Juxtaposition (43 page)

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

“His flashing eyes, his floating hair!

Weave a circle round him thrice,

And close your eyes with holy dread,

For he on honey-dew hath fed,

And drunk the milk of Paradise.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Proxies?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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