out the contemporaneous proceedings. How good it was to have a friend like Sheen here, and one like Neysa there!

——————————————————————————

CHAPTER 4 – The Little People.

Stile stepped through the curtain into the deep and pleasant forest of Phaze.

He recovered his clothing, dressed, then hummed up an ambience of magic. He could signal Neysa with a spell, and she would come for him.

Then it occurred to him that this would consume time that would be better spent otherwise. Why not experiment, and discover whether he could indeed transport himself? He pondered a moment, finding himself quite nervous, then singsonged a spell: “Transport this man to the Blue Castle’s span.” It was not good verse, but that didn’t matter; abruptly he stood in the castle court.

He felt dizzy and nauseous. Either he had done an inexpert job, or transporting himself was not good procedure. Certainly he would not try that again in a hurry; it had gotten him here, but at the expense of his feeling of equilibrium and well-being.

Neysa was in the court, nibbling on the magic patch of bluegrass. Every bite she took was immediately restored, so there was no danger of overgrazing, despite the smallness of the patch. She looked up the moment he appeared, her ears swiveling alertly. Then she bounded across to join him.

“Careful! Thou wilt spear me!” he protested, grabbing her about the neck and hanging on to steady himself.

She snorted. She had perfect control of her horn, and would never skewer something she didn’t mean to, or miss something she aimed for. She blew a questioning note.

“Nice of thee to inquire,” Stile said, ruffling her sleek black mane with his fingers. He was feeling better already; there was a healing ambience about unicorns. “But it’s nothing. Next time I’ll have thee carry me; thou dost a better job.”

The unicorn made another note of query.

“Oh, that,” he replied. “Sheen took care of me and got me to the Game on time.

I had to match with a Citizen, a former Tourney winner. He nearly finished me.”

She blew a sour note.

“No, he was a top Gamesman,” Stile assured her. “A player of my caliber. It was like doing battle in this frame with another Adept! But I had a couple of lucky breaks, and managed to win in the last moment. Now he’s going to help me find out who, there, is trying to wipe me out.” He tapped his own knee, meaningfully. “And of course once we settle with the Herd Stallion, we’ll set out to discover who killed me here in Phaze. I don’t like having anonymous enemies.” His expression hardened. “Nay, I like that not at all!”

The Lady Blue appeared. She wore a bathing suit, and was as always so lovely it hurt him. It was not that she was of full figure, for actually she was less so than Sheen, but that somehow she was exquisitely integrated, esthetically, in face and form and manner. The term “Lady” described her exactly, and she carried its ambience with her regardless what she wore. “Welcome back, my lord,” she murmured.

“Thank thee. Lady.” He had been absent only a day, but the shift of frame was so drastic that it seemed much longer.

“Thy friend Hulk has returned.”

“Excellent,” Stile said. He was somewhat stiff from the bruising football game, but glad to be back here and quite ready to receive the Oracle’s advice.

“Thou’rt weary,” the Lady said. “Let me lay my hands on thee.”

“Not necessary,” Stile demurred. But she stopped him and ran her soft hands across his arms and around his neck, and where they touched, his remaining discomfort faded. She kneaded the tight muscles of his shoulders, and they loosened; she pressed his chest, and his breathing eased; she stroked his hair and the subconscious headache became nonexistent. The Lady Blue was no Adept, but she did possess subtle and potent healing magic, and the contact of her fingers was bliss to him. He did not want to love her, yet, for that would be foolhardy; but only iron discipline kept him from sliding into that emotion at a time like this. Her touch was love.

“I would that my touch could bring the joy to thee that thy touch does to me,”

Stile murmured.

She stopped immediately. It was a silent rebuke that he felt keenly. She wanted no closeness with him. Not while she mourned her husband. Perhaps not ever. Stile could not blame her.

They moved on into the castle-proper. The Lady preceded him to the bath, where Hulk soaked in a huge tile tub set flush with the floor, like that of a Proton Hammam. The huge man saw the Lady, nodded, then in an afterthought sought ineffectively to cover himself. “I keep forgetting this is not Proton,” he muttered sheepishly. “Men don’t go naked in mixed company here.”

