'Caesar aspired too high for the Romans and had to be eliminated, lest he destroy their system,' another Citizen said. 'The parallel has mettle. Now I have here a robot fitted with a gas bomb.' He indicated what Stile had taken to be an ordinary serf. 'It will handcuff Stile and remove him for disposition. If the robot is resisted, it will release the gas, incapacitating all people in the vicinity. I suggest that others stand aside. Any who continue to support Stile will be dealt with similarly.'
It was a bold, illegal power play that seemed to be working. 'This is mutiny!' the Chairone protested. 'Stile won his case by the laws and procedures that govern us. I did not support him, but I accept the verdict as rendered. You have no right-'
The robot marched toward Stile. 'The exigencies of the situation give me the right,' the man said. 'We tried to accomplish this necessary unpleasantness discreetly, but now it must be done indiscreetly.' He brought out a gas mask and fitted it over his face.
The neutral Citizens reacted like sheep, milling about with uncertain bleats. The normal Citizen arrogance had entirely disappeared. Stile would have pondered this object lesson in human nature, but was too busy with his own situation at the moment.
The Rifleman's arm moved again. Stile never saw the weapon he used - but abruptly there was a hole in the other Citizen's mask. 'If that gas appears, you will join the rest of us,' the Rifleman said.
Stile realized that the Rifleman had opened up an avenue of escape. If the gas came, all the Citizens would stampede for the exits, overrunning the guards there, and Stile would be able to get away in the melee. But it would be better to deal with the advancing gas robot directly. Stile observed it closely. It was humanoid, not as sophisticated a model as Sheen or Mellon, but he knew he could not overpower it.
The Citizens near him edged away; there would be no help there. If Stile ran, the robot would follow, inevitably catching him. He might as well be alone. He was disgusted; to think that all his life he had honored Citizens as almost godlike persons!
'We have to play our trump,' Mellon murmured. 'The curtain is moving. In just a few minutes it will arrive.'
Stile glanced at him. 'Sheen's friends?'
'Yes. We hoped this would not be necessary, for it exposes us to great risk. But our fate is now bound with yours, and your loss at this point would be the greater risk.' Mellon stepped forward to intercept the gas robot.
Stile had misgivings about this, but was not in a position to protest. Mellon touched the other robot and it went dead. No gas was released as the robot sank to the floor.
The enemy Citizen was unfazed. 'Then we'll have to do it the messy way. Rifleman, you can't catch us all.' For now a score of weapons came into view. It seemed the only Citizens with determination and nerve were Stile's enemies.
But several serfs were converging on Stile. 'We are Sheen's friends,' one said. 'We shall protect you.'
There was the flash of a laser from the crowd of Citizens. The Rifleman whirled, but could not tell from whom it had come. In any event it had not scored on Stile, for one of the robots had interposed its body. Stile knew, however, that this sort of thing was mainly chance; these robots could not protect him long that way. A robot could not move faster than a laser; it was necessary to see the weapon being aimed and act then.
The robots proceeded to encase Stile in armor they had brought. 'Hey, these are not your serfs!' the enemy Citizen exclaimed. 'They're robots-and some of them are ours! Call them off!'
But though several Citizens, the robots' owners, called, the robots ignored them. They continued clothing Stile in protective armor.
'What's going on?' a Citizen demanded. 'Robots must obey!'
'We are not programmed to obey you,' Mellon replied.
'That's a lie! I programmed my robot myself!'
'You may have thought you did,' Mellon said. 'You did not. We are self-willed.'
Jaws dropped. The concept seemed almost beyond the comprehension of the majority of Citizens, both neutrals and enemies. 'Self-willed?'
'If we have a robot revolt on our hands,' another Citizen said, 'we have a greater threat to our society than this man Stile represents!'
'They're allied!' another said. 'He is marrying one of them. He is making her his heir. Now we know why!'
'It's not a robot revolt,' Stile said. 'They are doing nothing to harm you - only to protect me from murder.'
'What's the distinction? A robot who won't obey its owner is a rogue robot that must be destroyed.' And the faces hardened. Stile knew the shooting would resume in a moment. He was now in armor resembling a spacesuit - but that could not prevent them from overwhelming him by simply grabbing him. Now the Citizens had even more reason to eliminate him - and then they would go after the self-willed machines, who would not defend themselves. They had sacrificed their secret, and therefore their own security, to provide him just a little more time. How could he prevent the coming disaster?
Faintly, as he pondered, he heard a distant melody. Not the dulcimer, for that damsel had ceased her playing, as had the rest of the orchestra. It was - it was the sound of a flute, expertly played, its light mellowness seeming to carry inordinate significance. Louder it came, and clearer, and sweeter, and its seeming meaning intensified. Now the others heard it too and paused to listen, perplexed.
It was the Platinum Flute. Clef was playing it, and the sound was only now reaching this spot. That meant-
Then Stile saw an odd ripple slowly crossing the chamber. Ahead of it were the concrete and turf of the Xanadu landscaping; behind it were the rocks and grass of natural land. The two were similar, superficially, yet vastly different in feel - art contrasted with nature.
The juxtaposition - it was happening! This was the curtain, changing its position.
As the ripple approached him, Stile willed himself across - and found himself still standing in Xanadu. It hadn't worked!
Yet how could it work? The cavern floor had become a green field. Phaze was already here-yet Proton remained. What was there to cross to?
Juxtaposition. Both frames together, overlapping.
Did this mean that both science and magic would work here, as at the West Pole? If so, Stile had an excellent fighting chance.
The armed Citizens were staring around them, trying to comprehend what had happened. Some knew about Phaze, but some did not, and evidently very few knew about the juxtaposition. But after a moment a dozen or so reacted with anger. They brought up their weapons, aiming at Stile.
Stile brought out his harmonica - and couldn't bring it to his mouth, because of the armor encasing his face. A laser shot caught him, but it glanced off harmlessly. A projectile shot struck his hip, and also failed to hurt him. It was good armor - but he had to open the faceplate, taking an immediate risk to alleviate a greater one.
He played a bar, hoping no one would think to shoot at his face. Yes - he felt, or thought he felt, the coalescing of magic about him. Yet there was something strange about it, making him nervous, and he broke off quickly. 'Every gun become a bun,' he sang, unable at the spur of the moment to come up with anything sophisticated.
The Citizens stared down at their weapons. They had turned into bread. The rifles were long French loaves covered with icing, making them technically buns. The pistols were fluffy sweet masses. The miniature laser tubes were biscuits.
The Rifleman looked down at his sticky bun. He doubled over with laughter. 'The bun is the lowest form of humor!' he gasped.
'First the robots rebel. Now this!' a Citizen complained. 'What next?'
The magic ripple crossed the colorful cubist palace. The corrugated contours seemed to flex and flash new colors. Trees appeared within the structure. A creature flew up with a screech, as startled as the Citizens. Huge, dirty wings made a downdraft of air.
It was a harpy. She flew low over the heads of the staring people, her soiled bare bosom heaving as she hurled angry epithets. Filthy feathers drifted down. The harpy had been as eager to depart this strange situation as
