Juxtaposition (27 page)

‘Thank you, sir,” the serf said. She faded out.
 

“Now that’s something!” Waldens exclaimed. “You warned him you were coming! Do you have a death wish?” Stile removed his hat, but did not seek new clothing. He took the wheeled machine and started down the hall.
 

“Aha!” Waldens exclaimed. “Of course he would know how to emulate a serf! But Cirtess won’t let a serf intrude, either, especially when he’s been warned by a Citizen that something’s afoot.”

“We shall End out,” Stile said. “You may watch me on the general pickup system to verify whether I succeed.
 
Serfs, come along.” He moved on toward the dome entrance.

The Citizens turned on the little holo unit, crowding around it. Stile knew they would follow his every move.
 
That was fine; he wanted them to have no doubt.
 
He led his party to the Circle-Tesseract emblem. Cirtess’ dome adjoined the main public dome closely; an on ground tunnel about fifty meters long extended between the two. The communication line was buried beneath the floor of the tunnel.

Two male serfs stood guard at the tunnel entrance.
 
They snapped to alertness as Stile’s party approached. One barred the way. “This is private property.”

Stile halted. “I’m on Citizen business,” he said. “I’m tracing an important message along the communication line.”

“Have you my employer’s permission to pass?”

“He knows we’re coming,” Stile said. “I expect him to attend to this personally. Now give me room; I don’t have all day.” He pushed on by, trundling the machine.
 
Uncertain, the serf gave way. No mere serf braved the premises of a Citizen without authorization; this line tracing had to have been cleared. But the other serf was already buzzing his dome. “Work crew of four claims to be on Citizen business,” he said.

Stile walked on, not waiting for the answer. Mellon, Sheen, and the machine-tending serf followed. They all knew they could be cut down by a laser at any moment;

Citizens had short fuses when it came to serf intrusions, and there was a laser lens covering the length of the tunnel. But Stile was gambling that Cirtess would investigate before firing. Why should an illicit crew intrude so boldly on his premises? Why should there be advance warning?
 
Wasn’t it more likely that someone was trying to make mischief for a legitimate work crew? But the maintenance computer would deny that any crew was operating here at this time, so it was phony. It simply didn’t add up, unless it was a practical joke. In that case, Cirtess would want to discover the perpetrator. To do that, he would have to observe the work crew and perhaps interrogate it. It was unlikely that Stile, himself would be recognized in this short time; the Amerind hat had completely changed his face, and in any event, the last thing anyone would think of was a Citizen masquerading as a serf. At least this was Stile’s hope.

No laser bolt came. Stile reached the end of the tunnel, passed another serf guard who did not challenge him, and traced the buried cable on through a foyer and into a garden park girt with cubistic statuary. The Tesseract motif, of course; Citizens could carry their symbolic foibles quite far.

In the center of the garden, beside a fountain that formed odd, three-dimensional patterns. Stile came to the buried cable nexus. He oriented the machine on it. There was a buzz; then an indicator pointed to the line leading away, and a readout gave the coding designation of the new cable. He had accomplished his mission and won his bet.

But when he looked up, there was a Citizen, flanked by a troop of armed serfs. This was Cirtess; Stile knew it could be no other. “Step into my office. Stile,” the man said brusquely.

So the game was up. Stile turned the machine over to its regular operator and went with the Citizen. He had not actually won his bet until he escaped this dome intact with the machine; or if he had won the bet, but lost his life, what he had gained?

Inside the office, with privacy assured, Cirtess handed Stile a robe. Stile donned it, together with sandals and a feather hat. His subterfuge had certainly been penetrated.
 
“Now what is the story?” Cirtess inquired. “I think you owe me the truth.”

‘I’m tracing a two-month-old message,” Stile said.
 
“Your personnel would not permit entry to a necessary site.”

“Of course not! I’d fire any serf who let unauthorized persons intrude.”

