Piers Anthony - Juxtaposition

“That would be a lie,” Stile said. “I intend to name her heir, and I want no deception about it.” Yet he wondered at his own motive, since this was more than the Lady Blue had suggested. Why make a larger issue of it? And he answered himself; because he felt guilty about not being able to give Sheen his love, so he was giving her his position instead.

“Yes, sir,” Mellon said submissively.

“Sir, he is correct,” Sheen said. “If you bring this mischief on yourself prematurely—“

“I will not abuse my word,” Stile said firmly. “The truth shall be known.”

“Sir, I fear you will imperil yourself and us,” she said. “Rather than permit that, I shall decline to—“

“Do you want me to call the Lady Blue again?”

Sheen hesitated. “No, sir.”

So he had bluffed her out! “How do I file my entry with the Records Computer?”

“Sir, I can activate its receptor—“

“Do so.”

She touched a button on the wall. “Records, sir,” a wall speaker said.

“I, Stile, Citizen, hereby announce my betrothal to the Lady Sheen. I will marry her two months hence in public ceremony, and designate her to become my heir to Citizenship effective that date. Any questions?”

“Sir, are you aware that Sheen is a robot?” the computer asked.

“I am aware.”

“If you designate a nonperson heir, your estate will, on your demise or abdication, revert to the common pool, sir.”

“I challenge that,” Stile said. “I want her to inherit.”

“Then a special hearing will be necessary, sir.”

“We already have a hearing. Juxtapose them. Schedule it at your earliest convenience.”

“Yes, sir.” The Records Computer disconnected.

“Now you have done it, sir,” Sheen murmured. “You and your unstable living human temper.”

“We’ll see. Let’s get to the next event.” They entered the capsule again, and Sheen programmed their destination. The smooth motion commenced. Stile paid attention to none of this; he was already orienting on the wagering to come, much as he would for a Game of the Tourney. He was not sure he had really left the challenge ladder; perhaps- he had merely achieved a new plateau for a new series of games.

“To wager—what are my present resources?” he asked Mellon.

“The initial estate of a Citizen is set at one kilogram of Protonite, sir,” Mellon said. “Serfs do not deal in money, normally, so there is little way to equate this with what you have known.”

“I know that a single ounce of Protonite is supposed to be worth the entire twenty-year tenure of the average serf,” Stile said.

“Yes, traditionally. Actually, this fluctuates as the variables of demand and technology change the need, though the Proton Council regulates the supply to keep the price fairly stable, much as the cartels of the galaxy have traditionally regulated the supplies of foregoing fuels—coal, oil, uranium, and such.”

“Until supplies ran short,” Stile said. “Or until technology obviated the need. Efficient utilization of starlight, and hydrogen fusion—these became virtually limitless resources.”

“Indeed, sir. But starlight and fusion both require enormous initial capital investment. Though Protonite is theoretically limited, it is so potent that it has become the fuel of choice for interstellar travel. Its value more closely resembles that of bullion gold than that of bygone oil.”

“Gold,” Stile said. “I have played with that in my historical researches. I have a fair notion of its value, as measured in archaic ounces.”

“Then set one gram of Protonite as equivalent to four hundred troy ounces of gold, sir. One kilogram—“

“Four hundred thousand ounces of gold!” Stile finished, amazed despite himself.

“Enough to hire a thousand serfs for full tenure, sir,” Mellon said. “A fortune equivalent to that of many of the historically wealthy persons of Earth. That is your minimum share of Citizenship; wealthy Citizens control the equivalent of as much as a ton of Protonite, so are richer than any historical figure.”

“I see that,” Stile agreed, somewhat awed. He had known Citizens were exceedingly rich, but still had under estimated the case. “And I must become one of those wealthy ones?”

“You must become the wealthiest Citizen, sir,” Mellon agreed. “Only then can you be reasonably secure against the forces that may be brought to bear. Our target is two metric tons of Protonite.”

“That’s two thousand kilograms!” Stile exclaimed.

“Precisely, sir. There have been wealthier Citizens in the past, but at present none go beyond this level. Only extraordinary expertise can bring you to this.”

“Expertise, yes; illicit information, no.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And how much of my single, insignificant kilogram may I employ for gambling?”

“Three quarters of it, sir. You must, by Proton custom that has the force of law, maintain a floor of two hundred and fifty grams for normal household use.”

“Some household! That’s a hundred thousand ounces of gold!”

‘True, sir. No Citizen is poor by galactic standards.”

“I seem to remember Sheen telling me that no Citizen could get more than two years’ income in arrears.”

“That is an optional guideline for the conservative.”

“I see. But I can’t afford to be conservative, can I? And if I gamble and lose, so I’m stuck at the floor level—then what?”

“Your share is not a literal kilogram, sir, but rather the equivalent in continuing production from the Protonite mines. In time—perhaps a year—yon will have an income of ten to twenty additional grams. Enough to maintain a modest estate without depleting your principal.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to deplete my principal,” Stile said, feeling giddy. Even a Citizen’s small change vastly exceeded his expectation. “Still, to build a stake of seven hundred and fifty grams up to an estate of two thousand kilograms—that will take rapid doubling and redoubling.”

“Certainly, sir. And we shall not be risking all of the discretionary funds. Reverses are to be expected. I recommend an initial limit of one hundred grams per wager.”

“And your recommendation is my law.”

“Yes, sir, in this respect except—“

“Except that I will handle the substance of the wagers myself, drawing on none of your computer information. I presume you feel this makes me likely to fail.”

“Yes, sir,” Mellon said unhappily. “I have considerable strategic resource, were it permissible for use.”

“Were it not the way I am, your kind would not have trusted me to keep their secret.”

“Yes, sir.” But considerable disapproval was conveyed in that acquiescence.

“Very well, let’s review this matter. You have the entire information bank of the planetary computer network available to you. The average wagering Citizen does not. Would you consider it fair play for us to use this? I submit that it represents an unfair advantage, and to use it would be dishonest.”

“Citizens have very few restrictions, sir. They may draw on any available facilities. I think it likely that some will seek to take advantage of your inexperience. Turnabout may be considered fair play.”

“Very well. If I encounter a Citizen who is trying to take unfair advantage. I’ll draw on your information to turn the tables. But I’ll balk at anything I deem to be unethical. I will cheat only the cheaters.”

“Understood, sir. It would be unwise to seem to follow the advice of a serf too slavishly.”

Evidently the issue of personal integrity still eluded the robot. “Yes. A Citizen must keep up arrogant appearances.”

Now Sheen, who had remained scrupulously clear of this discussion, rejoined it. “I am sure you will have no difficulty, sir.”