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-hatted 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
'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. Stile, 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. 'Coincidence?' Stile inquired skeptically, and Sheen agreed it was probably not.
They set the machine, and the readout suggested that the message impulse had been introduced at this nexus. But this was a closed connection; there was no way to insert a message here. 'It had to have come from the other side of the curtain,' Stile said. Somehow he was not surprised. Much of the other mischief he had experienced had originated in Phaze.
'You have a friend there,' Sheen said. 'You will have to cross and use your magic to trace him down.'
'Yes. Only an Adept could have managed this. I can't think which one would have done it.' Stile sighed. 'Sheen, I still have a night free, and I shall need my rest. Take me home.'
She took him to the Proton Blue Demesnes, and fed him and washed him in the manner of serf for Citizen, not deigning to give the job to the hired staff. She put him in a comfortable bed over a gravity diffusion screen, so that his weight diminished. Weariness closed in on him, now that he had respite from the tensions of the moment. But before he allowed himself to sleep, he caught her hand and drew her to him. 'You cried for me again today,' he said.
'And you cried again for me.'
'Some day, somehow-'
She leaned over and kissed him, and it was as sweet as any kiss could be. In that pleasure he fell asleep. He dreamed that he loved her in the off moments as well as at the stress points - but woke to know that was only a wish, not truth. He could not do more than marry her.
?9. Source (F)
Stile crossed the curtain in the morning at the site of the last junction. There was nothing special in Phaze at this place; it was only the slope of a lightly forested hill. Whatever had fed the message in was gone. There were not even any footprints, after two months.
He was the Blue Adept, with potent magic. How could he apply it to follow this long-cold trail? Wouldn't an Adept have counterspelled the trail to prevent such tracing?
One way to find out. Stile played his harmonica, summoning his power, while he worked out a spell. Then he sang: 'Make an arrow, point the way, that the message came that day.'
The arrow formed, an illuminated spot like that made by a light projection. But it rotated uncertainly, like a compass without its magnetism. Sure enough, a counter-spell was interfering. There would be no simple, one-step answer.
However, his power at this spot, now, would be greater than that of a months-gone Adept. He should be able to trace the source - if he followed the trail in person, as he had in Proton. 'Give a signal, hot or cold, to make current what is old,' he sang, shaping the detail in his mind.
Now Stile's left side felt warmer than his right. He turned, and the warmth was on his face. He strode forward - and the effect faded.
He backed up until he felt the heat again. It had fallen away to his right. He got back on the trail, pursuing it more carefully - and it led him in a spaghettilike wriggle that coiled about and recrossed itself frequently. Obviously the other party had anticipated this approach also, and had left a tortuous path. It might take Stile a long time to unravel every wriggle, and the trail could lead into traps.
He decided to let it go for now. He wanted to rejoin the unicorns and the Lady Blue in plenty of time for the quest for Clip and vengeance. This message had waited two months; it would wait another day.
He used a prepared spell to transport himself to the herd, and stood for a moment in discomfort as he arrived. He certainly did not enjoy performing this kind of magic on himself, but he really had no alternative at the moment.
Neysa spied him first and trotted over. She would always be his steed and his friend in spirit. Yet now she did not prance, for the pall of her brother's fate hung over her.
She changed to girl-form and made one of her rare speeches: 'The Stallion has news of Clip.'