“So I had to find a way through. It has nothing to do with you personally; I simply have to trace that message to wherever it originated.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this by phone? I am not unreasonable when the issue is clear, I might have permitted your mission, for a reasonable fee.”

“I happen also to need to increase my fortune.”

Cirtess nodded. “Could this relate to the several Citizens who huddle in the serf lavatory, spying on your progress?”

“They gave me fifteen-to-one odds on a kilo of Protonite that I couldn’t make it. I need that sort of advantage.”

“So you called me to rouse my curiosity, so my serfs wouldn’t laser you out of hand?”

“Also so as not to deceive you,” Stile agreed. ‘I do not like deception, outside the framework of an established game. You were not properly part of our game.”

“So you inducted me into it. A miscalculation could have resulted in your early demise.”

“My life has been threatened before. That’s one reason I’m tracing this message; I believe its source will offer some hint of the nature of my nemesis.”

Cirtess nodded again. “And the Citizens were willing to give better odds because of the factor of danger. Very well. I appreciate cleverness, and I’m as game for a wager as anyone. I will let you go without objection if you will wager your winnings with me.”

“But my winnings will be fifteen kilos of Protonite!”

“Yes, a substantial sum. I can cover it, and you must risk it. Choose your bet now—or I shall see that you lose your prior bet by not completing your survey. I can legitimately destroy your tracer machine.”

“You play a formidable game!” Stile exclaimed. “You’re forcing me to double or nothing.”

“Indeed,” Cirtess agreed, smiling. “One does not brave the lion’s den without encountering challenge.” Stile emerged from the dome with his crew and machine, his knees feeling somewhat weak. “I have the data,” he announced.

Waldens glanced at the indicator on the machine. “So you do, and within the time limit. You’ve won fifteen. But why are you so shaky?”

“Cirtess caught me. He pressured me.”

The other Citizens laughed. “Why do you think we bet against you?” one said. “Cirtess can buy and sell most of us. We knew you were walking into the lion’s den.”

“How did you wiggle out?” Waldens asked.
 
“He required me to bet my winnings with him,” Stile said, grimacing. “That leaves me only one kilo uncommitted, until that bet is settled.”

“What is the bet?”

“That is private. It is a condition of the wager that I tell no one its nature until it is settled, which should be shortly.”

“Ah, I like that sort of mystery. Cirtess must be playing a game with us, to make up for our intrusion into his privacy. Very well—I’ll go for your single kilo. Do you have any suitable notions?”

Stile considered. “I don’t care to bet on this message tracing any more. Maybe we can find something disconnected.” They were walking toward the next cable junction, guided by the machine coding. It was pointless to trace every meander of the cable itself when this shortcut was available. Stile turned a comer and entered a short concourse between major domes. At this moment there were no other people in it. “I know! Let’s bet on the sex of the serfs to traverse this passage in the next ten minutes.
 
That should be a fairly random sampling.”

“Good enough,” Waldens agreed. “I’ll match your kilo, betting on female.”

“Now wait,” the Citizen with the feather hat protested.
 
He had recovered it after Stile’s use. “The rest of us are being cut out.”

“Bet with each other,” Stile said. “I am at my present limit.” And Mellon nodded emphatically.
 

“There’s little verve in wagers with other Citizens. You are the intriguing factor here.”

“Well, I’ll be happy to hedge my bet,” Stile said. “I bet Waldens that more males will pass, and you that more females will pass.”

“No good. That puts Waldens and me against each other, in effect. I want you. I want your last kilo.”

“All right,” Waldens said. “I relinquish my bet with Stile. You can have this one.”

“Hey, I want to bet tool” the indium coin Citizen pro tested, and the others joined in.

“All right! I’ll cover you all,” Feather Hat said. “One kilo each. I say more females in ten minutes from—mark.”

“Good enough,” Waldens agreed. “Five of us, including Stile, are betting you that more males will pass. We all win or lose with Stile.”

