Piers Anthony - Juxtaposition

Then Merle stepped forward, carrying ten grams she had saved. “All finished except me?” she inquired brightly. No one contested it. “Then it seems I am to decide the issue. I perceive Stile is behind by a mere three grams, of some ten tons deposited, and here I hold ten grams.” She was enjoying this, making her little show before a rapt audience. No one said a word; no one knew which way she would go. She had scores to settle with both sides.

“Now I asked you for a liaison, you intriguing little man, and you turned me down,” she continued with a flirt of her hip. She was costumed in the Xanadu fashion, but somehow, now, the conservative attire of a dressmaker’s notion of thirteenth-century China became provocative on her. Whether by nature, discipline, or rejuvenation, her figure was finely formed. She reminded Stile somewhat of the Yellow Adept, though she was not Yellow’s other self.

“Very few men of any station turn me down,” she said with pride. “For that insult, one gram against you.” She flipped a token onto the negative plate. “And you did it to win your bet, putting finance over romance. Fie again!” She flipped another token to the same plate. Stile was now five grams down.

Merle inspected him, walking around him as she might a prize animal on sale. “Yet you are a handsome bantam, as well formed and healthy as any man I have encountered, who has quite smitten my withered old heart. One for your fine miniature physique.” She tossed a gram to Stile’s side of the scales. “And others did force me to act against you, catching me in a temporary monetary bind. I resent that. Another for you.”

She was teasing him, he knew, but he couldn’t help hoping. Now he was only three grams behind again, and she had six remaining. How would they be played? “You have rare integrity,” she continued. “You are true to your word and to your own. I like that very well. Three for your personality, which I would have respected less, had I been able to corrupt it.” She added three to Stile’s side, and slowly the scales shifted until the two plates were even.

“But now your bet is won,” she said. “I failed to seduce you, and those who bet on your fall have paid off. There remain no commitments.” She glanced meaningfully at the scales. “Five tons on each side. All is in balance. Now, Stile, for these remaining tokens—may I purchase your favor this time?”

Oh, no! She was still looking for that liaison! She was propositioning him before the entire business meeting—and how heavily her three remaining grams weighed! The prior bet was over; he could accept her offer now and have the victory, or decline it and lose his Citizenship and his cause.

Yet this was not the way Stile could be bought. “I am no gigolo,” he said shortly. “I have a fiancee.”

“And a wife, as if such things related.” She paused, contemplating him as she might a difficult child. “So you employ such pretexts to refuse me again.” She flipped a gram onto the negative plate, and the balance tipped against him.

Stile tried not to show his wince. For such foolishness, she was set to ruin him. The enemy Citizens began to smile, perceiving the fix he was in. Victory—or honor. “Now I have only two remaining —just enough to sway the vote in your favor. Stile,” Merle said. “After this there will be no opportunity for me to change my mind. I mean to have what I want, and I am willing to pay. Again, I ask you for your favor.”

Stile hesitated. She could break him—and would. Citizens could be fanatical about being denied, and women could be savage about being spurned. Yet to win his case this way, publicly yielding to her—

“Ask your fiancee,” Merle suggested. “I doubt she wants you to throw away your fortune and hers on so slight a matter. One hour with me—and I promise it will be a pleasant one—and the rest of your life with your chosen ones. Is it so difficult a choice?”

Stile looked at Sheen. He had suggested to her before that she should be jealous of any other attachments he might have, and he could see that she had taken the advice seriously and reprogrammed her responses accordingly. Yet she feared for his wealth and his life if he resisted Merle. She wanted him to do the expedient thing, regard less what it cost her. She was a machine, but also a woman; her logic urged one thing, her sex another. He thought of the Lady Blue and knew that she would feel much the same. The Lady Blue knew she had his love; his body was less significant. Merle was offering a phe nomenal payoff for a liaison that probably would be very easy, physically. He could win everything. But he was not a machine or a woman.

“No,” he said. “If I compromise myself now, by selling myself openly for power, I am corruptible and can not be trusted with that power.”

He heard a faint sound, almost a whimper. Sheen knew he courted disaster.

Merle’s visage hardened. “Lo, before all these assembled, you deny me yet again. You will throw away every thing to spite me!” She lifted the last two tokens in her hand, taking aim at the negative plate. The smiles of the enemy Citizens broadened, and Stile suspected that if he had it to do over, he would decide the other way. How could he throw away everything like this, not only for his friends but for the survival of the frames themselves? What kind of honor was it that led directly to total destruction?

But Merle paused—and Stile realized she was teasing the other Citizens too. ‘But it is your very quality of honor that most intrigues me. Every man is said to have his price; it is evident that neither money nor power is your price for the slightest of things. In what realm, then, is your price to be found? You are a man who does what he chooses, not what he is forced to do, though the fires that-Hell-hath-not do bar the way. A man of rarest courage. For that I must reluctantly grant you one.” And she tossed one token into Stile’s plate, causing the scales to balance again. Oh, she was teasing them all!

“While I,” she continued, frowning again, “have not always been mistress of my decision. Threatened similarly, I capitulated and betrayed you. I locked you away in the mines until the meeting should pass. I did not know your mechanical friends would summon a creature from across the curtain to rescue you. So for that betrayal I must pay; I am of lesser merit than you, and perhaps that is the underlying reason you do not find me worthy. Stile, I apologize for that betrayal. Do you accept?”

“That I accept,” he said, privately glad she had said it. She had indeed shown him the kind of pressure that could be applied to a Citizen.

Merle tossed the last token onto Stile’s plate, tipping the final balance in his favor. Stile was aware that she had acted exactly as she had intended from the outset; her deliberations had all been show. But he was weak with relief. She could so readily have torpedoed him! The enemy Citizens were grimly silent. Their plot had failed, by the whim of a woman. Stile had retained his Citizenship and was now the most powerful Citizen of all. They could not prevent him from marrying Sheen and designating her his heir, which meant in turn that the precedent would be established for recognition of his allies the self-willed machines and for the improvement of their position in the society of Proton. Assuming the coming juxtaposition and alignment of power did not change that in any way.

“The business of this meeting is concluded,” the Chair one announced. “We shall proceed to entertainment as we disperse.” Music rose up, and refreshment robots appeared. The lead theme was played by a damsel with a dulcimer, the precursor to the piano. She struck the taut strings with two leather-covered little hammers and played most prettily. This was in keeping with the Xanadu theme, since it had been mentioned in Coleridge’s poem.