Piers Anthony - Split Infinity

But he could not return where he had left, for that would put him right back in the prison of the Black Adept. He needed his clothing for the other frame, but not in this locale. He would have to risk carrying it with him.

Stile reached the dome. It was a small one, evidently the private estate of a Citizen. It was hardly safe for a serf to intrude uninvited on such a place, but he really had no choice. These few minutes had made him un-comfortable; the less exposure to outside conditions, the better. He removed his clothing, bundled it up with the shoes inside, and stepped through the dome wall.

Instantly he was in light and warmth. This was a tropical garden of the kind popular with Citizens, whose tastes seemed to run opposite to the external wasteland their policies were making on the planet. Exotic palms were at every available spot, with a cocoa-chip mulch beneath. No one was present—which was why Stile had entered here. If he were lucky, he might get through undiscovered.

He was not. An alert gardener challenged him before he had taken twenty steps. “Halt, intruder! You’re not of this estate.”

“I—came from outside. I—got lost.” Stile doubted he could afford to tell the truth, and he would not lie. “I had to come in; I would have died.”

“You look half dead,” the serf agreed.

Another serf hurried up. “I’m the garden foreman. Who are you? What were you doing outside without equipment? What are you carrying?”

That was a foreman, all right! “I am Stile, unemployed, formerly a jockey. I thought my life was threatened, so I tried to hide. But—“ He shrugged. “It’s a different world out there.”

“It sure as hell is. Were you trying to suicide?”

“No. But I nearly died anyway. I have had no food or water for two days.”

The foreman ignored the hint. “I asked you what you are carrying.”

“This bundle—it is medieval Earth costume. I thought it would help me, in the other world.” He was skirting a fuzzy line, ethically, and didn’t like it. But again: wouldn’t the truth convey less of the situation to this man than this half-truth did? What serf would believe a story about a magic world?

The foreman took the bundle and spread it out on the ground. “A harmonica?”

Stile spread his hands silently. He was now in a position where anything he said would seem a lie, including the truth. Suddenly Phaze seemed like a figment of his imagination, the kind of hallucination a man exposed to oxygen deprivation and gaseous pollutants might have. Especially if he had also suffered from hunger, thirst, and cold. In the past, men had undertaken similar deprivations as rites of passage, provoking similar visions. What had happened to him, really?

“I’ll have to notify the Citizen,” the foreman said. Stile’s hopes sank; this surely meant trouble. Had the man simply told him to clear out to serf quarters—

“Sir,” the foreman said.

“What is it, gardener?” the Citizen’s voice responded.

It sounded familiar.

“Sir, a stranger has intruded from outside, carrying medieval Earth costume, including sword, knife, and a musical instrument.”

“Bring him to the viewer.” The voice gave Stile a chill. Where had he heard it before?

The foreman conducted Stile to a booth with a holo pickup. Stile stepped inside, knowing his whole body was being reproduced in image in the Citizen’s quarters. He was dirty and abraded as well as suffering from hunger and thirst; he must look awful.

“Name?” the Citizen snapped.

“Stile, sir.”

There was a pause. The Citizen would be checking the name in the computerized serf-listing. “The jockey and Gamesman?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Play that instrument.”

The gardening foreman quickly located the harmonica and jabbed it at Stile. Stile took it and put it to his mouth. This was his proof of identity; an impostor could probably not match his skill. He played a few bars, and as it had a few hours before, the emerging beauty of the music transformed his outlook. He began to get into the feel of it—

“Very well. Stile,” the Citizen said, having no interest in the art of it. “Your present employer vouches for you. Wait here until his representative picks you up.”

His present employer? What could this mean? Stile did not respond, since no query had been addressed to him. He rejoined the foreman, who solemnly handed back the rest of his bundle.

Suddenly Stile recognized the voice he had heard. The Black Adept! This was the Proton-self of that evil magician, having no knowledge of the other frame, but very much like his other self. It made sense—this dome was very near the site of the Black Castle. Stile’s conjecture about Adepts and Citizens had been confirmed. Had this citizen any reason to suspect him—

Stile breathed a silent sigh of relief. There was no reason for such suspicion, and Citizens hardly cared about stray serfs. Since another Citizen was taking Stile off his hands, that ended the matter. Stile would have to make his explanations to his own employer, instead of wasting the time of this one. And if one of the Black Adept Citizen’s serfs ever got lost, other Citizens would return the favor similarly. Serfs were hardly worth quarreling over.

A woman arrived, very well formed. As her face turned to him—“Sheen! How glad I am to see thee!” Oops—wrong language.

She frowned. “Come on. Stile. You had no business wandering outside. Suppose you had damaged the costume? It will go hard with you if you stray again.” She turned to the foreman. “Thank you. He was supposed to bring the costume to our employer’s isolation dome, and must have lost the way. He’s a klutz at times.”

“He tried to tell me he was unemployed,” the foreman said.

She smiled. “He used to be a jockey. He must have taken one fall too many.” She made a little circle about one ear with one finger. “These things happen. We apologize for the inconvenience to you.”

“It brightens the night shift,” the foreman said, ad-miring her body. Inconvenience became more tolerable when it brought a figure like this to the scene.

She took Stile firmly by the elbow and guided him along. “This time we’ll get you where you belong,” she said with an oblique smile.

He squeezed her hand. She had taken his prior advice to heart, and become so human it was almost annoying. But she had certainly bailed him out.

When they were safely in the capsule, flying through the tube toward a larger dome. Sheen explained: “I knew you’d return. Stile, somehow. I really am programmed for intuition. So I had my friends make up a robot in your likeness, and we got you a new employer. The moment the query on you came through the computer—“

“I see.” Her friends were the self-willed machines, who could tap into the communication network. In fact, some of them probably were the communication network. What an asset they were at times!

From the general dome they took a transport rocket to Stile’s original home dome. In a matter of minutes, the travel of several days by unicorn was reversed. That reminded him of another aspect. What should he say to Sheen about Neysa?

They returned to Stile’s old apartment. Sheen had kept it in good order—or the robot who bore his name had done so. It seemed Sheen had put the robot away as soon as news of Stile’s appearance reached her. Sheen had been most industrious and efficient on his behalf.

What had it been like, here, with two robots? Had they eaten, slept, made love? Stile found himself feeling jealous and had to laugh at himself. Obviously the robot-Stile was not self-willed. It would be a true ma-chine, programmed by Sheen.

“We must talk,” Sheen said. “But I think first we must feed you and rest you. That curtain-frame has not treated you kindly. You are bronzed and scratched and gaunt around the edges.”