Now they waited. For two minutes no one came from either direction. “Suppose none comes—or it’s even?” Stile asked. He was laboring under continuing tension.
 

“Then we extend the time,” Waldens said. “Sudden death. Agreed?”

The others agreed. They all wanted a settlement. The particular bets didn’t matter, and the details of the bets didn’t matter; just as long as they could share the excitement of honest gambling.

Then two male serfs came, chatting together. Both went silent as they spied the group of Citizens in the center of the concourse. “Proceed apace,” Waldens said, and the two hastily passed by.

A minute later a third serf came, from the opposite direction. Another male. The feather-halted Citizen frowned.

Then the pace picked up. Three females passed, two more males, a female, three more males, and another female. At eight minutes the score was eight males, five females. “Must be a male work shift getting out,” Waldens said, satisfied. “To think I almost bet on the girls!” But in the final minute there were two more males and six more females. As the time expired, the score was ten males, eleven females.

The feather-hatted Citizen smiled broadly. “I skunked you all! Five kilos!” He nodded toward Stile. “And I beat him. Nobody’s done that before.”

“I lost my kilo,” Stile agreed, wondering if he looked as nervous as he felt. “But there’s a question I’d like to explore.”

“Explore it,” Waldens said. “We’re having fun.”

“I notice that the males were ahead, until a sudden rush of females at the end. Is the estate of any of our number near to this concourse?”

“Not mine,” Waldens said. “But you. Bonnet—yours is close, isn’t it?”

“”It is,” the feather-hatted Bonnet replied guardedly.
 

“And those late female serfs—would they by any chance be employees of yours?” Stile asked.
 

“That doesn’t matter,” Bonnet said. “The wager did not exclude our employees. All serfs are Citizen employees.”

“Oho!” Waldens said. “You signaled your dome and loaded the dice!”

“Only smart participation,” Bonnet insisted. “There was no bar against it.”

Waldens sighed. “No, I suppose not. One must never accept something on faith, particularly the constancy of other Citizens. I fell for it; I’ll take my loss.” The others agreed, though not pleased; they all should have been more careful.

Now Stile felt the exhilaration of victory. “As it happens, I bet Cirtess fifteen kilos that someone would cheat on this wager. I lost my kilo, but won my fifteen. Right, Cirtess?”

“Right,” Cirtess’s voice agreed on a hidden speaker.
 
“Well and fairly played. Stile. Let it be recorded: fifteen for you.”

Waldens slapped his knee. “Beautiful! Bonnet won five, you won fifteen. Even in losing, you won! Your fortune is now just over thirty kilograms. Stile. You are now a moderately wealthy Citizen.”

“Congratulations,” Bonnet said sourly. “I believe I have had enough for the day.” Somewhat stiffly, he departed.
 

“And that was worth my own paltry losses,” Waldens said. “I never liked him much. Still, I suspect he’s right.
 
You have been outmaneuvering us nicely. Stile. I think I must desist wagering with you, lest I lose my shirt—or all of my clothing.” And the others laughed, remembering the episode of nakedness. By common consent they dispersed, leaving Stile alone with his party of serfs.
 

“Sir, you have taken extraordinary chances,” Mellon said reprovingly. “My expertise has been useless.”

“I agree I have pushed my luck,” Stile said. “I think it prudent to turn my winnings over to you for management now. Do you feel you can parlay them into an even larger fortune?”

“A thirty-kilogram stake? Sir, with that leverage and your authority to make selective wagers, I believe I can do well enough.”

“Go to it. I’ll refrain from further betting until I consult with you. Take it away.”

“Thank you, sir. Your method is unorthodox, but I must confess it has proved effective.” Mellon turned and walked away.

“He will work wonders, sir,” Sheen murmured.
 
Unencumbered by the betting Citizens, they proceeded rapidly to the next nexus, which was in a public workshop area, and thence to another in a serf park that spread across the curtain.