Juxtaposition

12. Juxtaposition (J)

Suddenly he was in a giant fish bowl, and Sheen was peering in at him. She was surrounded by wolves and bats. "That's you, Stile?" she inquired rhetorically. "Just a moment while I revert you."

She opened a book and leafed through the pages while Stile turned about in his confined quarters with difficulty. No, it wasn't that the tank was small; he was big. The bowl had not been designed for thirty kilograms of fish.

"Ah, there it is," she said. She concentrated on Stile, lifted two fingers of her left hand, winked, and said, "Umph," while she tapped her right foot.

Abruptly Stile was in man-form again. Behind him was the fish bowl, undisturbed. He was dressed in the manner of a Citizen, and his harmonica was with him. He stood inside a small force-field dome set in a forest glade. The huge gruff shapes of ogres guarded it outside, as if the werewolves and vampires inside were not enough. Some sort of magic scintillated above, probably warding off hostile spells. An automatic laser unit swung its lens back and forth, questing for unauthorized intrusions. Magic and science merged.

"You did this?" he asked Sheen. "Conjured me here, changed me back?"

"You can't have been paying very close attention. Didn't you see me use the book of magic?" She patted its cover.

"But you're not alive! How can you do magic?"

"Machines are excellent at following instructions."

"The book — that good?"

She handed it to him. "Better. I am as yet a novice; I had only minutes to study it before you got yourself enchanted. It is the perfect key; it will make you the power of the millennium."

Stile considered, holding the book. He remembered the Oracle's considerations of human abilities and corruptibility. Was he really as incorruptible as he was supposed to be? Already, to obtain the book, he had compromised himself with Merle. Rationalization was easy to fall into. Suppose he started using that book of magic, for the best causes, and became addicted to it? Spells so easy that a robot — a robot- could master them at a glance, so potent they could instantly counter the enchantment of an Adept. Truly, that book represented power like none before imagined.

He handed back the book. "Keep it, Sheen. Use it with discretion. I have enough power already."

"But what about Trool the troll?"

"You handle it. With the book, you can do it."

"I can't cross the curtain to reach the Oracle's palace."

"You're across it now."

Her eyes widened. He kept being surprised by the detail of her human reactions. "So I am! But I couldn't before."

"The curtain isn't moving, it's widening. Now it comes in halves, with a steadily broadening region of overlap of frames between the fringes. This is the halfway region, the area of juxtaposition. You may not be able to cross the whole curtain at once, but you can cross it by halves now. I'll move the Phazite across it the same way."

"That must explain the strange thing I saw," she said.

"What thing?" In a situation where lasers and spells mixed, what could be strange?

"As I was casting about for a suitable place to set up this haven, I saw two men, a Citizen and an Adept. The Black Adept, by your description — made from a line. The Citizen had a line too, a financial line vital to his being. The two people came together as if drawn unwillingly — and suddenly they merged. One man stood where two had been. It must have been the two selves of the two frames reuniting in the common zone."

"So it must," Stile agreed, awed by the concept. "Juxtaposition is more literal than I thought! The divided people become whole people — for a while. They will surely separate again when the frames do. I wonder how the two Blacks feel about each other right now!"

She smiled. "There must be a number of very confused people! Not only two bodies together, but two half-souls too." Then she sobered, remembering that she had no soul at all.

"Speaking of confused people — I left a remarkable situation in Xanadu. I don't know whether Merle and the Rifleman-"

"I will check on it," Sheen said. She touched a button, and a holo-image formed, showing the Xanadu cavern.

The scene was horrendous. Merle and the Rifleman were confined in a cage whose bars were formed of ice, slowly melting in the heat of the chamber. Four hungry griffins paced just outside the cage, eager to get at the morsels within. In minutes the prisoners would be doomed.

"The Adepts want to be sure I'm dead," Stile said. "If I'm alive and aware, they know I will act to save my friends. If the ice melts and the monsters feast, the enemy Adepts will know I'm helpless."

"I did conjure a dead fish to replace you in the sunless sea," Sheen said. "I thought it would be enough. This dome is resistive to perception; they do not know we are here."

"Where are we?"

"In the heart of the ogre demesnes."

"Should be safe enough," he agreed. "But my enemies are right. I can't let the only two Citizens who helped me — I just can't leave them to this fate. I must act."

"Maybe I can do it in a way that won't betray you." She looked in the index of the book of magic again. "What type of spell should I search for?"

"Something that seems coincidental, natural. Some regular enemy to griffins that happens to wander by. Dragons, maybe."

"Here it is," she said brightly. "A spell to attract flying dragons. It's a visual display that only dragons can see, suggestive of griffins raiding the dragon nests to steal diamonds. It enrages them, and they launch toward battle."

"Excellent. Just see that they don't attack my friends."

She got on it, uttering what sounded like gibberish and stamping both feet. "That does it. I modified it to make the dragons protective toward people caged in ice. The nest syndrome, again. They'll melt the bars without hurting the prisoners. The enemy Adepts will be too busy containing the dragons to worry about the prisoners, who will surely disappear rapidly into the labyrinth of Proton. Do you want to watch?"

Stile glanced again through the holo at the prisoners. The Rifleman was holding Merle, shielding her from the cold of the ice and the reaching claws and beaks of the griffins. They made a rather fetching couple. Perhaps this incident would give the two respect for each other and lead to a passing romance.

"No, let's get on with our business," Stile said, more gruffly than necessary. The problem of Sheen and his relationship to her weighed upon him more heavily as she became more and more human. He felt guilty for not loving her sufficiently. "You conjure yourself to the Oracle's palace and see about reanimating Trool the Troll. Fetch the Brown Adept there too; it will have to be a joint effort. While you're at it, find out whether the curtain's expansion has intersected the Oracle yet. Once it crosses, I'll have to see about integrating it with the Proton computers, so its enormous expertise can aid our effort from the Proton side. Once you're through there, meet me at the Platinum Demesnes; I'll be organizing the shipment of Phazite. If we act swiftly and well, we can accomplish it before the resistance gets properly organized, especially since it may be thought that I am dead."

"But that's all kinds of magic you want me to do alone!" she protested. "I'm only a machine; I can't handle that sort of thing!"

A machine with an insecurity complex. "You've done pretty well so far."

"I had to! I knew your life was at stake."

"It still is," he said coldly. "All the Citizens and Adepts will be gunning for me harder than before, once they realize I have survived again. This is their last chance to stop the transfer of Phazite and preserve the frames as they know them. Do whatever you did before to handle magic so well."

"I just looked in the index for the spells I needed. The book is marvelously cross-referenced; it is easy to see that a computer organized it. Protection, construction, summoning, conversion — anything, instantly. I just followed instructions; I don't understand magic at all. It is complete nonsense. Who ever imagined a scientific robot doing enchantments?"

"Who, indeed!" he agreed. "This is a wrinkle I never anticipated. Yet it seems that you are well qualified to use the book of magic. Perhaps that is by design of the originators; the great equalizer for the self-willed machines. They can be the leading magicians of the age, entirely bypassing the established hierarchy."

"No. We don't want to do that. We want only our fair share of the system."

Stile smiled. "You, too, are incorruptible. You shall have your fair share. But at the moment it is the occasion for heroic efforts. Very well; I'll put it on a more practical basis. You read through that entire book and assimilate all that is in it-"

"Wait, Stile! I can't! I can read at machine rate-but this book is a hundred times as big as it seems. When you address any section, the entire book becomes that section; there are more spells in any single subdivision than I can assimilate in a year. It's like a computer with unlimited access, keying in to the networks of other planets on demand."

"A magic computer. That figures. Very well — run a survey course. Discover what types of spells it has, in broad categories — you've already done that, I think — then narrow those down until you have exactly what you need. Commit particular spells to memory, so that you can draw on them at need. Remember, you can use each spell only once, so you'll need backups. I want to know the parameters of this thing; maybe there are entire aspects of magic we never thought of. You run that survey as quickly as you can, then restore Trool and report to me. That will allow me to get moving on the Phazite without delay, while also mastering the potential of the book — through you."

"Yes, sir," she said uncertainly.

Stile brought out his harmonica and played a bar of music. Again there was something strange, but this time he continued playing, determined not to be balked by any mystery.

The spirit of his other self came out, expanding as if stretching, then closed on Stile, coalescing.

"Oh, no!" he cried. "Juxtaposition! I forgot!"

"You freed your other self's soul to merge," Sheen said. "I saw it."

Now Stile was two people, yet one. All the memories and experience and feelings of the Blue Adept of Phaze were now part of his own awareness, superimposed on his own lifelong Proton experience. All that he had learned of his other self, which the Lady Blue had told him, was now part of his direct memory. He had become, in truth, the Blue Adept. He felt confused, uplifted, and gloriously whole. "I am — both," he said, awed.

"Is it — will you be all right?" she inquired anxiously. "Things are changing so rapidly! Does it hurt?"

He looked at her with the awareness of his other self. She was absolutely lovely in her concern. She had, with typical feminine vanity and concession to the culture of Phaze, conjured herself a simple but fetching dress, and her hair was just a trifle wild. Her eyes were strongly green, as if enhanced by the verdure of the overlapping frames. "I know what thou art," he said. "I could love thee, Lady Golem-Machine, for thou art lovely in more than form."

Sheen stepped back. "That must be Blue! Stile, are you in control? If you have become prisoner in your body-"

"I am in control," Stile said. "I merely have double awareness. I have two full lives to integrate. My other self has no direct experience with your kind; he's quite intrigued."

"I would like to hear more from Blue," she said, then blushed.

"Sorry. He has to come with me; we're one now." Stile resumed his melody on the harmonica, then sang: "Let me be found at the Platinum Mound."

And he was there. Pyreforge the Dark Elf looked up. "We expected thee, Blue Adept. But I perceive thou art changed."

"I am both my selves," Stile said. "I am whole. My souls are one."

"Ah, the juxtaposition," Pyreforge agreed. "We be in the throes. But thy merger can be maintained only within the curtain, for you are now two."

"I mean to make another body for him," Stile said, an inspiration falling into place. "My friend Sheen has the book of magic; we can accomplish it now, after we restore my friend the troll to life. But first — the Phazite."

"We have it for thee," the elf agreed. "But how canst thou move it? It weighs many tons, and its magic ambience prevents conjuration."

"I think that is why the Oracle bade me organize the creatures of Phaze," Stile said. "First they rescued me from enchantment; now they will enable me to move the Phazite. I want to shape it into a great, perfect ball and roll it across the curtain by brute, physical force."

"Aye, Adept, that may be best. But others will bar thy progress if they can."

"This may be like a big earthball game," Stile said, remembering the final key word of his Tourney poem. Earth. "I will try to balk the magic of the enemy Adepts, with the help of Sheen and the book of magic, while my friends help push the ball across the near side of the curtain, through the breadth of the zone of juxtaposition, and across the other side into Proton. That is how it works, isn't it?"

"Aye. Cross from one frame on one side, to the other on the other. That can be done from both sides, but always the full juxtaposition must be traversed, for it be but the interior of the divided curtain."

