Piers Anthony - Juxtaposition

There was now the matter of the Translucent Adept. Stile decided, with a certain inner regret, to let that be. He had intruded on the Translucent Demesnes, and the Adept had not discriminated against him. Stile had won sufficient victory by escaping the net. To attack another Adept at this point would be to initiate trouble, rather than reacting to it.

He looked ahead. They were on the island of the West Pole. It was pleasant enough, with deciduous trees scattered across gently rolling pasture. Small flowers bloomed randomly, and a number of shrubs bore fruit. A person could live fairly comfortably here without much labor. The curtain continued west. They followed it—and suddenly, three miles in from the beach, they were at the West Pole. It was marked by a big X on the ground. Stile looked down at it. ‘That’s it?” he asked, disappointed.

“Didst thou expect perchance a palace?” the Lady inquired with a smile.

“Well, yes, or something spectacular. This X on the ground—how do we know this is really the spot?”

“Because the curtains intersect here, my love.” She stood on the X and pointed north-south with her arms. “Here is the other curtain. It proceeds at right angles.” Stile looked carefully. There it was—another curtain, like the first, crossing at the X. He spelled himself across, and found himself on a barren elevation of Proton. Holding his breath, he strode to the east-west curtain and willed himself across. He was back in Phaze. The two curtains were similar, except for orientation.

“And from here thou canst sight along them, to see that they are straight,” the Lady said.

Stile stood on the Pole and sighted east. The line was absolutely straight; all the meanderings they had traveled now seemed to be distortions of the land of Phaze and the land of Proton. Interesting perspective! Curious as to how far this went, he conjured a powerful telescope, one based on the macron principle, and oriented on the line again. It went straight for what might be thousands of miles, until the focus found the backside of a standing man. That man was holding an object to his eye.

“Oh, nol” Stile exclaimed. “That’s me!” And he,kicked up one foot, verifying it. “This line does not even acknowledge the curvature of the planet!”

“Of course not,” the Lady said. “Phaze is flat.”

“But Phaze has the same geography as Proton—and Proton is a sphere. How can that be?”

“Phaze is magic; Proton is scientific.” Stile decided to let that wait for further thought. An other problem had occurred. “This is a telescope I’m using —I didn’t think—I mean it’s a scientific instrument. It shouldn’t work here in the magic frame.”

“Methought thou didst know,” the Lady said. “The West Pole is the juxtaposition of frames. Magic and science both work, on this spot. That is what makes it worth visiting.”

“Juxtaposition,” Stile repeated, intrigued. “Could both selves of a person meet here, then?”

“Methinks they would merge here, and separate again when they moved away from the Pole, but I know not for sure.”

“Science and magic merging at this particular juncture! I wonder if this is the way the universe began, with every thing working both ways, and somehow the frames began separating, like cells dividing or surfaces pulling apart, so that people had to choose one or the other, never both? Like matter and anti-matter. Except for a few anchorages like this. This is special!”

“Aye,” she agreed. “Methought thou wouldst like it. Many impossible tricks of science are possible here.” Stile sighed. “Now we have reached our destination; Our time is up, our honeymoon over, and I must return to Proton for a stint of Citizenship.”

“Our time is not up,” she said. “Merely held in abeyance. Our honeymoon will endure as long as we permit. Conjure me a small residence here, and I will await thy return.”

“But the hostile signals, the dire warnings—suppose something should happen during mine absence?”

“Methinks the hostility was directed more at thee than at me. I should be safe enough. But with Clip and Hinblue to guard me, I shall surely not want for protection.”

“Still, I want to be sure,” Stile said, pacing a small circle about the Pole. “Too much has threatened, and thou art too great a treasure to risk.” He pondered. “If the West Pole permits science, could I set up a holographic pickup and broadcast unit, to reach me in Proton-frame? Would it transmit thine image successfully?”

“We can find out,” she said.

Stile worked out a spell and conjured a standard Proton unit of the type used for projections originating outside the domes. He set it up and got it running; it could handle all that was visible from this point. Then he conjured an oxygen mask and crossed into barren Proton farther east, carrying a conjured receiver. It worked well enough; a globe formed in air and he looked into it to see the view of whatever direction he faced. He spun its orientation and caught the circular panorama as if turning in place at the West Pole. He halted it in place when he spied the Lady Blue standing beside the grazing Hinblue. “I see thee,” Stile said, activating the voice-return. This hand-held unit could not transmit his picture, but that wasn’t necessary.

“I love thee,” she returned, smiling. “Thee, thee, thee.”

“Thee, thee, thee,” he repeated, in the Phaze convention of unqualified love, feeling warm all over. Then he stepped back across the curtain and conjured a tent for privacy. Clip snorted musically, not looking up from his grazing. “But thou knowest what thou must do in the other frame,” the Lady reminded him sternly.

Stile sighed. He knew. But for another hour he could put it from his mind.

And in due course he conjured himself back to his usual curtain-crossing place and returned to his duties in Proton.

CHAPTER 6 - Commitment

Sheen was waiting for him. “How was your honeymoon, sir?” she inquired with a certain emphasis.

‘Trouble with two other Adepts, rescued by a troll and a giantess. Routine fare.”

“Obviously,” she agreed wryly. “Are you ready to approve your new staff, sir? And your temporary economy residence?”

There was that “sir” again. “I’d better. Sheen.” She guided him to a Citizen transport capsule. It was ordinary from the outside, but like a spaceship cabin in side. Through the port a holograph of moving stars could be glimpsed. A rotund, balding serf walked up the aisle and stood at attention, wearing only a tall white hat.

“Speak to him, sir,” Sheen murmured.

“Who are you?” Stile asked.

“Sir, I am Cookie, your chef.”

“I just happen to be hungry enough to eat a bear,” Stile said. The recent action in Phaze had taken his mind from food, causing him to miss a meal.

“Immediately, sir.” Cookie disappeared.

Stile blinked. “Oh—he’s a holo too.”

“Naturally, sir. There is not room in this capsule for a kitchen. We’ll arrive in a few minutes, and he will have your meal ready.”

Another naked serf entered the spaceship. This one was an attractive older woman. Stile raised an inquiring eyebrow. “I am Henriette, your head housemistress, sir,” she said primly.

Stile wondered what a housemistress did, but decided not to inquire. Sheen would not have hired her without reason. “Carry on, Henriette,” he said, and she vanished. Next was a middle-aged man not much larger than Stile himself. “I am Spade, your gardener, sir.”

“Sam Spade?” Stile inquired with a smile. But the man did not catch the historical-literary allusion. Only a Game specialist would be up on such minutiae.

“Sir, only Spade, the gardener.”