“Thou’rt clothed in water,” the Lady reassured him. “We be not overly concerned with dress, here. My present suit differs not much from nudity.” She touched the blue material momentarily. “I have myself stood naked before a crowd and thought little of it. The animals wear no clothing in their natural forms, and oft not in their human shapes. Even so, I would not have intruded, but that my lord is here and needs must be informed immediately.”

“That’s right!” Hulk agreed. “Do thou step outside a moment. Lady, and I’ll get right out of this.”

“No need,” Stile said. “I am here.” He had been behind Hulk, whose attention had been distracted by the prior entry of the Lady.

“Oh. Okay. I have the Oracle’s answer. But thou dost not have much time.

Stile. May I talk to thee privately?”

“If the Lady is amenable,” Stile agreed.

“And what is this, unfit for mine ears?” the Lady Blue demanded. “Well I know you two are not about to exchange male humor. Is there danger?”

Hulk looked guilty. He used his fingers to make a ripple in the bath water.

“There may be. Lady.”

The Lady looked at Stile, silently daring him to send her away. She called him

“lord” and deferred to him in the presence of others, for the sake of appearances, but he had no private power over her.

“The Lady has suffered loss already,” Stile said. “I am no fit replacement, yet if the Oracle indicates danger for me, she is rightfully concerned. She must not again be forced to run the Blue Demesnes without the powers of an Adept.”

“If thou wishest,” Hulk agreed dubiously. “The Oracle says that thou canst only defeat the Herd Stallion by obtaining the Platinum Flute.”

“The Platinum Flute?” Stile repeated, perplexed.

“I never heard of it either,” Hulk said, making further idle ripples with his hand. The ripples traveled to the edges of the tub, then bounced back to cross through the new ripples being generated. Stile wondered passingly whether the curtain that separated the frames of science and magic was in any way a similar phenomenon. “But there was another querist there, a vampire-”

“The likes of us have naught to do with the likes of them!” the Lady Blue protested.

“Or with the unicorns or werewolves?” Stile asked her, smiling wryly.

She was silent, unmollified. Certainly her husband had not had much association with such creatures. The free presence of unicorns and werewolves in the Blue Demesnes dated from Stile’s ascendance. He felt this was an improvement, but the Lady was evidently more conservative.

“Actually, he was not a bad sort at all,” Hulk said. “I lost my way, going in, and he flew by in bat-form, saw I was in trouble, and changed to man-form and offered to help. He hadn’t realized I was human; he thought I was a small giant or an ogre, and those pseudomen sort of look out for each other. I think he was rather intrigued by my motorcycle, too; not many contraptions like that in Phaze! I was afraid I was in for the fight of my life, when I realized what kind of creature he was, but he told me they only take the blood of animals, which they normally raise for the purpose and treat well. In war, they suck the blood of enemies, but that’s a special situation. They never bother friends. He laughed and said it wasn’t true that people bitten by vampires become vampires themselves; that’s a foul myth propagated by envious creatures. Maybe that story originated from a misinterpretation of their love-rites, when a male and a female vampire share each other’s blood. The way he told it, it almost sounded good. A fundamental act of giving and accepting.

I guess if I loved a vampire lady, I’d let her suck-” He broke off abruptly, embarrassed. “I didn’t say that well. What I mean is-”

Stile laughed, and even the Lady smiled briefly. “There is no shame in love, any form,” Stile said.

“Uh, sure,” Hulk agreed. “I got to talking with him, and the more I knew him, the better I liked him. He drew me a map in the dirt so I could locate the Oracle’s palace without getting in trouble. Then he changed back to a bat and flew off. And you know, that route he pointed out for me was a good one; I made it to the Oracle in a couple more hours, when it could’ve been days the way I had been going.”

Hulk made another wave on the water, one that swamped the pattern of wavelets.

“I’m finding it harder not to believe in magic. I saw that man change, I saw him fly. He was there when I arrived, and showed me that room where the Oracle was-just a tube sticking out of the wall. I felt sort of silly, but I went ahead and asked ‘How can Stile defeat-‘ I forgot to use thy Phaze title, but it was too late, and it didn’t seem to matter to the Oracle-‘How can Stile defeat the unicorn Herd Stallion in fair combat at the Unolympics?’ And it replied ‘Borrow the Platinum Flute.’ I couldn’t understand that, and asked for a clarification, but the tube was dead.”