"So where the curtain divides, the people reunite!" Stile exclaimed, feeling his wholeness again.

"For the moment it be so. But when the deed be done, all will be separate forever."

"I know," Stile said sadly. "I will be forever confined to mine own frame, this lovely world of magic but a memory. And mine other self, the true Blue Adept, will know no more of modern science." He felt the surge of interest and regret in his other self. To Blue, the things of science were as novel as the things of magic were to Stile.

"We do what we must do," Pyreforge said. "We sometimes like them not."

"Can the elves get the Phazite to the surface here?" Stile asked. "I can conjure in whole troops of creatures to push it across the juxtaposition."

"Nay, the other Adepts have closed the conjuration avenue, perceiving thy likely intent if thou dost survive. Thine allies must march here."

"But I came by conjurationl"

"Thou must have come from some place hidden from Adept perception, then."

"I did," Stile agreed. "I should have notified my allies before I came here. Perhaps I can make a sign for them in the sky-"

"And attract every enemy instantly," Pyreforge said. "Best to start it quickly."

Stile sighed. There always seemed to be so many constraints on his application of magic! His other self shared the sentiment; it had always been thus. Magic was not the easy answer to every problem.

He went outside and surveyed the landscape, looking down into the great plain to the north. He could see where the curtain had expanded, straightening as it went. The zone of juxtaposition now reached well into the plain. The domes of the civilization of Proton were coming into view, with their teeming Citizens, serfs, and machines.

He had an idea. He returned to Pyreforge, inside the Mound. "Have thy minions push the ball out of the northern slope of the Purple Mountains, while I fetch special help. I can use Proton equipment to shove it onward."

"Do not Citizens control the machines?" the old elf asked.

"Aye, they do," Stile agreed regretfully. "All but the self-willed machines. They will be using the heavy equipment against us. Let's hope my Phaze friends are alert, and will assemble here without specific summoning." A little foresight would have facilitated things greatly, but he had been distracted by things like being transformed into a fish. So much had happened so rapidly so recently!

Pyreforge showed the way to the Phazite. It was some distance east, for many of the tribes of elves had labored to assemble it centrally. Apparently they had been at work on this project far longer than Stile had been in Phaze, knowing the crisis was coming. The Little Folk had known much they had not advertised, and thus avoided early sabotage by the enemy.

As he walked, Stile felt an odd wrenching within him, followed by a kind of desolation. There was the sound of a fading flute, a single note that was somehow beyond the compass of ear or mind, yet encompassed something fundamental in the cosmos. In a moment he realized what had happened; he had crossed beyond the juxtaposition into Phaze proper, and the two souls could not integrate in a single frame. Blue had departed, and must now be back in the harmonica. How empty this body felt!

At length they arrived in a large cavern, not unlike the one of Xanadu, but whose walls were dark rock. There were evidences of extensive tunnelings and laborings and many tracks of carts indented in the ground, as well as spillage of ore and oil.

There in the center was a perfect sphere of Phazite. This could not have been shaped in the past few minutes; it had to have been done this way long before Stile had arrived. The ball was about six feet in diameter, the size of an earthball.

An earthball. Again Stile remembered the Game, in which such a ball was pushed by teams across one goal line or the other. The Game Computer had given him the term "Earth," the last of the supposedly random terms; now the relevance was clear.

"Solid Phazite?" he asked, awed by the reality. In Proton this would be worth so much that his mind balked at attempting the calculation.

"An isotope of the dense mineral formed in rare, peculiar processes of creation," the old elf agreed. "In the science frame this would be described as the semi-collapsed matter formed in the fringe of a certain variety of black hole in a certain critical stage of evolution. This explains why it is so rare; very little of it escapes the site of its origin. It is fifty times the density of water, unstable in certain conditions, sublimating into pure energy that is more than the sum of its present mass because of the unique stresses of its creation. Thus it may be used for the economical propulsion of spaceships — or the more versatile applications of magic in a frame where magic is normally much less intense."

"From the fringes of black holes," Stile repeated, amazed at the information the elf had. To reside in a magical frame was not necessarily to be ignorant of science! "I'll bet it's scarce! No wonder phenomenal force is bound up within it, like a really tightly coiled spring. How much is here?"

"In Proton, Protonite has been mined at the controlled rate of approximately one metric ton a year, for three hundred years, with nine tenths of it exported, the rest reserved as Citizen wealth. To equalize the frames, we must replace half of three hundred metric tons. This ball of Phazite weighs near one hundred and seventy of our tons, the equivalent."

"I don't want to wait until my allies locate me," Stile said. "My enemies may arrive at the same time. I will need some help moving that thing, if I am not to employ magic."

"We will help, within our demesnes. We have numbers and levers."

Stile brought out his map of Phaze, which had survived all his adventures in the magic way such things had. He had wondered how unicorns managed to carry things while shifting into forms such as hawks and fireflies; now he had carried map, clothing, and harmonica while swimming as a fish. He still didn't know how it was done. "The simplest thing would be to roll the ball due north across the central region, which is relatively level, until we pass the north aspect of the curtain. Somehow I don't think that will work."

"Thine enemies be alert. At some point they will discover thy location. Then will all their resources be brought to bear in opposition."

"That's the nature of the game." Stile agreed. "Both teams push on the earthball, and the one with more power and/or better strategy prevails. The problem is, I'm not sure we have more power or better strategy."

"I can help," Sheen said.

"Yes, I'll take all the help I can-" He looked at her, startled. "When didst thou arrive?"

She smiled. "Just now, when the curtain caught up with thee. Didst thou not notice it?"

Stile, distracted by the wonder of the ball of Phazite, sixty times the mass of his record Proton personal fortune, had not noticed. Now he realized that he had heard the Flute again, at the fringe of his consciousness, and that his experience had broadened as his other self rejoined him. He also realized that Sheen could not cross the curtain, this side, without going back into Proton; to go all the way into Phaze, she would have to proceed past the north part of the curtain, then double back. Best for her simply to remain in the zone of juxtaposition, using the superspells of the book of magic to overcome the interference-enchantment of the enemy Adepts.

"So the curtain is still expanding," he said. "I had somehow thought it had stabilized."

"Nay, it be unstable," Pyreforge said. "Only the ultimate skill of the Foreordained expands it, and his power be at its limit. The boundary flexes back and forth, somewhat like the winds of a changing day. The mass of many people can move it a short distance, as it were pushing it. Our elves did push it across just now so that thy friend could join thee."

"And here is Trool," Sheen continued. "His troll friends are making a tunnel through hills for the boulder, so we will not have to roll it uphill."

"I do not plan to roll it uphill! I'll roll it along the contour."

"And the Lady Brown is marching her golems here to push."

Stile looked at Trool. "Glad I am to see thee! Thou hast survived thine ordeal in good order, it seems. It is not every person who is restored from stone."

"It was an eyeblink," the troll said. "One moment I stood in the tunnel; next was I in the hall of the Oracle. I knew not thy metal golem was an enchantress."

"Women of any type have secret talents; hers manifested during your eyeblink," Stile said. "Thou, too, dost have ability. We saw thy figurines. Are all trolls sculptors?"

"Nay," Trool said, embarrassed. "I have gone mostly apart from my kind, and in the lonesome hours do I entertain myself with idle shapings. It is of no import."

"Art is of import," Stile said. "Many creatures can do conventional labors; few can fashion raw material into beauty. Phaze can be made prettier by thy efforts."

"Nay, I am ugly," Trool demurred. "I have no aspirations, now that mine onus is done."

His onus had been to save Stile three times. Surely the good troll would not accept any reward, but Stile disliked the notion of departing this frame without returning some suitable favor. Something began to develop in his mind, an improbable connection. "If thou didst have the power of an Adept, what then would be thine aspiration?"

The troll shrugged in the ungainly manner of his kind. "I have no use for power. For generations my kind has abused what powers it had, and on that history do I turn my gnarled back. All I crave is a little rock to tunnel in, and time to fashion mine images in stone, and perhaps a friend or two. The life of a troll is not much, Adept."

Not much, indeed! Stile decided to experiment. "I shall grant thee power, for a time, so that thou canst help me now. I must devise a route to roll this ball of Phazite and must avoid the enemy forces that oppose this motion." He turned to Sheen. "Thou hast surveyed the book of magic?"

"Aye," she agreed.

"Canst thou give Trool the powers of flight, invisibility, and resistance to hostile magic?"

She looked surprised. "That and more. But-"

"Do it."

"But, Adept!" Trool protested. "I am a troll!"

"Methinks I misjudged trolls once. Thou hast helped me three times; now I beg thee to help me again, though no prophecy requires thee." "Certainly will I help thee! But-"

Sheen did something obscure. Trool paused as if experiencing something strange.

"Try thy talents," Stile suggested.

"I can not fly!" Trool said, rising into the air. He looked down, astonished. "This is as impossible as turning invisible!" He faded from view.

"Thou hast bequeathed dangerous power to such a creature," Pyreforge said gravely. "He can leave thee and go abroad to do harm, answerable to no one."

"Power corrupts some less than others," Stile said. "Trool has shown his constancy, and I am giving him leave to show it more. Sheen has more power than any other person now, yet she is unchanged."

"I'm not human," Sheen said. "I am as I am programmed to be, regardless of my power. Only living things are corruptible."

"Yet with the magic of that book," Pyreforge pointed out, "thou couldst become alive. The power thou hast shown be but an inkling of the potential."

"Yes," she agreed. "I perceive that potential."

"There are spells to give true life?" Stile asked, amazed.

"Thou didst tell me to survey the complete book," she reminded him. "I found things hardly to be imagined."

"But the problem of souls," he protested.

"That is handled the same way the flesh is. A baby is started from the substance of its parents. A baby's soul starts as a piece separated from the souls of its parents. It's like taking a brand from a fire to make a new fire; once a piece of fire is separated, it develops its own individuality. So I don't need anyone else's soul — just a piece of soul, which can grow into the body."

"But a piece of whose soul?" Stile asked. Sheen, alive — would it make a difference? He wasn't sure. Part of her personality was her knowledge of her own inanimate nature.

"The Lady Brown has offered me a piece of hers," Sheen said diffidently. "She feels responsible for me, since she animated me in Phaze."

"We're wasting time," Stile said, not wanting to wrestle with personal considerations at the moment. "Where's Trool?"

"I am here, Adept," Trool said, appearing. "I have surveyed the course. Thou canst not proceed northward, for that the Adepts have set dragons there to guard against passage. They know not where thou wilt go, or if thou truly art alive, but they are watching everywhere. When the ball begins to move, they will converge. The course must go west, avoiding the dragons."

"We'll start west, then," Stile decided.

Now the elves appeared in force. They cranked open the wall to show a great rent in the mountain. The sun shone brightly outside, but these were light-tolerant elves, able to work by day. Pyreforge bade a hasty parting and retreated to the comfortable shadows; he could no more tolerate the direct glare of the sun than Trool could.

"Trool!" Stile exclaimed. "How could-?"

"I gave him a spell of automatic shade when I restored him," Sheen said. "I may be metal, but I do profit from experience. The sun can't touch him now."

