and the set was designed to prevent collisions. Such Games were supposed to seem far more dangerous than they were in fact. Stile might scare his opponent, but could not actually hurt him with the car. Still, there, were ways.
Stile slowed his car, allowing the man to catch up somewhat. Then, just as the man was leveling his laser, Stile accelerated into a loop, going up and over and through. The man, caught by surprise, had to accelerate his own car and hang on. The cars could not fall, even if they stalled upside down at the top of a loop, and the automatic seat belts would hold the occupants fast. The man evidently did not know that.
Stile moved on into a roller-coaster series, going up and down at increasing velocity. The man followed, looking uncomfortable. He was fairly solid, and his belly lightened and settled with each change of elevation. That could start the queasies. Then Stile looped into a tunnel with a good lead, emerged to spin into a tight turn, and crossed over the other track just as the pursuer shot out of the tunnel.
Stile had removed his robe. He dropped it neatly over the man's head.
The man reacted violently, clawing at the voluminous material that the wind plastered to his face, while the car continued along the track. Stile slowed his own car, letting the other catch up. Just as the man managed to get free of the robe, Stile jumped from one car to the other, having also circumvented the seat restraint. He caught the man's neck in a nerve-strangle, rendering him instantly unconscious, and took the laser pistol from his hand. Then he jumped back to his own car and accelerated away. Such jumps from car to car were supposed to be impossible, but Stile was a skilled gymnast, able to do what few others could contemplate.
Now he zoomed for the exit. He had left his robe behind; it made identification too easy for his assassination-minded pursuers. Still, being a serf was not enough camouflage. There would be other assassins on the prowl for him, closing on this region. The majority of Citizens, like the Adepts, seemed to be against him; they had tremendous resources that would be overpowering once they got the focus. He needed to get far away from here in a hurry.
Could he retreat to the curtain, as he had done when the Adepts had had him pinned in the cavern? No, they would be watching the segments of it through which he had entered Proton this time. He had to surprise them.
Camouflage seemed to be the answer - but what kind?
Already Stile was making his decision. The most common and least noticed entities in Proton were machines, ranging from self-propelled hall-brushers to humanoid robots. Some were sophisticated emulations of individuality like Sheen, but most were cruder. Stile paused at a food machine and got some nutri-taffy; this he used to shape bulges at his knees and elbows, and to change the configuration of his neck and crotch. He now resembled a small, sexless menial humanoid robot that had been used in a candy kitchen. He walked somewhat stiffly and set a fixed smile on his face, since this grade of machine lacked facial mobility. Stile was, of course, a practiced mimic. He was unable to eliminate his natural body heat, but hoped no one would check him that closely.
It worked. Serfs passed him without paying any attention. There was a checkpoint guarded by two brute androids, but they were looking for a man, not a taffy-odored machine. Stile walked stiffly by, unchallenged.
He was probably safe now, but he did not gamble. He continued his robot walk to a transport capsule and rode to the vicinity of Merle's dome, then took the service entrance. Even here there was no challenge. Functionaries were constantly in and out of Citizens' estates on myriad errands.
But Merle was expecting him. 'Stile, I want you to know I sincerely regret this,' she said. 'Extreme pressure has been put on me. Believe me, I'm helping you in my fashion.' She touched a button.
Stile leaped to intercept her motion, but was too late. Stasis caught him.
Merle had betrayed him. Why hadn't he anticipated that? He could so readily have gotten around her, had he only been alert. He had allowed a woman to make a fool of him.
He was cleaned and packaged and loaded into a transport capsule. He could feel the motion without seeing anything. The capsule moved swiftly south, by the feel of it. At length it slowed, and he was unloaded.
The stasis released. Stile found himself in a barred chamber - and with him was Sheen. She was inert; her power cell had been removed. The disaster was complete. There was no sign of the book of magic.
A speaker addressed him. 'Serf, you have been assigned to this mine because you have excellent manual dexterity. You will be granted one hour to familiarize yourself with the controls. Then you will be expected to commence processing the ore in your bailiwick. You will have a rest break in your cell of fifteen minutes after each hour, provided your production is satisfactory. Superior performance will result in promotion. Press the ADVISE button if there is any problem. Malingering will not be tolerated.'
Stile knew better than to protest. He had been shanghaied here to get him out of the way. Once he failed to appear at the business meeting, he would lose his fortune, be voted out of Citizenship, become a serf in fact, and probably be deported. He didn't even blame Merle; she had done this instead of killing him. Perhaps she had reported him dead. No doubt her own Citizenship had been placed in the balance. The opposition, in Proton as in Phaze, played hard ball.
What could he do? A quick inspection of the chamber satisfied him that he could not escape. The Protonite miners were not trusted; each was locked in his cell during working hours, even though he never directly handled the valuable mineral. Security was extremely tight in the mines. If Stile tried to interfere with any of the equipment or wiring, there would be an alarm and immediate punishment; if he tried to sabotage the mining operation, he would be executed. All he could do was cooperate.
Stile got to work on the mining. He familiarized himself with the controls in moments, and soon had his survey-screen on. Could he use this to get in touch with the Brown Adept? No - this was a different circuit - and even if he could call outside, the monitor would intercept, and he would be in instant trouble, possibly of a mortal nature. Best to sit tight. Probably the game was lost. He had mainly himself to blame; the exigencies of the moment had forced an oversight.
Of course he was not entirely alone. The Lady Blue knew he was in Proton, and she would be concerned about his failure to reappear. But she had not been keeping dose track of him; she would not be really alarmed until some hours or days had passed without news - and that would be too late. He would have missed the business meeting and the juxtaposition of frames. In any event, the enemy Citizens would now be alert for her; Stile did not want the Lady Blue exposing herself to possible assassination.
What about the self-willed machines? They might be able to help - if Merle had not acted to conceal his abduction from their view. Since she knew a good deal about him and had referred to Sheen's friends, she had probably done just that. And if the sapient machines did locate him, they would still hesitate to reveal their nature by acting overtly on his behalf. He could not count on their rescuing him.
That left it up to the Brown Adept, who would be unable to reach him - and what could she do if she did? She was a child who would have no magic in this frame, assuming she could cross the curtain. Best to establish no false hopes. If help was on the way, it would succeed or fail regardless of his concern.
He was good at mining. Under his direction, the remote-controlled machinery operated efficiently. In two hours he had extracted half a gram of Protonite from the ore, a full day's quota. Whether Citizen or serf, Adept or slave, he intended to do his best - though this sort of mining would soon have to stop, if the frames were to be saved. Ironic, his effort here!
Then the gate opened. An apparition stood there - the tallest, thinnest, ugliest android he had ever seen. Except that it wasn't an android, but a man. No, not exactly a man-
Stile's spinning mental gears finally made an improbable connection. 'The troll!' he exclaimed. 'Trool the troll-in Proton-frame!'
'I must rescue thee from confinement three times,' Trool said.
Stile nodded. 'This is the third, for me and mine. More than amply hast thou fulfilled the prophecy. Sincerely do I thank thee, Trool.' There was no point in adhering to Proton language; the troll would only be confused.
'It is not done yet,' the troll said.
'Thou hast done enough,' Stile said. 'Thou hast freed
me.'
Trool shrugged and stooped to pick Sheen up. He shambled through the door, carrying her, and Stile followed.
Trolls had a way with subterranean regions. Trool took them down into the depths of the mines, passing locks and checkpoints without challenge, until they were in the lowest crude tunnels. Here there were only machines, the forward end of the remote-control chain. Here, too, was the Protonite ore, the stuff of Proton's
