Piers Anthony - Juxtaposition

“I should have known,” Sheen said, bemused. “But this is a cynical thing. Lady.”

“Aye, Lady. It is a cruel sacrifice for thee.”

‘That’s not the point. Lady. The sheer mischief—“

“I apologize for putting thee in an untenable position, Lady Sheen. Thou hast every right to reject it.” She gave Hinblue another stroke, then addressed Stile. “My Lord, I thought not of her feeling, only of her merit. I wanted her as my sister in that frame, and that was selfish. Let her be. I love thee.” She returned to the horse, dismissing him.

Stile turned off the holo. “I guess that covers it. Sheen.” He felt embarrassed and awkward. “If it’s any comfort, I felt about the same as you, when she broached the notion. I do care for you; I always did. I just can’t honestly call it love.”

“I accept,” Sheen said.

“You are generous to accept my apology. I wish I had not put you through this.”

“Not the apology. The proposal.”

“The—?”

“Remember way back when, you proposed marriage?”

Stile was amazed. “I—“

“Yes, that proposal. If you had the circuitry of a robot, you’d remember these details more readily. Perhaps if you practiced mnemonic devices—“

“But why? You made such a good case against—“

“She wants it,” she said simply.

That he could understand. He had proposed to Sheen because the Lady Blue wanted it; she had accepted for the same reason. Now they just had to hope it was a good idea.

The capsule had come to a halt, the portholes showing a landing at a spaceport. Sheen keyed the door open. Stile gaped.

Outside lay the Blue Demesnes.

No, of course it was the Proton equivalent, on (he same geographic site. Merely one of numerous examples of parallelism of frames. The castle and grounds looked the same as in Phaze, but there was no magic. Horses grazed and dogs ranged, not unicorns and werewolves. Still, it moved him.

“After the Lady Bluette died, her employer restored the property and put it on the market,” Sheen explained. “It was at a bargain price. I thought you’d like it.”

“I do.” Stile stared at it a moment longer. “But it’s strange here.”

“No Lady Blue,” she said.

“It will be yours now.”

She was silent. Had he said the wrong thing? Well, either it would work out or it wouldn’t. His chef had his meal waiting: genuine imported roast of bear. Stile made a mental note not to speak figuratively; as a Citizen, he was too apt to be taken literally. He had said he could eat a bear; now he had to do it. Actually, it wasn’t bad. The chef did know his business.

Sheen had hired people of genuine competence. “And now for your estate adviser,” Sheen said as Stile chomped somewhat diffidently. “You have some elegant financial maneuvering ahead.”

“I’d rather master the rules of the game and lay it myself.”

“This adviser is one of my friends.”

Oh. That was a different matter.

The adviser turned out to be an old male serf, wrinkled, white-haired, and elegant. Stile would not have known him for a robot, had Sheen not informed him. It was evident that the self-willed machines had profited from what Sheen had learned in the course of her association with Stile; only time, expert observation, or direct physical examination betrayed his current associates.

Stile nodded affirmatively to the serf, and the man reported: “Sir, I am Mellon, your financial accountant.” “Mellon, eh?” Stile repeated. “As in Rockefeller, Carnegie, and DuPont?”

The serf smiled. “Yes, sir.”

“You’re that good with money?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then why are you here as a serf, instead of making your fortune elsewhere in the universe?” Stile knew the robot had no future away from Proton, but a real serf would, and the cover story had to be good.

“Sir, I have already made my fortune elsewhere,” MeIon said. “I am as rich as a Citizen. But here on Proton the dynamics of wealth are most pronounced; the leverage of economics is exerted most openly. Only here can I experience the joy of renewed challenge, failure, and success. When my tenure expires, I shall return to my comfortable galactic estate and write my memoirs of the Proton experience.”

Stile was impressed. This was a feasible rationale. It would explain the man’s computerized competence. Stile might even have to stave off efforts by other Citizens to hire Mellon away. Except that since no real Mellon existed, any verification of his background would reveal—

“I am cast in the likeness of an actual person, sir,” Mellon said, reading Stile’s expression. “The proceeds of my memoirs will go to him, in recompense for the use of his credentials.”

The machines had figured it all out! “Well, I hope you are not disappointed in the experience you have managing my estate. I don’t even know its extent, but I’m trusting you to multiply it for me rapidly.”

“I shall do so, sir. I must ask that you follow my advice in particulars with alacrity. There are likely to be difficult moments, but there is an eighty-five percent probability of accomplishing our objective.”

Mellon certainly seemed sure of himself! The machines had to have secrets that could be exploited for tremendous leverage. Stile suspected he should leave it alone, but his curiosity governed. “How do you propose to make me rich, even by Proton standards? Surely my section of the Protonite mines can only produce so much.”

“By wagering, sir. You will be better informed than your opponents.”

Because of the immense body of information accessible to the sapient machines. But it would be made to seem like human instinct and luck. “No.”

“Sir?”

“To wager when one has an illicit advantage is not equitable. I do not care to make my fortune that way.”

“He’s like that, Mel,” Sheen said smugly. “Sir, without that advantage, the odds become prohibitive.”

“I have surmounted prohibitive odds before. I shall not compromise my standards now. Presumably you will be able to perform moderately well while limited to ethical means.”

“Yes, sir,” Mellon said grimly.

Stile completed his uncomfortable repast of bear steak. “Then let’s get to it now. I am not used to wealth. I fear this will be a chore for me. I want to get that chore out of the way and return to—my private retreat.” Even among his staff, he was not inclined to talk too freely of Fhaze. “But first—Sheen?”

“Sir,” Sheen said immediately.

“By what mechanism do I promulgate my engagement to you?”

“Application must be made to the Records Computer, sir. A Citizen hearing will be arranged.”

“And?”

“That is all, sir. Marriages, births, designations of heirs, changes in estate holdings—all are merely a matter of accurate record. The hearing is a formality, to make sure there is no foul play or confusion.”

“No ceremony? Blood tests? Waiting periods?”

“These are available if you wish them, sir. But they are not required for Citizens and are irrelevant for robots. The entry in the record is all that is mandatory.”

“Well, let’s do this right. Let’s set a date for a formal, medieval. Earth-style nuptial, and invite the public.”

“What date, sir?”

Stile considered. “There may be some mischief here. Let’s give it time to clear. Set the date for two months hence, at which time you will become my wife and heir. Get yourself a pretty wedding outfit.”

Mellon coughed. “Sir, may I comment?”

“Comment,” Stile agreed.

“The Records Computer will know Sheen is not a legal person. It will advise the members of the Citizen panel. This will not interfere with the marriage, for a Citizen may do what pleases him; he may marry a toad if he wants. But the designation of a nonperson as heir to Citizenship will complicate your own activities. If you could hold that aspect in abeyance—“