Relieved, Stile watched the elves. The Little Folk applied their levers diligently, and the massive ball started to move. One hundred and fifty metric tons was a great weight, but the ball was perfectly balanced and the levers were skillfully applied. Once moving, the ball continued, its mass giving it formidable momentum. Then it started rolling grandly downhill, and the elves got out of the way.

The ball coursed down, up the opposite slope, and down again, neatly following the general channel Stile had determined for it, leaving a concave impression. But then it veered slightly, and he saw that it was going to strike a large pine tree. That could be disaster; probably the ball would crush the tree to the ground — and in the process be deflected off the route. Possibly the tree would resist, bouncing the ball back. Certainly a lot of useful momentum would be lost. This was going so smoothly he didn't want to interrupt it.

So he sang a little spell. The tree wavered into insubstantiality just before the boulder reached it, then became solid after the Phazite had passed through.

"I'm not sure you should have done that, Stile," Sheen said. "The enemy Adepts are highly attuned to your magic."

"I've got to use my magic when I need it," Stile said. "I'm sorry I can't use it directly on the Phazite." He remembered he had conjured Sheen's replacement power cell before, and that was the same mineral — but that had been a tiny fraction of a gram. He could no more move this 150-ton ball by magic than he could by hand, alone.

The ball crunched to a stop in the next depression. They walked along the smooth indentation path, catching up to it. "The golems are near," Trool's voice came from the air above them.

"Guide them here," Stile said.

Soon a column of wooden men marched up. Some were small and some were large; the Brown Adept rode piggyback on one of the giants. She waved cheerily as she spied them. "We'll get it moving!" she called.

Under her direction, the wooden men set to work with a will. They were very strong, and soon they were levering the ball slowly up the incline.

Suddenly a sheet of flame flashed across the terrain. The golems cried out, and the Brown Adept screamed. The wooden men were burning. Fire was the one thing such golems feared.

"You were right," Stile said. "The enemy has located us." He started to play his harmonica, getting ready for a fire-extinguishing spell. But Sheen lifted her hand, and the fire vanished.

"You told me to memorize any spells I thought might be useful," she said.

Stile stared at the golems, who were understandably confused. One moment they had been burning; the next all was well. "So I did," he agreed. "The sheer facility and potency of it keep setting me back. Can you protect the golems henceforth?"

"I think so. The book has an excellent section on countermagic. But if I block off Adept spells, this will stifle your magic too."

"The book magic is that strong?"

"That strong, Stile. The book is not a mere compendium of stray spells. It's a complete course — the atomic age of magic. It shows how to integrate all the modes — voice, vision, symbols, potions, touch, music — all. The Adepts of today are fragmentary magicians, severely limited. Thou also, I regret to say. None of you has done more than scratch the surface of the potential of magic. I haven't scratched the surface. There is so much more to be mastered-"

"I see. All right — block out all Adept magic here, and well talk about it while we supervise the moving of the ball."

She made a series of body motions and exclamations, concluding with a toe-sketched figure on the ground. Something happened in the air — an oblique kind of shimmer. "The visual effect is merely to identify it," she said. "We are now secure from new spells."

The golems resumed their labor on the sphere. Slowly they moved it up the slope. "When we have a moment," Stile said, "let's see about making up a good body for my other self."

"Your other self!" she exclaimed. "Yes, of course. The book has spells to convert wood or other substance to flesh, as we did for Trool. You have Blue's soul preserved. I don't think the soul can go to that body while you are in Phaze, but when the frames separate, Clef can pipe it in, and-"

"And my other self will be restored to life in Phaze," Stile finished. "He sacrificed his life to give me the chance to enter his frame and work with the Oracle. The least I can do is give it back to him when my task is done."

"But what of the prophecy? Phaze will not be safe until-"

"Until Blue departs it forever!" Stile finished. "In the confusion of great events, I forgot that!" He pondered, disturbed. "No, I can not be entirely governed by prophecy. I must do what I deem right; what will happen, will happen." But he remained disquieted, as did his other self.

"The body has to be crafted by hand," Sheen said. "It can't be made directly by magic, or it will perish when the magic diminishes. So we can't do it right this minute. But I won't forget to see to it before the end." She paused. "What does Blue think of this?"

Stile shifted to his alternate awareness. Now he had confirmation of his prior conjecture; Blue had, through a special divinatory spell, discovered what was developing and realized that the best thing he could do for the land he loved was to die. But, fearful that his sacrifice might be in vain, he had hedged. He had conjured his soul into his harmonica and given the instrument an affinity for his other self. Now he knew his act had been justified, for Stile had used the harmonica to achieve his necessary level of power.

As for having his life back in the new order, he had not expected this, and not even considered the possibility of resuming his life in Phaze. The notion had a certain guilty appeal. Yet if the presence of Blue meant ruin for Phaze, he would be better off dead. He would have to formulate some plans for a formerly blank future, knowing that he might again have to give it up if the prophecy were true. All he could do was try it and see; perhaps there would be interim tasks for him to do before he departed.

"I thank thee for thy consideration," Blue said to Sheen. "Glad am I to have facilitated thine entry here, lovely Lady Machine."

Again Sheen reacted with pleased embarrassment. "There's something about the people of Phaze," she murmured.

The Brown Adept rode up on her golem mount. "I think my golems can handle it, as long as nothing else bothers them. Art thou going to make the Lady Machine alive now? I will give her part of my soul."

"I've been thinking about that,"-Sheen said. "All my brief existence I have longed to be alive — but now I have the chance for it, I'm not sure. I don't think it would carry over into Proton — and if it did, there would still be a severe readjustment. I'd have to eat regularly, and eliminate regularly — both rather messy inconveniences — and sleep, which is a waste of useful time. My whole routine would be changed. I think I'm better off as a robot."

"But Blue could love thee as a woman," Brown said. "And thou couldst love him."

How intimately had the two consulted while they worked on the restoration of Trool? Brown seemed to know a lot more about Stile's business than he had told her. He decided to stay out of this conversation.

"I love him already," Sheen said. "Life could not change that. And his love will always be for the Lady Blue. My life would not change that, either, and I wouldn't want it to. So all I really have to gain, by marrying him in Proton, is the precedent for the self-willed machines — and if I were alive, that precedent would no longer exist."

"Oh. I guess so," Brown said. "I think thou art just fine as thou art, Lady Machine. So I guess thou canst just use the magic book to cure Blue's knees, and maybe make him a little taller, and-"

Now Stile had to join in. "My knees are part of my present life; I no longer care to have them fixed. And my height-I always wanted to be taller, for that is the human definition of status, however foolish we all know it to be — I share Sheen's opinion. I would be a different person, with new problems. I stand to gain nothing by changing what I am."

Brown shrugged. "Okay. Actually, the Little Folk are perfect the way they are, and thou art not much different." That jarred Stile, but he tried not to show it. "I'll make up a golem in thine image; the book can make it flesh, and the other Blue can move into it when he's ready." She rode off.

In due course an enemy contingent arrived-a small squadron of tanklike earthmovers, borers, and personnel transports. The Citizens of Proton had no formal armed forces, since no life existed outside the domes, ordinarily. Construction vehicles tended to be enclosed and airtight, but some were remote-controlled or robotic. The present group was of the last type.

"Low-grade machines," Sheen said. "The Citizens know better than to trust the sophisticated robots, though in truth only a small percentage is self-willed."

"I hope your friends are not suffering unduly as a result of betraying their nature to the Citizens," Stile said. He was uncertain which form of language to use in the juxtaposition zone, and decided to stick to Proton unless addressing a Phaze creature.

"The juxtaposition has proved to be enough of a distraction," she said. "It is not easy to identify a specific self-willed machine when it wants to conceal itself. If the enemy wins this war, all my kind of machines will be destroyed." Stile knew she was speaking literally; there would be absolutely no mercy from the Citizens.

The enemy machines formed up before the ball of Phazite. One fired an excavation bomb at it, but nothing happened. "Phazite protects itself," Sheen remarked. "You can move it or use it, but you can't damage it with less than a nuclear cannon."

Several laser beams speared toward the sphere, but again without effect. Regardless of magic, Phazite was extremely tough stuff, twice as dense as anything ordinarily found in a planet; unless subjected to the key environment, it was virtually indestructible. The Brown Adept rejoined Stile and Sheen, staying clear of the dangerous region.

Now the vehicles moved up to push against the ball itself. The golems pushed on the other side. The machines had more power, but only one unit at a time could contact the Phazite, compact as it was, while the golems could apply all their force. The boulder rocked back and forth, then rolled to the side and forward. The golems were able to maneuver better, and were making progress again.

The machines regrouped. Another vehicle lined up and pushed on the boulder. Again the golems nudged the ball around the machine. Their brains were wooden, but they did learn slowly from experience.

Unfortunately, so did the machines. They consulted with each other briefly, then lined up again — and charged the golems.

"No!" the Brown Adept cried as a truck smashed into a golem. It was as if she felt the blow herself. "That's cheating!"

"There are no rules to this game," Stile said.

"Oh, is that so?" Brown's small face firmed, and she called new instructions to her minions.

Now the golems fought back. When the vehicles charged, the golems stepped aside, then leaned in close to pound at the vulnerable regions as Stile explained them to Brown. Tires burst under the impact of pointed wooden feet; plastic cracked under wooden fists. But the machines, though dented, continued to fight.

"These are not like animals," Sheen said. "They don't hurt. Thou must disrupt their power trains or electrical systems."

The Brown Adept had no knowledge of technology. "Obey the Lady Machine!" she called to the golems.

Sheen called out instructions. Now the golems went after more specific things. They unscrewed the fastenings for maintenance apertures and ripped out wiring; they punched holes in lubrication lines. Soon all the machines were out of commission.

The golems had won this engagement. But time had been lost. The juxtaposition would remain only a few hours, and in that time the Phazite had to be moved across into the frame of Proton. The next obstacle would surely be more formidable; this had been merely a token engagement, a first testing of strength.

Stile brought out his map again. "We'll have to plan strategy, arrange a diversion. Now our obvious route is curving north, through the unicorn demesnes, to pass between the Oracle's palace and the central lake, in a generally descending lay of land. So they'll have that region well guarded. We'll send a contingent of creatures there, clearing a path for the ball. Our least likely route would be back toward the Purple Mountains, through the sidhe demesnes, where my friend Clef traveled when he first entered Phaze. The terrain is forested, irregular, and infested by harpies. So that's where we had better go."

"But it will take forever to roll the ball through that region!" Brown protested.

"Not if we can figure out a good way through. Magic could be used to prepare the way, such as the construction of sturdy bridges over gulfs. Could you handle that, Sheen?"

"Certainly. The enemy Adepts will never know what I'm doing. But I need to be on hand to guard you."

"Fear not for Blue, loyal Lady," Stile's alternate self said. "The Adepts will strike not until they fathom our purpose, fearing to waste their magic on distractions. I know them, I know their minds. Go thy way, and we shall meet anon."

