Piers Anthony - Juxtaposition

“Stile,” the roll caller called. Then, with grim hope: “Not present? Let it be noted that—“

Stile burst out from the trash bin, sending dust and pieces of paper flying. “Beware! Beware!” he cried, quoting from Kubia Khan.

“His flashing eyes, his floating hair!

Weave a circle round him thrice,

And close your eyes with holy dread,

For he on honey-dew hath fed,

And drunk the milk of Paradise.”

For surely Stile was an apparition, confounding these evil-meaning people. In Xanadu, the weaving of a triple circle around such a wild man would help confine his malice, but here they would try to do it financially. The quotation was doubly significant here, because Stile really had fed on honey-dew and drunk the milk of Paradise—his experience in the magic realm of Phaze. And as it happened, this was where Coleridge’s poem broke off, interrupted by the person from Porlock; no one knew what would follow.

“Present,” the roll caller agreed glumly, and continued with the tabulation while Sheen cleaned Stile off. Stile saw the Rifleman, Waldens, Merle, and others he had come to know, but could not be certain what side any of them were on. He knew he would soon find out.

The first order of business was the clarification of financial credits, since voting would be strictly by wealth. Each Citizen made an entry with the Chairone: so many kilos and grams of Protonite as of this moment. Another Citizen verified those credits with the Records Computer, and a third issued tokens representative of Protonite, in kilo and gram units. It was much like buying chips for a big game of poker—and this would surely be the biggest game ever.

When Stile’s turn came, there was a complication. “My fortune must be established by the settlement of two bets at this time,” he said. “First, a wager with a consortium of Citizens that I would or would not appear at this meeting alive. I believe I have won that bet.”

“Granted,” the Chairone agreed soberly. He had played an identification beam across Stile, verifying that he was no android or robot replica. “What is your basic fortune prior to that decision?”

“My financial adviser will have to provide that information. He also has a number of proxies that should be included.”

“Proxies?”

“I have complete authority to dispose the proxied funds, including wagering with them,” Stile said. “You may verify that with the Records Computer.” He hoped that his friends had succeeded in amassing the necessary total. If not, he was likely to be finished.

Mellon was admitted. He provided data on Stile’s assets and proxies. The Chairone’s eyes widened. “But this is more than six hundred kilos, total!” Six hundred kilos! The computers had come through handsomely!

“I protest!” a Citizen cried. “He can’t use proxies to multiply his own fortune!”

“Sir, I have here the proxy forms,” Mellon said smoothly. “As you will see, they are carefully worded, and this particular use is expressly granted. For the purpose of this meeting, all proxies are part of Stile’s personal fortune.”

The Chairone checked again with the Records Computer. Lugubriously he reported that it was true. By the laws of this game. Stile could consider the proxies to be part of his betting assets. He also verified the terms of the survival wager. This, too, was tight. Mellon had done his job expertly, allowing no technicality to void the assets.

“Citizen Stile, having won his wager by appearing at this meeting alive, has herewith doubled his fortune,” the Chairone announced, “to twelve hundred point six two eight kilograms of Protonite.”

Stile saw a number of Citizens wince. Those were surely his enemies of the consortium, who had tried to assassinate him for profit. They had paid for that attempt with their wealth. That was satisfying!

“And the other bet, placed by proxy,” Stile said. “That I would or would not be seduced by Citizen Merle by this time. I believe she will verify that I won that one too.” This was chancy; he had indeed won, but Merle had betrayed him once. What would he do if she lied?

Merle came forward, looking slender and young and demure. “It is true. I failed.”

“I protest!” yet another Citizen cried. “She reneged to help Stile, because she is enamored of him!” Merle tamed on the man. “I am enamored, but it is hardly my custom to void an assignation from any overdose of personal attraction. I want him more than ever. But pressure was brought to bear on me to kill him; instead I confined him. Under the circumstance, it is not surprising he was less than enthusiastic about seduction. At any rate, my feeling was not part of the bet, as I understand it. Only whether I did or did not succeed. It is always foolish to place one’s trust in the activities of a woman.”

Stile found himself forgiving Merle’s betrayal. She had certainly made it pay for him. The Citizens had no refutation. The bet stood—and Stile’s fortune was doubled again, to almost two and a half metric tons of Protonite. He was for the moment the wealthiest Citizen of the planet.

“I dare say those who gave me their proxies will be pleased when they receive their fortunes back, quadrupled,” he murmured to Mellon. He knew there would be trouble, as angry Citizens checked to discover how he had obtained those proxies so rapidly, and that this could lead to the exposure of the self-willed machines, but this was now so dose to the final confrontation that it should make no difference. Already the frames were drawing together, soon the juxtaposition should become apparent. He thought he saw little waverings in the icy walls of the cavern, but that might be his imagination. The remaining Citizens were duly registered. The next item on the agenda was the motion to revoke Stile’s Citizenship. It was presented for a vote without debate. This was no democracy; it was a power play. The issue would be decided rapidly, in much the manner of a wager. The vote was conducted by scale. There was a huge balancing scale in the center of the court. Citizens were free to set their token weights on either, both, or neither side of the scale, causing the balance to shift in favor of or against the motion.

They did so, filing by to deposit their votes. The model weights were miniatures, weighing only a thousandth of the real Protonite, so that a metric ton weighed only a single kilogram. Otherwise this vote would have been impossibly cumbersome. Stile’s own tokens weighed two point four kilos, not two and a half tons. The Citizens were not all against him. Many protested the attempt to disenfranchise one of their number, regard less of the provocation, so put their grams in the RETAIN side. Stile, uncertain how the final tally would go, did not put all his own grams in at once. If he did that, others might be put off by his display of enormous wealth and vote against him. But if he let too much weight overbalance against him, others might feel his cause was lost and join the winning side. So he strove to keep the scales in balance, filling in the deficit with small portions of his own fortune. Would he have enough at the end to prevail? Since he had amassed the fortune the self-willed machines had deemed necessary, he should be all right. But still it was close, and others were watching his moves, countering him along the way.

Steadily the Citizens voted, and steadily the total went against him. Apparently sentiment had intensified. Stile’s fortune was dissipating too swiftly; he saw he would run out before the end.

Remorselessly it came. He put his last three grams down, the dregs of an enormous fortune, tipping the scales his way—and the next Citizen put five on the other side, tipping them back. Stile could no longer bail himself out. So close!