“The Oracle has no patience with fools,” the Lady said. “It answers only once, and considers all men fools; no offense to thee, ogre.”

Hulk smiled. It seemed he had been nicknamed after the monster he most resembled, and he did not mind. “So I discovered. But I feared I had failed thee. Stile.”

“I was as baffled when it told me to ‘Know Thyself,'” Stile said. “My friend Kurrelgyre the werewolf was told to ‘Cultivate Blue’ and could not understand that either. We all have trouble with Oracular answers, but they always make sense in the end.”

“Not always desired sense,” the Lady Blue agreed. “When it told me ‘None by One,’ I thought it spouted nonsense. But now I know to my grief what-” She turned away, but Stile had glimpsed the agony that transfixed her face before she hid it. He had not realized that she had ever been to the Oracle. That answer must have related to the death of her husband.

Hulk filled in the awkward pause. “I talked again with Vaudeville Vampire-that’s his name-and we compared notes. It seemed he had asked the Oracle how to help his son, who was allergic to blood-that’s no joke to a vampire-”

“I should think not!” Stile exclaimed.

Hulk was quite serious. “They don’t live on blood all the time. But they need it to be able to change to their batform and fly. The blood facilitates the magic. So his boy couldn’t keep up with the family, if-well, I guess I’d be concerned too, in that situation.”

“Of course,” Stile agreed, sorry that he had even considered any humorous side to this.

“But all the Oracle told him was ‘Finesse Yellow.’ That made him furious, because he said Yellow is an Adept, and vampires don’t deal with Adepts. They live near one, and they’re afraid of her and leave her strictly alone. But if they did have truck with Adepts, they wouldn’t try to cheat them or anyone else, and Yellow was the very worst one anyway. Several of their number have been trapped by her and sold to other Adepts, who spell them into blind loyalty and use them for spying and for terrorizing other captives. Gives the whole tribe a bad name. So he was going home without an answer he could use. I couldn’t help him; I don’t know anything about Adepts. It was too bad.”

“He sounds like a creature of character,” Stile said. “Why should the Oracle suggest to such a creature that he cheat? That’s the same as no answer.”

“Finesse is not the same as cheat,” the Lady pointed out. “It implies some artifice or devious mechanism, not dishonesty.”

“Vodlevile is a very forthright person,” Hulk said. “No tricks in him. Still, he helped me. He told me that most of the metal tools and weapons and musical instruments of Phaze are made by the Little People, the tribes of Dark Elves, and that some worked with bone, and some with wood, and some with silver, or with gold, or with platinum. So probably if thou canst find the right tribe of elves-”

“The Little Folk are not easy to find,” the Lady Blue said. “They dwell mainly in the Purple Mountains, and they dislike normal men and deal with them seldom. Most of all they detest Adepts. When my lord desired an excellent musical instrument, he could not go to them, but had to trade with a hawkman who had a connection across the curtain. He said he would like to be in touch with the Little Folk, but that they wanted naught he had to offer.”

“So Vodlevile informed me,” Hulk said. “That’s what I meant about danger. It seems that the more precious the metal a tribe works with, the less use that tribe has for men, because men try to steal the artifacts. Especially they hate big men. I’d be dead the moment I set foot in their territory. And the Blue Adept-” He shook his head. “So my Oracle answer isn’t much use either.

But I report it to thee, for what it’s worth, and hope this doesn’t cause mischief.”

Stile was already deep in thought. “The advice of the Oracle is always practical, if obscure. One has to work to understand it, usually. But it surely makes sense-for both me and the vampire. And him I may be able to help, in return for his help to thee.”

“I had hoped thou wouldst see it that way,” Hulk admitted. “It really is thy mission he tried to facilitate.”

“I like this not,” the Lady said. “Thou meanest to go among the Little Folk.”

“Perhaps,” Stile agreed. “That’s the mischief Hulk feared, knowing mine inclination. But first I must tackle the matter nearer at hand. It will take me a moment to devise a suitable spell. Let’s meet in the courtyard in ten minutes.”

“No spell will take thee safely to the fastness of the Little Folk,” she protested. “Like the unicorns, they resist magic. Better thou goest among trolls or goblins; there at least thou wouldst have a fair chance.”