"Meanwhile, I will come with thee, Blue, to plot the false route," Brown said, enjoying this adventure.

Trool the troll reappeared. "The ogres, giants, and animalheads are marching from the west to join thee," he reported. "But the goblins are marching south to intercept them and thee. There will be a battle when they meet."

Stile consulted his map again. "How fast are they moving?"

"The animalheads are slowest, but also nearest. They will be here-" Trool indicated a spot within the unicorn demesnes on the map. "The ogres move faster, but the Black Demesnes are directly in their path, and the Green Demesnes to the south. They must veer north, then south, and should be here by dusk." He indicated a spot near the Oracle's palace. "The giants are farthest distant, but stride so large they will be with thee by late afternoon."

Late afternoon. Stile realized it was near midday now. But it had seemed like only an hour since the Citizens' business meeting, which had been in the evening. What had happened to the intervening night? Sheen must have slipped in a stasis-spell before letting him leave her temporary dome in the ogres' demesnes, and he had never even noticed. It was probably for the best; he had needed a good night's rest. So much was happening, the picture changing so radically, it was hard to keep track. But he had to keep going. "And the goblins?"

"The enemy Adepts are helping them move, but the goblins are so many that no spell can conjure them all — and the Lady Golem-Adept's counterspell prevents their coming all the way here by magic anyway. Logistics is a problem. They will be in this spot by dusk." He indicated the Oracle's palace.

"That means the ogres and goblins will meet somewhat to the north of the Oracle," Stile said grimly, tracing the likely paths on the map. "We'd better send a detachment of unicorns to help the ogres. After all, that's right in the path of our decoy effort. We have to take it seriously enough to fool them." He glanced at the golems, who were moving the ball again. "Have them go slowly, maybe pushing the ball farther uphill than necessary, so we can roll it down quickly — in an unanticipated direction. I want to give the enemy every chance to rush its forces to the wrong rendezvous."

Brown gave instructions to a messenger golem, then accompanied Stile on the mock survey excursion. Stile would have preferred to fly, but Sheen's antimagic spell stopped him as well as the enemy Adepts. He had to go on foot, at least until a unicorn arrived. Fortunately he was quite capable afoot. He set out at a running pace, covering each mile in about seven minutes. Brown's big golem steed kept pace with huge strides.

Then the unicorn he had hoped for came into sight. "Clip!" Stile cried. "Thou didst know I needed thee!"

Clip played a saxophone tune of agreement. Stile vaulted to his back, and they were off at a much faster pace. "Aw, the troll told him," Brown said disparagingly.

Of course that was true. In this frame of magic, coincidence was seldom unassisted.

Stile experienced the peculiar wrenching of separation again. They had once more passed outside the zone of juxtaposition, and his soul was all his own. The boundaries of the expanded curtain seemed to be quite irregular. He had supposed north would lead into the center of it. His other self had not intruded, letting Stile handle things his way, but the other's presence was increasingly comfortable, and his absence increasingly jarring. Now the terrain seemed less familiar, for his other self's experience with the land was absent. Also, now the overlapping terrain of Proton was gone; this was mostly barren rock and sand, in the science frame, easy to ignore in the presence of the Phaze vegetation, but still present when one cared to perceive it. Well, at least he would suffer no Citizen malice here; only the enemy Adepts could reach him.

Was there a valid parallel here? His soul was complete only when the geography was complete. Could the land be said to have a soul, perhaps in the form of the special mineral that the Citizens of Proton had depleted? It was odd, in one sense, that the Citizens resisted the transfer of Phazite, since it would dramatically enrich their world. But of course they would prefer to keep the frames partially overlapped, linked by the curtain so that in due course the Citizens could mine in Phaze as well as in Proton. They would equalize the frames by depleting both. The fact that such mining would do to the environment of Phaze what it had done to that of Proton, and also eliminate the remaining magic of Phaze, seemed not to concern the Citizens. There were, after all, other worlds in the universe to exploit, once this one was squeezed dry. Since Stile's transfer of power-mineral would enable the frames to balance, freeing them to separate, that would forever deny the Citizens the opportunity of exploitation. They seemed willfully ignorant of the substantial risk that both frames would be destroyed long before such exploitation could be completed. Stile wondered whether the citizens of ancient Harappa, in the Indian subcontinent of Earth, had had a similar attitude. Had they denuded the land of its necessary resources until it could support their population no longer, so that they weakened and fell to Nordic barbarians in the sixteenth century B.C.? Wealth and power at the expense of nature were an inevitably lethal cancer. But there seemed to be no gentle way to convince cancer to practice moderation.

Well, he, Stile, was fated to have considerable power, it seemed, in the frame of Proton after the separation, and his other self would have it in Phaze, assuming that prophecy had priority over the Blue-be-banished prophecy. The resources of the Oracle-computer, which were obviously considerable, would be at his disposal, and the self-willed machines would cooperate. Those machines would have legal-person status, of course. He would be able to enforce a more sensible restraint on that errant society.

Stile sighed. Somehow the prospect of all that power and responsibility did not appeal to him. All he really wanted was to be in Phaze with his creature friends and the Lady Blue. That was what he could not have.

Would it be so bad with Sheen? Of course not. She was the best possible woman, her origin aside. Meanwhile, in

Phaze, the Lady Blue would have her real husband back. She, at least, would not suffer.

Somehow he was not convincing himself.

Soon they were in sight of the unicorn herd, with a good route for the ball worked out. Stile suffered a pang, realizing that this was probably the last time he would see the Lady Blue. He would have to tell her and bid her farewell — and conceal if he could the way he actually felt about this coming separation. The break was inevitable; it was best that it be clean, without hysterics.

The Herd Stallion met him.

"Lord Blue, I will tell our plan, an thou dost prefer," Brown volunteered. "Do thou go to Neysa and the Lady."

Stile thanked her, she was a most helpful child at times, though somehow he was not eager to do what he had to do. He nerved himself and went directly to the protected inner circle, where Neysa and the Lady Blue awaited him.

He tried to tell himself he was happy to see them, but instead he found himself overcome by misgiving. He tried to smile, but they realized at once that something was wrong, and both came to him solicitously. "What is the matter, my Lord?" the Lady asked. "Does the campaign go ill?"

"It goes well enough," Stile said. He had learned so much so recently and shared so little with her! They had just been on their honeymoon, and now it seemed years past.

"Then what we feared is true," the Lady said, one hand on Neysa's black mane. "I have my child of thee, and thou art leaving us."

Was this the extent of her reaction? He knew she was capable of fierce displays of anger, sorrow, and love. How could she treat this as if it were commonplace?

"The prophecy of thy second husband no longer protects me," he said gravely. "Thou hast conceived, and I am no longer essential. There is another prophecy, that Phaze will not be safe until the Blue Adept departs it. I am now the Blue Adept; I would not put this frame in danger willingly." And he realized as he spoke that the prophecies could indeed make sense; the present Blue Adept had to leave so that the defunct Blue Adept could return. Thus

Blue would both leave and remain, both prophecies honored. "The frames will separate — and I must return to mine own."

The Lady nodded. "Somehow I knew it would be thus. Prophecies care naught for human happiness, only the letter of their fulfillment."

True; fate did not care. "But thou wilt not be alone," Stile said quickly. "The soul of thy first husband, mine other self, survives. He shall have a human body again."

Her composure faltered. "He lives?"

"Not exactly. He lost his body. But I believe I can restore it to him, and he will be the same as he was, as far as anyone can tell."

Her brow furrowed. "But I love thee now!"

"And I love thee. But when thy husband lives, my place will be elsewhere. I thought him dead, else I would not have married thee. He gave up his body that Phaze might be saved, and now he must have it back. This is what is right."

"Aye, it is right," she agreed. "It is clear where my duty lies."

She was taking it well — and that, too, was painful. He knew she loved him but would be loyal to her first husband, as Stile would be loyal to Sheen. This was the way it had to be. Yet somehow he had hoped that the Lady Blue would not take it quite this well. Was it so easy to give him up on such short notice?

Suddenly she flung her arms about him. "Thee, thee, thee!" she cried, and her hot tears made her cheek slippery as she kissed him.

That was more like it! She was meltingly warm and sweet and wholly desirable. "Thee, thee, thee," he echoed, in the Phaze signal of abandonment to love, and held her crushingly close.

Then, by mutual resignation, they drew apart. She brought a cloth to his face and cleaned him up, and he realized that half the tears were his own. Through the blur he saw the shimmer of the landscape about them, the reaction of the environment to an expression of deep truth. The unicorns perceived it too, and were turning to look at the couple.

But now they both had control again. They uttered no further words, letting their statement of love be the last.

Stile turned to Neysa to bid her farewell: But she stood facing away from him, standing with her tail toward him — the classic expression of disapproval. The woman might forgive him his departure; the unicorn did not.

He could not blame her. His body, so recently so warm, now felt chilled, as if his heart had been frozen. Had he expected Neysa, his closest friend in Phaze, to welcome his announcement with forward-perking ears? There was no good way to conclude this painful scene. Stile walked silently away.

Clip stood near, watching his sister Neysa. His mane was half flared in anger, and his breath had the tinge of fire, but he was silent. Stile knew Clip was furious with Neysa, but had no authority to interfere. There was justice in it; Neysa expressed the attitude the Lady Blue did not, in her fashion freeing the Lady to be forgiving. The complete emotion could not be expressed by one person, so had been portioned between two.

The Brown Adept was waiting for him at the edge of the unicorn circle. "I told the Stallion," she said. "He'll help." She looked toward Neysa and the Lady Blue. "I guess it didn't work out so well, huh?"

"I fear I'm not much for diplomacy," Stile said. don't want to go, they don't want me to go — there's no positive side."

"Why dost thou not just stay here when the frames part?" she asked naïvely.

"I am a usurper here in Phaze. This good life is not mine to keep — not at the expense of mine other self. I was brought here to do a job, and when the job is done I must leave. So it has been prophesied."

"I guess when I'm grown up, maybe I'll understand that kind of nonsense."

"Maybe," Stile agreed wryly.

Stile mounted Clip and they returned the way they had come, setting small markers to show the prospective route for the ball. There was no interference from the other Adepts; they were of course biding their time, since they were unable to strike at him magically at the moment.

They would have their minions here in force to stop the ball, though! The unicorns would have an ugly task, protecting this decoy route. The irony was that this was an excellent path; if there were no opposition, the ball could travel rapidly here.

When they recrossed into the zone of juxtaposition, his other self rejoined him. The personality of Blue assimilated the new experience and shrank away.

"Thou dost look peaked," the Brown Adept said. "Is aught wrong?"

"It is mine other self," Stile said. "I fear he likes not what I have done."

"The true Blue? Speak to me, other Adept."

"Aye, Brown," the other self said. "But surely thou dost not wish to be burdened with the problems of adults."

"Oh, sure," she said eagerly. " 'Specially if it's about a woman. Some day I'll grow up and break hearts too."

"That thou surely wilt," Blue agreed. "My concern is this: for many years did I love the Lady Blue, though she loved me not. When finally I did win her heart as well as her hand, I learned that she was destined to love another after me, more than me. This was one reason I yielded up my life. Now I know it is mine other self she loves. Am I to return to that situation, at his expense?"

