CHAPTER 1

Unicorn

A lone unicorn galloped across the Łeld toward the
Blue Castle. It was a male, with a glossy dark blue coat
and red socks on his hind feet and a handsomely spiraled
horn. As he moved he played a melody through that hol-
low horn, sounding like a mellow saxophone. The notes
floated across the field ahead of him.

Stile walked to a parapet and looked down. He was an
extremely small but fit man, a former jockey who remained
in shape. He was dressed in a blue shirt and blue jeans,
though there were those who felt that neither became his
station. His station was such, however, that he could ig-
nore it with impunity—to a degree.

"Clip!" he exclaimed, recognizing the visitor. "Hey,
Neysa—your brother's herel"

But Neysa already knew it. Her hearing was better than
his. She trotted out of the castle and met Clip at the front
gate, crossing horns briefly in greeting. Then the two went
into their more extended ritual of reunion, prancing out
side by side in unison as they played a duet. Neysa's horn
had the sound of a harmonica, and it blended beautifully
with the music of the saxophone.

Stile watched and listened, entranced, and not by magic.
He had always been fond of horses, and he liked unicorns
even better. He was of course biased; Neysa was his best
friend in this frame. Still—

The two equines intensified the beat, their hooves strik-
ing the turf precisely. Now they went into the syncopation
of the five-beat gait, the Unicorn Strut, their music match-
ing it. Stile, unable to resist, brought out his good harmon-

2                     Blue Adept

ica and matched the tune, tapping the beat with his heel as
well as he could. He had a natural flair for music, and had
sharpened his skill recently because it related so intimately
to his magic. When he played, intangible magic formed
around him. But he refused to let that inhibit him; the
magic only became tangible when he invoked it in his
special fashion.

When the unicorns finished their dance of delight, they
trotted back to the castle. As they approached the gate they
shifted to human-form, becoming a handsome young man
and an elfishly small but also quite pretty woman. Stile
hurried down to meet them in the courtyard.

"A greeting. Adept, and a message from the Herd Stal-
lion," Clip said. He was holding hands with his sister,
somewhat to her mute embarrassment; he was more ex-
pressive than she. Both wore the garb of archaic Earth as
interpreted by nonhuman viewpoint, more or less matching
their natural equine colors.

"Thy greeting is welcome. Clip," Stile said. "And thy
message too, be it in peace."

"It is. Adept. The Stallion is pleased to summon Neysa
the Mare this season to be bred." He paused, then ap-
pended his own remark: "At long last."

"That's great!" Stile exclaimed. "After three seasons de-
nied, she will finally get her foal!"

Then he saw that Neysa was not reacting with the de-
light expected. Stile looked at her with concern. "Dost this
not please thee, oath-friend? I thought it was thy fondest
ambition to—"

Clip, too, was glancing at her with perplexity. "Sibling,
methought I bore great tidings."

Neysa averted her gaze. She was a well-formed girl an
inch or so shorter than Stile—a stature that appealed to
him though he knew this was foolish. She was the smallest
of mares, barely fourteen hands; any shorter and she
would have been classified as a pony: a member of the
equine Little Folk. Her human-form merely reflected this,
with only the tiny button-hom in her forehead signifying
her true nature.

Stile had long since learned to live with the fact that
most women and all men were taller than he, and of course

Blue Adept                      3

Neysa was not human at all. That did not prevent her from
being his closest companion in ways both human and
equine. Though she could speak, she was not much on
verbal communication. Vivacity was not her way, though
she had a certain filly humor that manifested subtly on
occasion.

Clip and Stile exchanged glances. What did this mean?
"Would a female know?" Clip asked.

Stile nodded. "One would." He raised his voice only
slightly. "Lady."

In a moment the Lady Blue appeared. She was, as al-
ways, garbed in variants of blue: blue corduroy skirt, pale
blue blouse, dark blue slippers and star-blue tiara. And, as
always, her beauty struck Stile with special force. "Mas-
ter," she murmured.

Stile wished she wouldn't do that. In no way was he her
master, and she knew that well. But he was unable to take
effective issue with the conventions of this frame—or with
the half-subtle reminders she gave him. She considered him
to be an imposter in the Blue Demesnes, a necessary evil.
She had cause.

"Lady," he said, maintaining the formality she required
of him. "Our friend Neysa is summoned to be bred by the
Herd Stallion, and have her foal at last—yet she seems not
pleased. Canst thou fathom this, and wilt thou enlighten us
males?"

The Lady Blue went to Neysa and embraced her. No
aloofness in this acquaintance! "Friend of mine oath, grant
me leave to explain to my lord," the Lady said to Neysa,
and the unicorn-girl nodded.

