Piers Anthony: Juxtaposition

But Stile knew the war was not over. Several barriers remained in place, and the slope reversed farther to the north. Stile’s big gamble was with the giants and the route. If he had judged all aspects correctly, he would win—but at this moment he was in severe doubt.

The ball encountered the standing barrier wedges and blew them apart. They had not diverted it perceptibly, and seemed not to have slowed it, but Stile knew crucial impetus had been lost. Would the ball carry far enough? Now the terrain was gently rolling, largely clear of trees. Stile had planned this carefully on the map.

The ball sailed up the slope, and down, and onward. It was right on target. But it was slowing, as it had to, for the incidental resistance of the miles was cumulative. The Proton-frame terrain, unobtrusive so far because of its barrenness, suddenly became prominent in the form of a cluster of force-Held domes. The isolated estates of Citizens, perhaps occupied at the moment, perhaps not. There was a peculiar appeal to such technology set in such an absolutely barren environment, a nugget of complete wealth in complete poverty, like a diamond in sand. Strange that he should see it this way. Stile thought—then realized that it was in fact the perspective of his other self, to whom the entire frame of Proton was a novelty, much as the frame of Phaze was to Stile. What was commonplace to Stile was a miraculous new discovery to Blue.

The ball was rolling toward a linked trio of small domes. The connecting tubes arched high, leaving sufficient clearance below to pass the Phazite—but the ball eschewed that obvious passage to crash right into the westernmost dome. The dome disappeared as its force-field generator was taken out, leaving the serfs gasping in expectation of the sudden decompression. But there was the Phaze atmosphere, here in the juxtaposition; they discovered to their surprise that they could breathe quite well outside. It was every bit as real as the ball, of course. One serf ran blindly out in front of Stile’s steed; Belle tried to swerve, but the serf’s erratic course made avoidance uncertain.

“Serf—turf!” Stile sang, willing the message. He wanted the man to be removed to a safe spot, suitable turf. Nothing happened, and he realized that Sheen’s repressive enchantment against Adept spells remained in force. Fortunately Belle managed to miss the man, and they galloped on past the domes. Just as well the magic hadn’t worked; the enemy Adepts would be casting spells furiously now, trying to sidetrack the Phazite, to conjure imposing barriers or trenches in its path, and Sheen’s counterspell was the only protection against this. It was not hard to keep up with the ball now as it slowly lost velocity. Had Stile started it at a different angle, it could have proceeded down a long valley and maintained speed. But he had elected to go the more difficult, surprising route, gambling the fate of the frames on his hunch. The giants should be arriving soon, and the other thing—he would not say, lest it be overheard. The slope changed, and the ball slowed more definitely.

This was the beginning of the rise he knew would balk it. No goblins were in evidence; he had at least been. successful in fooling them. Probably there was a huge concentration at the other route and many barriers, pits, and various obstructive things. If the giants arrived in time, there would be no trouble.

At last the ball stopped, settling into a soft pocket so firmly that it was obvious that their present force could not budge it. They rode up and paused beside it.

“What now. Stile?” Sheen inquired with a certain unrobotic edge.

“You unicorns change suits and fly up and see if you can spot the giants,” Stile said. “They should be close now. Tell them we need help in a hurry.”

The four unicorns shifted immediately to their airborne forms and zoomed into the sky. “I’ll check too,” Stile said to Sheen. “Project my image in a fast survey around the area.”

She did. Soon he verified that the goblins were indeed massed at the valley route in horrendous number—but already they were marching toward the ball’s present location. It would not be long before they got there. The giants just had to get there first!

The unicorns were successful. In a moment, three of the towering giants appeared, striding across the horizon, their heads literally lost in the clouds. They had been following the progress of the ball with giant field glasses, so had been ready to intercept it when it was stopped. Stile had Sheen terminate their spells of invisibility and protection against attack, as these were no longer useful or necessary. Now Stile needed to be seen, to help organize the giants for their giant effort.

Soon the giants were using huge metal canes to propel the ball forward, up the slope, following the route Stile dictated. The giants enjoyed this; it was like a giant game of pool, knocking the tiny but extremely solid ball along. If they did it improperly, their pool cues broke, which was inconvenient.

The first elements of the goblin army arrived too late; the ball was well on its way. Stile and his companions were galloping after it.

Now, Stile thought, was the critical time. If the canny goblin commander did what Stile expected him to—

“There’s no way the goblins can stop the giants,” Sheen said. “We’ve won! Clip says the other side of the curtain is this side of the crest of the hill. We’re nearly there!” But another contingent of goblins was arriving at the hill. They did not try to oppose the giants; instead they marched ahead, as if clearing the way, which was strange. The giants, unperturbed, kept pushing the ball, taking turns with their cues. Even for them, it was very heavy, and progress slowed as they tired and their cues broke.

“The line should be right about here,” Sheen said.

“Not any more,” Stile told her. “The goblins are moving it.”

Now she caught on. “No! We aren’t gaining at all, then!”

“Oh, we’ll get there,” Stile said. “This only means delay. The giants are tired; it will take longer to crest the hill.”

“I should think so,” she agreed, eyeing the steep, almost cliff-faced crest. “You anticipated this? Why did you come here, then? The giants could have pushed it around the hill and across the curtain much faster, and we could have won the game by now. As it is, the enemy will have time to set up something worse.”

“Yes,” Stile agreed gravely.

The giant currently taking aim at the ball paused. He shook himself, and sweat flung out from him like rain. “You’ll have a workers’ revolt soon,” Sheen cautioned.

“You’ve got to have some reason for this foolishness.” But Stile was listening for something. Now at last he heard it: an abrupt intensification of the faint Flute music in the background.

“The Oracle has just crossed the line,” Stile announced. “Or rather, the line has crossed the Oracle. That computer is now within the zone of juxtaposition. From there, it can use its own stored moving equipment to transport itself the rest of the way to Proton.”

“The Oracle!” Sheen exclaimed. “It had to cross to Proton to complete the exchange. To be able to make its vast expertise available for the reorganization of the Proton economic complex.”

“The goblins have just enabled it to do that,” Stile agreed. “Now we can tip the ball over the crest, roll it down across the line—and Clef can let the curtain collapse into singularity and vanish.”

“You did have a cunning notion! You knew the curtain had not spread far enough, that the Oracle was hung up here, right under this mound, so you—“

“We still have to get the ball across,” Stile reminded her. “We haven’t won yet.”

But now the giants renewed their efforts. The ball was shoved up over the cliff face with a convulsive joint effort, and began its inexorable roll down toward the curtain. They charged up after it, scrambling for handholds at the brink, feeling the exhilaration of victory. As they crested the ridge, they saw the opposite slope blackened with goblins; all the rest of that army had force-marched here for the final confrontation.