"Oh, that is a bad one!" Brown agreed. "But maybe she will learn to love thee again. Thou dost have charm, thou knowest; the Lady Machine's nerve circuits do run hot and cold when thou dost address her."

"The Lady Machine is programmed to love mine image," Blue said. "I admit she is a fascinating creature, like none I have encountered before. But the Lady Blue is not that type. She will act in all ways proper, as she did before, and be the finest wife any man could have, but her deepest heart will never revert. Her love never backtracks."

"Then what good is it, coming back to life?" Brown asked, with the innocent directness of her age.

"There are other things in life besides love," Blue said. "The Lady will need protection, and creatures will need attention. There will be much work for me to do — just as there will be for mine other self in the fabulous science frame. He will be no happier than I."

Stile had no argument with that. His other self was the same person as himself, in a superficially different but fundamentally similar situation, facing life with a woman who was not precisely right. The days of great adventure and expectation were almost past. To lose the present engagement would be to die, knowing the frames would in time perish also as the unrelieved stress developed to the breaking point. To win would be to return to a somewhat commonplace existence — for both his selves. The choice was between disaster and mediocrity.

"I'm not sure I want to grow up, if that's what it's like," Brown said.

They reached the ball of Phazite. Sheen had returned to it also. "Is the other route ready?" Stile asked.

"Not quite. We must delay another hour. But it will be worth the wait."

"Then I have time to make a golem body for Blue," Brown exclaimed. Evidently she had resigned herself quickly to the situation and was determined to do her part even if Stile and Blue were not destined for happiness. "I hope I can do it right. I haven't had much practice with lifelike figures, especially male ones. My golems are mostly neuter."

Stile could appreciate the problem. "Maybe Trool can help. He's quite a sculptor."

Trool appeared. "I model in stone, not wood."

"We'll convert stone to flesh," Sheen said. "All we need is the form."

So while the golems rolled the great ball along its soon-to-be-diverted course, Trool the troll sculpted in stone. He excavated a rock from the ground in short order, his huge gaunt hands scraping the earth and sand away with a velocity no normal person could approach, and freed a stone of suitable size by scraping out the rock beneath it with his stiffened fingers. Apparently the stone became soft under his touch, like warming butter. Stile picked up a half-melted chip and found it to be cold, hard stone. No wonder trolls could tunnel so readily, the hardest rock was very much like putty in their hands. No wonder, also, they were so much feared by ordinary folk. Who could stand against hands that could gouge solid stone? Trool had stood with the Lady Blue against the ogres, Stile remembered, and the ogres had been cautious, not exchanging blows with him. They had been able to overpower him, of course, by using their own mode of combat.

When Trool had his man-sized fragment, he glanced at Stile and began to mold the image. Rapidly, magically, the form took shape — head, arms, legs. The troll was indeed a talented sculptor; the statue was perfect. Soon it was standing braced against a tree — a naked man, complete in every part, just like Stile.

Sheen and Brown were watching, amazed. "Gee, you sure are better at carving than I am," Brown said. "My prede-pred-the former Brown Adept could make figures just like people, but I can't, yet."

"I can't make them live," Trool said shortly.

Then Sheen made magic from the book, and the statue turned to flesh. But it remained cold, inanimate. The Brown Adept laid her hands on it, and it animated — a golem made of flesh. The new body was ready.

"Say — it worked!" Brown exclaimed, pleased.

Stile wondered how this carved and animated figure could have living guts and bones and brain. Presumably these had been taken care of by Sheen's spell. Magic was funny stuff!

But the soul could not yet enter this body. Two selves could not exist separately in the zone of juxtaposition. The second body would only become truly alive when the frames separated.

"Will it be all right until needed?" Stile asked. "It won't spoil?"

"My golems don't spoil!" Brown said indignantly. "It will keep until the soul enters it. Then it'll be alive and will have to eat and sleep and you-know."

"Then park it in a safe place," he said. "And let the harmonica remain with it, so that his soul can find it in case there is a problem." For despite all his planning, Stile was not at all sure he would succeed in his mission, or necessarily survive the next few hours. Little had been heard from the enemy Adepts recently; they had surely not been idle.

Sheen conjured body and harmonica to the Blue Demesnes, which were in no part of the current action. Stile felt another pang of separation as he lost the harmonica; it had been such an important part of his life in Phaze.

The necessary time had passed. They had the golems start the ball on its new course to the south. "But make a spell of illusion," Stile directed. "I want it to seem that the ball is proceeding on the course Brown and I just charted."

"I can generate a ball of similar size, made of ordinary rock," Sheen said.

"And I'll have some of my golems push it," Brown said. "It won't be nearly as heavy, so I'll tell them not to push as hard."

Soon the mock ball diverged from the real one, and a contingent of golems started it on its way. Stile wasn't sure how long this would fool the Adepts, but it was worth a try.

Meanwhile, under cover of a fog that Sheen generated, the main part of the golem force levered the Phazite ball back toward the Purple Mountains. A door opened in the hillside, and they saw the tunnel the trolls had made — a smooth, round tube of just the right size, slanting very gently down. They rolled the boulder to it, and it began to travel down its channel on its own.

"From here on, it's easy," Sheen said. "This tube will carry the Phazite kilometers along in a short time. At the far end, the tunnel spirals up to the top of a substantial foothill; from there it can roll north with such momentum the enemy will not be able to stop it before it crosses into Proton proper."

"Good strategy," Stile agreed. "But can the golems get it up that spiral?"

"My friends in Proton have installed a power winch."

Stile laughed. "I keep forgetting we can draw on science, too, now! This begins to seem easy!"

They followed the ball as it moved, Stile and Clip fitting comfortably in the tunnel, Brown's golem steed hunching over, and Sheen riding a motorized unicycle she had conjured. She was enjoying her role as enchantress.

The ball accelerated, forcing them to hurry to keep it in sight. Even so, it drew ahead, rounding a bend and disappearing.

They hastened on, but the ball was already around the next bend, still out of sight. When they passed that bend, they looked along an extended straightaway — and the ball was not there.

Stile wasn't sure whether he or his other self first realized the truth. "Hostile magic!" he cried.

"Can't be," Sheen protested. "I had it counterspelled."

"Use a new spell to locate the ball."

She used a simple locator-spell. "It's off to the side," she said, surprised.

"That last curve-they made a detour!" Stile said. "Had a crew in to tunnel — no Adept magic — goblins, maybe, or some borers from Proton — they can draw on the same resources we can — the ball went down that, while we followed the proper channel."

They charged back to the curve. There it was. An offshoot tunnel masked by an illusion-spell that had to have been instituted before Sheen's arrival. The enemy Adepts had anticipated this tunnel ploy and quietly prepared for it.

No — they couldn't have placed the spell before Sheen got there, because Sheen had supervised the construction of the tunnel and had her magic in force throughout. Something else — ah. The offshoot tunnel was in fact an old Proton mine shaft. A small amount of work had tied it in to the new troll tunnel, and a tiny generator had sealed off the entrance with an opaque force field. No magic, and minimal effort. Someone had been very clever.

"I don't like this," Stile said. "They evidently know what we're doing here, and someone with a good mind is on the scene. We're being outmaneuvered. While we made a duplicate image of me, they did this."

But there was nothing much to do except go after the Phazite. They started down the detour tunnel, hoping to catch up with the ball before it reached whatever destination the enemy had plotted. Sheen's magic showed no enemies nearby; like her own workers, they had departed as soon as their job was done. The tunnels were empty because the presence of anyone could alert the other side to what was going on.

They heard a noise ahead. Something was moving, heavily, making the tunnel shudder.

Ooops! The ball of Phazite was rolling back toward them at horrendous velocity!

"Get out of its way!" Stile cried. "A hundred and fifty tons will crush us flat!"

But the ball was moving too swiftly; they could not outrun it, and the intersection of tunnels was too far back. "Make a spell, Lady Machine!" Brown screamed.

Sheen made a gesture — and abruptly their entire party was in the tunnel beyond the rolling ball, watching the thing retreat. Stile felt weak in the knees, and not because of their injury. He didn't like being dependent on someone else for magic. Was that the way others felt about him?

"See — it slants up, there ahead," Brown said brightly. She, at least, was used to accepting enchantment from others, though she was Adept herself. "They fixed it up so the ball would roll up, then reverse and come right back at us."

"Timed so we would be in the middle when it arrived," Sheen said.

"No direct magic — but a neat trap," Stile agreed. "They must have assumed that if the book blocked out Adept magic, it would leave us helpless. They didn't realize that a non-Adept would be doing the spells."

"Funny Trool didn't warn us," Brown said.

Trool appeared, chagrined. "I saw it not. I know not how I missed it."

For a moment Stile wondered whether the troll could have betrayed them. But he found he couldn't believe that. For one thing, he had confidence in his judgment of creatures. For another, it was a woman-a young-seeming one — who had been prophesied to betray him, and that had already come to pass before the prophecy reached him. So there had to have been enough illusion magic, or clever maneuvering, to deceive everyone in this case; no betrayal was involved.

"Set a deflector at the mouth of the detour," Stile told Sheen, "so that when the ball reverses again, it will go down the correct tunnel."

She lifted a finger. "Done."

"You sure know a lot of spells," Brown said.

"Robots assimilate programmed material very rapidly," Sheen replied. "The advantages of being a machine are becoming clearer to me, now that I have considered life."

They marched up to the intersection of tubes. The ball had already reversed course and traveled down its proper channel. They followed it without further event to the end.

"Be alert for other hostile effects," Stile told Sheen. "The enemy can't hit us with new magic, but, as we have seen, the prepared traps can be awkward enough."

Sheen held her finger up as if testing the wind. "No magic here," she reported.

They stood at the winch. It was a heavy-duty model, powered by a chip of Protonite, and its massive cables were adequate to the need. They placed the harness about the ball; it fitted with little bearings so that the ball could roll within its confinement. With the pulleys and leverage available, the ball should move up the spiral.

It did move up. There were no hitches. Yet Stile worried. He knew the enemy would strike; he didn't know when and how. Why hadn't they destroyed the winch, since obviously they had had access to this tunnel? "Trool?" he asked.

There was no response from the troll. Probably he was out surveying the situation, and would report the moment he spied anything significant.

The winch cranked the ball of Phazite up the spiraling tunnel, providing it the elevation it would need to roll all the way across the juxtaposition zone to Proton. Once that boulder started rolling, it should be prohibitively difficult to stop. Victory seemed very near at hand — and still Stile worried. He was absolutely sure something ugly was incipient.

At last they reached the top. The winch delivered the ball to a platform housed in earth, surely resembling a mound of the Little Folk from outside. All they had to do now was open the gate and nudge it out.

Trool appeared. "Found thee at last!" he exclaimed. "Take not this route, Adept!"

Stile looked at him sourly. "We have already taken this route. Where hast thou been?"

"Looking all over for thee! There are a hundred traces of thy presence, all mistaken — until this one."

"Diversion magic," Stile said. "False clues to my whereabouts, laid down in advance, so that I become the needle in the haystack. But why would they try to mislead thee?"

"Because I have spied on them. Barely did I reach thee in time to give warning; the goblins have bypassed the giants, indulged in forced marches, and are lurking in ambush for thee here. Thou canst not pass this way, Adept."

"Nonsense," Sheen said. "I detect no goblins within seventy kilometers."

"Thou shouldst get beyond their screening spells," Trool said. "From behind, they are naught. There are maybe five hundred goblins there, armed with Proton weapons and busy making entrenchments. That much did I see; I looked no more, so that I could return in haste to warn thee. But then did I face the enchantment that concealed thee from me. All of it is passive magic, set in place before we came here, yet a nuisance."

"I knew things were too easy," Stile muttered. "They left us alone so we would continue on into their trap. We have perhaps four hours remaining to get the Phazite across the north border of the juxtaposition zone. We can not backtrack now. We shall have to proceed."

"I can neutralize the screen magic," Sheen said. "But that will not remove the goblins. The enemy Adepts will prevent me from performing any mass spell on them."

"So there are, after all, limits to the book," Stile said with a wry smile.

"Yes. It gives me power to stand off all the Adepts — but not to overwhelm them. We shall have to handle the goblins physically."

"The animalheads are arriving on the scene," Trool said. "But they, too, are confused by the shield-spells. If thou dost eliminate the shields, all will encounter each other and there will be mayhem galore."

"I don't want mayhem," Stile said. "But if it has to be, I want to ease the burden on the animalheads. Sheen, conjure me a holophone."

In a moment it was there. Stile called his own dome, and Mellon answered. His leg had been repaired. "I am glad to see you back in form, sir," he said.

Stile was sure the call was tapped and might soon be blocked off. "I'm in a battle situation and need reinforcements," he said quickly. "I can't arrange to conjure large groups, so they'll have to march. The goblins are enemies and will slaughter whomever they can; the other creatures, however strange they may appear, are friends. Can you arrange anything?"

"Allow thirty minutes, sir." The image faded.

So, just like that, it was done. Mellon would get the coordinates of Stile's location from the holo and would send out what he could. Stile's Citizen resources were now considerable; he could afford a private army, if anyone could.

He returned to his immediate situation. "If the goblins have Proton weapons, we'll need Proton defenses. They are probably making ready to storm this hill. We should have light, bulletproof armor, laser screens-"

"Personal force fields," Sheen suggested. "They will handle a combination of attacks, and I can conjure in such small units without alerting the enemy Adepts."

"And make invisibility-spells for the rest of us," Brown added. "They'll know we're near the Phazite ball, but still-"

"Yes," Stile agreed. "Probably they won't want to fire their shots too close to the Phazite; they won't have effect, and if they did, what would it be? There's power to destroy the planet in this dense little sphere; no one would gain if that energy were suddenly released."

"Most likely they will attempt to wipe us out, and send the ball rolling back down the spiral tube," Sheen said. "Then they will blast the entrance closed and wait for the juxtaposition to terminate. Clef surely can't hold it much longer."

"We're committed to our present course," Stile said, shaking his head ruefully. "They gave us full opportunity to go beyond the point of retreat. I'd like to meet the goblin commander; he's one smart tactician."

"Maybe an Adept is running things," Brown said.

"This smacks more of field tactics to me." Stile brought out his map. "As I make it, the ball has a fairly straight path north from here. All we need to do is clear out a few obstacles in the channel and start it rolling. We don't want to mire it in the lake, unless that's beyond the juxtaposition zone. Trool, where is the north side of the curtain now?"

"It is stabilized north of the lake and north of the Oracle's palace, in this section," the troll replied. "There is some curve in it yet; elsewhere it impinges the White Mountain range, but here it is fairly southerly."

"And where is it in this section?" Stile asked, indicating the place where the Oracle-computer was buried, somewhat removed from the Oracle's palace.

"It slants northwest, passing just south of that region. But that is not a good place to roll the ball anyway; there is a long incline up, with the curtain almost at the ridge there. Much easier to roll it through the valley to the east."

So the curtain was just south of the Oracle-computer. That was why there had been no news of the computer's crossing; Clef's Flute had not been able to broaden the juxtaposition zone enough. That meant the curtain would have to be stretched northward a little — and how would Stile find the creature-power to accomplish that, in the midst of battle?

"Nevertheless, I believe we'll roll it across at this site," Stile said, after reflecting a moment. "I hope the giants arrive in time to help; they'll be able to roll it barehanded."

"I'm not sure," Sheen said. "The ball of Phazite is the same diameter as a giant's finger — but its substance is fifty times as dense as living flesh. Trying to push on it could be clumsy and painful."

"They can use silver thimbles, or roll it with a pool cue," Stile said, smiling briefly.

"And the route," she said. "Why roll the ball across that particular place?"

Stile did not want to express his notion openly, for fear the enemy was somehow eavesdropping. "Because it will be difficult, slow, but certain; the enemy will not have barriers entrenched there, and no special traps, and our time will be running out."

"That's not fully logical," she protested. "The enemy will not guard that region well, because the natural terrain represents a formidable defense. They will have time to regroup while we struggle to push the ball up the hill."

"Maybe," Stile agreed.

"I hope your illogic has some redeeming aspect."

"I think thou art crazy," Brown said succinctly.

"We'll clear a course that curves northwest," Stile said. "They may assume it's another ruse. Then we'll roll the ball along it as fast and far as we can and hope for the best."

Trool faded out for another survey and returned to report that the contingent from Proton was arriving. "Flesh and metal men," he said wonderingly.

"Cyborgs, maybe. Robots with human brains. They can be very effective. It's time for us to move." He looked around the chamber. "I want the golem crew to remain here, to start the ball rolling at my signal. Timing is essential. Brown will supervise them. Sheen and I will sneak out and clear the path. Trool will act as liaison."

"I want to sneak out too!" Brown cried.

"What about me?" Clip asked, in man-form.

Stile had been afraid of this. He had to devise legitimate jobs for everyone. "Thou canst go report to thy herd," he said to the unicorn. "In thy hawk-form and with a spell of invisibility, thou canst get through to tell the Stallion of our situation." Stile turned to Brown. "But thou — if thou shouldst go, who will guard the book?"

Her brown eyes widened. "The book of magic?"

"If the enemy gets its hands on that, we're finished. We dare not take it out to battle. Sheen has memorized the spells she needs; she doesn't need the book with her now. So it is safest with thee and thy golems."

Brown's eyes fixed on the book, round with awe. "I guess…" she breathed.

The main reason Stile wanted her here was to keep the child out of the worst danger. Any protective spell they might make might be negated by a specific enemy counter-spell. The book did need guarding, so it was a valid pretext.

He left with Sheen, using an invisibility-spell as well as the protective shields she had fashioned before. He doubted the two of them would remain undiscovered, but with luck, the goblin army should be distracted by the detachments of serfs, robots, and animalheads.

They started down the slope, using conjured spades to eliminate troublesome ridges. This, too, was risky, since the changes they made were visible, possibly calling attention to their otherwise invisible progress. Most of the slope was all right, with a natural channel requiring only touching up.

But as they got away from the ball, the illusion fashioned by the enemy Adepts faded. They saw the goblins ranged about the base of the hill, pistols drawn. The moment there was any visible action at the top of the slope, the goblins would start firing.

Even in this hiatus, it was bad enough. Detachments of goblins were building a series of obstructions near the base of the slope, wedgelike barriers with the sharp ends pointed uphill. If the Phazite ball encountered a wall crosswise, it would crash right through; but these wedges were oriented to deflect it efficiently off-course, where it could be further deflected by the natural channels below, until it was stuck in some cul-de-sac, and the game would be lost. That smart enemy commander's handiwork again! "Our work is cut out for us," Stile said. "One misplay, and we lose the ball. Conjure me some plastic explosive and detonators that can be set off by magic invocation. I'll have to mine some of those barriers."

"That sort of thing is not in the book," Sheen protested. "No plastic explosive with magic detonators! But I can get you one-hour timed explosive."

"That will do. Just let me know when the hour is up so I can get clear."

She conjured the explosive. It was high-grade; a kilogram had enough explosive power to blast away all the emplacements they would have time to mine. They walked on down the hill.

The contingent from Proton was marching toward the hill. Stile realized that it was on the wrong side of the illusion-spell and did not perceive the goblin army; the goblins would ambush it, wiping it out before it had a chance to organize. "I can't let that happen," he muttered. "I haven't been much of an organizer; my allies will be cut down, trying to help me. I must warn them!"

"If you show yourself, you will be cut down!" Sheen said. "My spells won't save you from attack by the entire goblin army, backed by the magic of all the Adepts."

"Maybe your magic can help, though. Generate an image of me, like a holograph. Then you can jump it around, and no one will know exactly where I am, so the enemy won't be able to attack me."

"Now that might work," she said. "It's risky, but so are the alternatives. Your convoluted organic brain does come up with artful wrinkles." She made a combination of gestures and sounds, sketched a little figure in the dirt — he could see it and her, as the invisibility-spell affected only the enemy's observers — and suddenly Stile found himself standing in the path of the cyborgs. He felt a squeeze on his hand and knew Sheen was with him, and that his consciousness had joined his distant image. This was clever magic; his respect for the book increased.

The leader of the cyborgs spied him and approached. This was an obvious machine, with gleaming metal limbs and chambers for attachments on its torso. But it was no robot; the brain was human, taken from the body of some aging, or ill, living person. Cyborgs could be exceedingly tough and clever. "I perceive you, sir," the machine-man said, orienting a lens on him. "But you have no substance. You are therefore an image. I can not be sure of your validity. Please identify yourself in a manner I can accept."

"I am an image of Citizen Stile," Stile said. "Also the Blue Adept. My employee Mellon should have primed you with key information about me. Ask me something appropriate."

"Yes, sir. Who is your best friend?"

"In which frame?"

"That suffices, sir."

Oh. Clever. It was the type of response, rather than the actual information, that had been keyed. "Let's get busy, then," Stile said. "This region is infested with goblins with modern weapons. I doubt they are good shots, but don't take chances. If you can drive them away from this area, that would be a big help. But don't attack any animalheads or unicorns. There's quite a bit of illusion magic around, so be careful."

"We understand, sir."

"I'm not sure you do. Send out scouts to the base of that slope." He indicated it. "They will pass the line of illusion and see the truth. Pay attention to what they tell you. This is likely to be deadly serious; your lives are in jeopardy."

"Thank you, sir."

They would have to find out for themselves. Stile murmured the word "animalhead" and found himself on a hill where the animalheads were gathered. The elephanthead chief spied him with a trumpet of gladness. "We have found thee at last, Adept!" he exclaimed; evidently Stile's prior spell of intelligibility remained in force. Spells did seem to have a certain inertia about them, continuing indefinitely unless countered or canceled. "We feared ourselves lost."

Quickly Stile briefed the elephant on the situation. "Now I'll be clearing a path for the ball to roll along," he concluded. "In mine own body I'm invisible, but the goblins will quickly catch on and interfere. So if thy force can divert them from this side, and while the cyborgs operate on the other side-"

"Cyborgs?"

"They are combination people, part human, part machine, strange in appearance but worthwhile when-"

"They are like us!"

"Very like thy kind," Stile agreed, startled.

"We are ready," the elephanthead said.

Now Stile was prepared to place the first wad of explosive. But as he returned his awareness to his invisible body, he discovered that Sheen was already attending to it. She had mined two wedges and was on the third. But the goblins were all about, digging their trenches and organizing themselves for the battle.

Stile had always thought of goblins as occurring in undisciplined hordes; these were highly disciplined. They were supervised by sergeants and commissioned officers, their insignia of rank painted or tattooed on their arms.

Despite his indetectability, Stile was nervous. There were too many goblins, and they were poking around too many places; at any time, one of them could make a chance discovery of the plastic explosive. He needed to distract the goblins' attention right now, before the cyborgs and animalheads went into action, lest his game be lost at the outset.

"Goblin leader," he murmured.

He stood beside a command tent. An ugly goblin with an authoritative air was surveying the field with binoculars. "I trust it not," the goblin murmured. "They be too quiet."

"Perhaps I can help thee," Stile said.

The goblin glanced quickly at him, showing no surprise. "I had thought to see thee ere now, Adept," he said. "I be Grossnose, commander of this expedition."

Stile could appreciate the derivation of the name; the goblin's nose was unusually large, and shaped like a many-eyed potato. But physical appearance had little to do with competence. Stile found himself liking this creature, for no better reason than that he must have risen to power in much the way Stile himself had, overcoming the liability of appearance to make his place in his society. "I compliment thy expertise," Stile said. "I had thought thy forces to be intercepted by our ogre detachment."

"We force-marched around the ogres," Grossnose said. "They be not our enemy."

"I prefer not to be thine enemy, either."

"Then hear our terms for peace: leave the Phazite in place, and thy party will be granted safe passage elsewhere."

"Declined," Stile said. "But if thy troops depart in peace, we will not hinder them."

"Now understand this, Adept. If fight we must, we shall be forced to seek the source of thy power. We shall make a thrust for the book. We have held off so far only that it be not destroyed. The book may be more valuable than that entire ball of Phazite, and it were a shame to put it into hazard. But this forbearance makes mischief; already the Adepts be quarreling as to who shall possess that book. I prefer to leave it in thy hands, as thou art least corruptible by power. But I can not allow that demon ball to cross to Proton-frame; that be the end."

"The end of the present order, mayhap," Stile said. "For Citizens and Adepts. They will have to share power more equitably in the new order. Other creatures will have proportionately more power, including thine own kind. Dost thou really oppose that?"

"Nay," the goblin admitted with surprising candor. "But I do serve the present order."

This was an honest, clever, incorruptible commander, the worst kind to oppose. "I regret what will come to pass," Stile said. "If we meet again after this is over, I would like to converse with thee again. But this next hour we are enemies."

"Aye. Go about thy business, Adept. Thou dost know what be in the making."

Stile knew. It was the irony of war that slaughter and destruction came about when both sides preferred peace. He faded out, and found himself back with Sheen.

"We have to move fast," he said. "They are going to go after the book."

Indeed, a troop of goblins were already charging the hill, lasers blazing. But they were met by the animalheads, who sprang from ambush and grappled with the goblins before the latter's modern weapons could be brought into play against this close-range opponent. The goblins' inexperience with such weapons cost the enemy dearly now; the animalheads were wresting them from the goblins and using them themselves.

Simultaneously the cyborgs commenced action — and their weapons were completely modern. Some had stunners, some gas jets, some lasers, and some projectile hurlers, and they knew how to use them. The battle was on.

Stile and Sheen moved hastily along their projected channel, placing the remaining explosive. Their hour was passing, and the plastic would detonate at its assigned moment regardless of their proximity. It was funny stuff, gray-white and slightly tacky to the touch, like modeling clay; it could be torn into fragments of any size, shaped as desired, and it would adhere to whatever it was pressed against. They fitted it into the chinks of stones like mortar, and on the undersurfaces of wooden beams. The goblins should not notice the plastic unless warned about its nature.

The sounds of the battle behind became louder. Stile looked back — and saw a squadron of winged dragons coming from the south. The cyborgs fired bazookas at them. Their aim was excellent — but after the first few dragons went down in flames, the others took evasive action. They dived down close to the ground and strafed the cyborgs with their flaming breath. The goblins who had been engaging the cyborgs screamed; that strafing was hurting them, while the metal bodies of the machine-men withstood the heat better. The dragons might as well have been the cyborgs' allies.

"Keep moving," Sheen cautioned Stile. Indeed, he had become distracted by the action, forgetting his own important role. He hurried to place more plastic.

But haste made waste. They ran out of plastic and time before the job was done; several barriers remained. They had had enough of each, and had wasted part of both. "We must move," Sheen warned. "In ten minutes the plastic detonates, with or without us."

"Better head back for the ball," Stile said. "I want to be ready just before the plastic goes off, so we can start the ball rolling right at the moment of goblin disorganization."

They began running back toward the Phazite. New contingents of goblins were arriving from the north; they were swarming all over. Stile saw that the enemy was winning the battle of the hill; both animalheads and cyborgs were being contained and decimated. The goblins were absorbing huge losses, but prevailing because of their greater numbers and overall organization. A new force was advancing toward the Phazite. They would overrun the site before Stile could return.

"Conjure us there!" he cried.

"Can't," Sheen snapped. "The enemy Adepts have focused their full attention on this place, blocking off new magic. They're learning how to impede the potent book spells by acting together. This is the final squeeze, Stile."

"Then send my image there; that's an existing spell."

Suddenly his image was in the chamber. There were the Brown Adept and the troll, holding laser rifles clumsily, trying to oppose the advancing goblins. The remaining golems stood about awkwardly; their hands were not coordinated enough to handle modern weapons, and their wooden minds not clever enough to grasp this rapidly changing situation.

"That's no good," Stile said. "You can't stop a hundred vicious goblins by yourselves."

They looked at him, startled. "We feared for thee!" Brown exclaimed.

"Fear for thyself; they will be upon thee before I can return in the flesh. They want the book, and we must keep it away from them at any cost." Stile pondered a moment. "Trool — canst thou take Brown and the book into the tunnel and shield them with thine invisibility?"

Trool faded out. In a moment Brown faded out too. "Aye," his voice came. "But it is not safe in the tunnel, Adept; goblins are coming from the far end. We have blocked them off for the moment, but-"

"Canst thou fly with her to safety?" Stile cut in. Time was so short! "It need be but for a few minutes, until the explosive we have set goes off. Then will the enemy Adepts' attention be distracted, and we can use the spells of the book to protect ourselves."

"I will try," Trool's voice came. From several feet up, Brown cried, "Hey, this is fun!" Then they were out a ceiling aperture and away.

The goblins burst in, caving in the mound walls with pikes. They spied Stile and charged him — but their points had no effect on his image. On inspiration, he pretended that he could be hurt, and dodged about to avoid the thrusts, so as to distract them as long as possible. He didn't want them working on the Phazite ball, now vulnerable.

The golems were still standing awkwardly. Stile realized that they needed to be told what to do. "Protect yourselves!" he cried. "Golems, fight the goblins!"

Now the golems acted. They were neither smart nor swift, but they were as tough as wooden planks. The goblins swarmed over each golem and were hurled back violently. Yes, it was after all possible to make a decent fight of it!

Abruptly he was back with Sheen, at the base of the hill. The two of them were running through the battlefield, and it was grim. Goblins and animalheads lay dead and dying. This was where the animalheads had been fated to lose half their number, he realized. Some cyborgs were here too, their metal lying twisted and smoking; Stile saw one with its metal skull cracked open, the human brain exposed and shriveled. The odor of carnage was strong.

"We must find help," Sheen said, "to clean out the goblins and get the ball rolling."

"I wish we could save these creatures in pain," Stile said.

"We can't do it now. Once the ball crosses, we can."

Stile knew it was true. They had to move the ball first. Now only seconds remained before the plastic detonated.

They found a bearhead just recovering consciousness. Stile put his hand on the creature's shoulder, breaking the invisibility-spell for this one individual. "We need thee," Stile said. "Follow us."

"Aye, Blue," the bearhead agreed dizzily.

Sheen found a cyborg in the process of self-repair; it had lost a foot, but was affixing the foot of a dead cyborg in its place. Sheen introduced herself similarly. The four hurried on.

As they reached the crest of the hill, they smelled smoke. Something was burning in the mound. "The golems!" Sheen said grimly.

Stile winced. He knew the wooden golems were not truly alive, but surely they hurt when they burned. The goblins had used a devastating weapon, and the Brown Adept would be mortified.

They charged the mound, staring into its broken chamber. In the smoke of the golem bonfire, the goblins were trying to push the ball back into the spiral tube. The ball was shaking, starting to rock. Soon they would get it moving.

The four burst into the chamber. The goblins cried out and scattered as they saw the bearhead and cyborg, but rallied in a moment and drew their weapons. Stile and Sheen, invisible to them, knocked the pistols from the goblins' hands. Unable to fathom this new menace, the goblins nevertheless fought bravely, overwhelming their opposition, both visible and invisible, by force of numbers.

Then the plastic explosive detonated. The barrier wedges blew up, raining fiery pieces on the heads of the goblin army. The goblins in the mound disengaged and dashed out to see what new danger threatened. There was general disorganization.

"Now we roll it!" Stile cried. The four of them, joined by a charred but surviving golem, picked up the scattered limbs of golems and their tools and started levering the ball forward. They were more disciplined and purposeful than the goblins had been, and the ball was poised for this direction, but it was so massive they had just as much trouble budging it. "We need better levers!" Stile gasped. But he knew of none within range — and now they heard the goblins charging up the spiral tunnel. There was no time for a search.

A hawk flew into the chamber. "Clip!" Stile exclaimed. "What art thou doing here?"

The unicorn changed to man-form. "I knew thou wouldst foul it up by thyself, Adept," he said. "Mere men always do. So I brought some friends to bail thee out."

Now a bee, a hummingbird, and a blue heron flew in, changing to three more unicorns. The third had an iridescent mane. "Belle!" Stile said, recognizing her.

"She was wandering toward the battle," Clip said diffidently. "I could not leave her to such danger, and she does feel she owes thee, Adept, for the manner in which she was used to-"

"Yes, of course!" Stile agreed. "The four of you-help us push this ball down the hill!"

Clip shifted to equine form and played musical directions on his sax-horn. He was answered by a violin, tuba, and ringing-bell tune of agreement. The four put their horns carefully down into the crevice between ball and floor; then, musically coordinated, they levered up and forward.

Just like that, the ball moved. The unicorns repeated the process, working it over the dirt and rabble and outside. It was a slow, difficult task, but they worked well and kept the ball crunching forward.

Goblins burst in from the spiral tunnel. Stile, Sheen, and the bearhead, the cyborg, and the remaining golem turned to face them, protecting the unicorns' flanks. The goblins, seeing only three motley opponents, charged — and discovered the hard way that there were five. In this cramped, littered space, it was a fair match.

Then the ball nudged over the brink and started rolling down the slope in the direction Stile had dictated. The unicorns, their task done, turned to face the goblins — who suddenly lost their eagerness to fight, seeing the odds shift so substantially.

"Mount!" Stile cried, trusting the unicorns to cooperate. "Follow that ball!" And he leaped onto the nearest steed — who happened to be Belle. She spooked, never before having borne a rider, but heard Clip's musical clarification and immediately settled down. Sheen took the golem and mounted Clip, and the bearhead and cyborg mounted the remaining two. They charged down the slope.

For an instant Stile was daunted by the improbability of it all: a man, a cyborg, a robot, an animalhead, and a wooden golem, all riding unicorns through a battlefield strewn with goblins and dragons, pursuing an invaluable ball of power-rock that rolled along a channel cleared by plastic explosive. What a mishmash!

Mishmash? No — this was juxtaposition. The complete mergence of magic and science. He should enjoy it while it lasted, for it would not last long. Already he thought he felt the influence of the Platinum Flute weakening, as the strength of the Foreordained became exhausted.

Belle was a fine steed, running smoothly and swiftly, her lovely mane like silk in his grasp. But of course she was smooth; she had won the Unolympics dance event! "Belle, I thank thee for this service," he breathed, knowing she heard him despite the rush of air and booming of the passage of the Phazite ball, for her left ear rotated toward him. "I will try to do thee some return favor, when I can." And she made a faint bell-melody in response.

Meanwhile, the ball was gathering velocity. It crunched down the hill, leaving its smooth, small channel. Where bodies were in the way, they too were flattened. The Phazite was ponderous and inexorable, crushing everything in its path. The live goblins, seeing its onrush, scattered out of its way in alarm. This was the sensible thing to do.

The four unicorns galloped after it, losing headway as the ball rolled down the steepest section of the slope. All the goblins were watching it now, seeing its passage through the erstwhile barriers. For them, this progress was disaster.

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-field 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.

The individual goblins could not stop the massively rolling ball, of course; they plunged desperately from its path. The slope was so steep that even the giants would be hard put to halt the ball before it crossed the curtain halfway down.

On the horizon Stile now spied the ogres, who had just arrived on the scene. They were ready to fight, but were understandably hesitant about wading into so vast an army of goblins. But it seemed the ogres would not be needed now.

On the next hill to the north was a device Stile recognized only from his researches into planetary warfare — a nuclear cannon. Powered by atomic fusion, this pre-Protonite weapon could fire a solid projectile into deep space — or into any object in its viewfinder at a lesser range. Stile knew the canny Grossnose would have it loaded with a half-ton slug of Protonite — the only substance that could have a proper effect on the rolling ball. The goblin commander had devised his strategy to counter Stile's strategy without pause.

"Get back over the ridge!" Stile cried. "Down, giants! Now!"

The earth trembled as they obeyed, trusting his warning.

Giants, unicorns, and others all huddled in the shelter of the ridge.

The cannon fired. The Phazite ball exploded into thousands of fragments and a great cloud of dust. Phazite rained down around them in the form of stones, pebbles, gravel, and sand.

Sheen jumped to cover Stile's body with her own tougher one, and the cyborg did the same for the bearhead. Hie unicorns changed to their flying forms and huddled under the same shelters. But the giants were in some discomfort; they swatted at the pieces that struck them, as if bitten by gnats.

Now the great goblin army went into action, obviously rehearsed. Each goblin ran to pick up one fragment of Phazite and carry it south, away from the border of the juxtaposition. "No!" Sheen cried. "Fragmentation doesn't matter, so long as it gets across the line to Proton-frame. But this will finish us!"

Grossnose's final ploy had been a brilliant one. Once more the goblin had outmaneuvered Stile, giving up a lesser thing — in this case the Oracle — for the sake of a greater one. The ball had had to crest the hill to come into range of the nuclear cannon.

But Stile refused to give up. One hope remained. "Trool! Brown!" Stile called. 'If you hear me — use the book! Do something while the enemy Adepts are relaxing in victory!" Did they hear? Could Brown locate a spell and use it in time? Stile was afraid not.

Suddenly there was a strange wrenching, as of vastly potent magic gone astray. Then the world stabilized, seemingly unchanged. The goblins still charged forward with their burdens, seeming slightly dizzy but hardly incapacitated.

Sheen looked at Stile in despair as the last of the sandfall cleared. "We can't possibly stop them all," she said. "We have ogres and unicorns, but there are too many goblins, too hard to catch. The book-spell failed, or was blocked by the other Adepts. Lady Brown simply lacks the experience to use that sort of magic properly."

"I don't know," Stile said. "That didn't feel like blocked magic." He was getting a notion what it might have been, but decided not to say. It could not make a difference at this point. "Let the goblins be; no sense getting ourselves in trouble in a futile effort"

The giants and unicorns turned away from him in disgust, but left the goblins alone. Soon virtually all of the Phazite was gone, carried away in pieces or in bagfuls. The battle was over.

Commander Grossnose strode over the crest. "Congratulations on an excellent campaign, Adept," he said graciously. "Thou didst trick me on crossing the Oracle — but I countered with the cannon. The power of the Oracle in nonseparated frames becomes moot. But if thou wouldst be so good as to answer a point of curiosity-"

"Certainly," Stile agreed.

"What was the nature of that last great spell thou didst attempt to perform? I felt its vasty power — but naught happened."

Trool and the Brown Adept appeared, she with the book of magic clutched in her arms. "We can answer that, goblin," she said. "It was reversal."

Grossnose's constricted brow wrinkled. "Reversal? I understand that not."

"Thou knowest — changing directions. So west turns east and north turns south — or seems to. The Oracle told us to do it once it got into jux and could use its holo — hologramp — its magic pictures to talk to us. That's one smart machine!"

"North turns south?" the goblin asked, dismay infiltrating his face.

"Yep. Thine army just carried all the Phazite the wrong way — north across the line."

The goblin commander stood for a long moment absorbing that, grasping the accuracy and import of the statement. All of them had been deceived, for it had been an extremely powerful spell of a quite unanticipated sort — as it had needed to be, to avoid interference by the enemy Adepts.

Grossnose turned again to Stile. "Congratulations on a better campaign than I knew, Adept," he said gravely, as gracious in defeat as he had been in victory. "The final ploy was thine." He marched back up the slope, his troops falling in behind him.

The victory had been won; juxtaposition could end, and the frames could safely separate, never to intersect again in this region of the universe. Stile could see the glimmer of the curtain contracting, closing more rapidly from the south so as to finish at the site of the Oracle beneath them. Or was that from the north it was closing? It was hard to be sure, with that reversal-spell. Beyond that line, north (?) was the verdant world of Phaze; at the crest to the south(?) was the barren desert of Proton. Only the directions were reversed, not the terrain, somehow; the goblins had marched the wrong way home. Not that it mattered; they were creatures of Phaze who would remain there regardless, just as the robots and cyborgs would remain in Proton.

Stile himself would now return forever to Proton, to settle his debt to Citizen Merle, marry Sheen, and work with the Oracle-computer to reform the existing order. His alternate self would reanimate to be with Neysa and Clip and Stile's other friends of Phaze and the Lady Blue. How much better off he would be!

"Thy life seems not dreary to me," the Blue Adept thought. "The sheer challenge, the strange and fascinating bypaths of politics, the marvelous Game, and the ladies in Proton — no woman could be better than Sheen. Thou hast far the best of it, methinks."

"Just do thou wrap up my commitments in Phaze," Stile thought back sourly. "Petition must be made to the Herd Stallion to release Clip to pair with Belle; that is best for both of them. And it is in my mind that Trool the troll, with his integrity and skill at sculpture, should be given the book of magic and become the new Red Adept, fashioning useful magic amulets for-"

"That was my thought, fool!" Blue thought. "Of course I will-"

Then the closing curtain caught them. "Ah, the reversal!" Blue thought, amazed, as his other soul was drawn from Stile's association. "Farewell, self!"

Stile blinked. Blue had caught on to something Stile had not, it seemed, and now it was too late to ascertain what. That, and the whole wonderful world of Phaze, were gone. He felt the bitter tears of loss. Never to see the Lady Blue again, or Neysa-

But he could not afford self-pity. He had things to do in this world. He opened his eyes.

He was lying on a bed in a chamber of the Blue Demesnes. The Proton replica, of course. He must have lost consciousness, and Sheen had brought him here and left him to recover in decent privacy. Sheen was certainly the perfect woman; too bad she had not been able to remain in Phaze — but that would have been too complicated anyway.

He got up, felt momentarily dizzy with the sudden rising, and quickly squatted to let the blood return to his head. It was as if he had been lying here a long time, his body unused; he felt somewhat awkward and unsteady, but now was recovering rapidly.

He stared at his knees with slow amazement. They were fully flexed, without pain. His injury had been cured!

Oh — of course. Sheen had taken advantage of his unconsciousness to have him in surgery, and now he was better. Though he really would not have expected her to do that without consulting him first.

He walked to the door. The short hall was dark, so he sang a spell: "Right — light." Immediately there was light, though only half as bright as he had intended.

Wait — he could not do magic in Proton!

He glanced back — and saw the harmonica lying on a table beside the bed. Blue's harmonica, left with the-

Then he heard a light tread on the floor, probably someone alerted by Stile's own motion. He recognized it immediately: the Lady Blue. Sheen's step was quite different.

He knew with a shock of incredulous joy that something had gone wrong. The reversal had sent himself and his alternate self to the wrong frames! Stile's soul had gone to the golem body, whose knees were good, while the Blue Adept had left Phaze-

Phaze would not be safe until the Blue Adept departed it forever. The prophecy had been fulfilled after all. Stile was in Phaze, not the true Blue Adept, who had been here all along, in the harmonica, until this final separation. The Brown Adept, unacquainted with the book of magic, prompted by the all-knowing Oracle, had made the reversal-spell too comprehensive, and thus-

And the other prophecy, which he had thought had come after the fact — that Stile would be betrayed, for his own good, by a young-seeming woman. Brown seemed as young as they came. That mixup had been no accident! She had perceived more clearly than he where his true future lay, and had acted to make it come true. How neatly it all fit together now! The Blue Adept, loath to live with a woman who no longer loved him, and fascinated by the marvelous world of science and the beautiful, loyal, deserving creature Sheen — who was as much intrigued by Blue, a person in Stile's own image and spirit who had left his love for the Lady Blue behind-

Now the Lady Blue came into view, breathtakingly lovely and somber. Her face composed, she approached Stile. "My Lord, thou knowest I will serve thee in all things with grace and propriety," she said sadly. "What is to be, must be."

She thought he was Blue, of course — and she loved Stile. She had the mettle to carry through, to bear and raise his son, with no word of regret or reproach — but this time she would not need it.

"Beloved," Stile said. "I have news for thee, thee, thee…"