The Lady faced Stile. "It be a private matter," she said,
and walked sedately from the court.

She hadn't even asked; she had known intuitively! "I'll
be back," Stile said, and quickly followed.

When they were alone, they dropped the pretenses.
"What's the mystery?" Stile snapped. "She's my best friend
—a better friend than thou. Why won't she tell me?"

"Thy magic is strong," the Lady replied. "Thy compre-
hension weak. Left to thine own devices, thou wilt surely
come to grief."

"Agreed," Stile said easily, though he was not pleased.




4                      Blue Adept

"Fortunately I have Hulk and Neysa and thee to look after
me. Soon will I eliminate the major threat to my tenure as
Adept, and will stand no longer in need of such supervi-
sion."

What irony there was rolled off her without visible ef-
fect. The fairness and softness of her appearance con-
cealed the implacable skill with which she fought to pre-
serve the works of her late husband. There was nothing
soft about her dedication to his memory. "Be that as it
may—the mare feels un-free to leave thee at this time.
Hulk may depart and I am not committed to thee as Neysa
is. Therefore she prefers to postpone breeding until thou'rt
secure."

"But this is senseless!" he protested. "She must not sacri-
fice her own welfare for mine! I can offer her only hard-
ship and danger."

"Aye," the Lady agreed.

"Then thou must talk to her. Make her go to the Stal-
lion."

"Who is as masculinely logical as thee," the Lady said.
"With every bit as much comprehension of her concern.
Nay, I shall not betray her thus."

Stile grimaced. "Didst thou treat thy husband likewise?"

Now she colored. "Aye."

Stile was immediately sorry. "Lady, I apologize. Well I
know thou didst love him alone."

"Not enough, it seems, to save his life. Perhaps had he
had a unicorn to guard him—"

There it was, that needle-sharp acuity. "I yield the point.
There is no guardian like Neysa. What must I do to oblige
her?"

"Thou must arrange postponement of the breeding, until
she feels free to leave thee."

Stile nodded. "That should be feasible. I thank thee,
Lady, for thine insight."

"What thou askest for, thou hast," she said coolly.
"Thou art now the Blue Adept, the leading magician of the
realm. Only have the human wit not to offend the mare in
the presentation of thy decision."

"And how do I find the wit not to offend thee, bride of
my defunct self? Thou knowest his tastes are mine."

Blue Adept                     5

She left him, not deigning to answer. Stile shrugged and
returned to the courtyard. He wanted the Lady Blue more
than anything he could imagine, and she was aware of this.
But he had to win her the right way. He had the power to
convert her by magic, but he would not use it; she knew
this too. She understood him in certain ways better than he
understood himself, for she had experienced the love of his
other self. She could handle him, and she did so.

Clip and Neysa had reverted to unicorn-form and were
grazing on the patch of rich bluegrass maintained beside
the fountain for that purpose. The two were a beautifully
matched set, his blue against her black, his red socks com-
plementing her white ones. Clip was a true unicorn in
coloration; Neysa had been excluded from the herd for
some years because her color resembled that of a horse.
Stile still got angry when he thought about that.

Neysa looked up as he approached, black ears perking
forward, a stem of grass dangling from her mouth. As with
most equines, her chewing stopped when her attention was
distracted.

"I regret the necessity," Stile said briskly. "But I must
after all interfere with Neysa's opportunity. The Blue
Adept has, as we know, an anonymous enemy, probably
another Adept, who has murdered him once and seeks to
do so again. I have no second life to spare. Until I deal
with this enemy, I do not feel secure without completely
competent protection and guidance. No one can do that as
well as the mare. Therefore I must seek a postponement of
the Stallion's imperative until this crisis abates. I realize
this works a hardship on Neysa, and is selfish of me—"

Neysa snorted musically, pleased, and not for a moment
deceived. She resumed chewing her mouthful. Clip angled
his horn at her in askance, but saw that she was satisfied,
so kept silent.

One problem had been exchanged for another, however.
It was not any mare's prerogative to gainsay the Herd
Stallion. Stile would have to do that himself, as the Blue
Adept. In the informal but rigorous hierarchy of this
world, herd-leaders, pack-leaders, tribe-leaders and Adepts
were roughly equivalent, though the ultimate power lay




6                      Blue Adept

with the Adepts. Stile would deal with the Herd Stallion as
an equal.

First he had to settle things at the Blue Demesnes. Stile
talked with his human bodyguard from the other frame,
Hulk. Hulk was as big as Stile was small: a towering mass
of muscle, expert in all manner of physical combat but not,
despite the assumption of strangers, stupid.

"It is necessary that I leave this castle for a day or so,"
Stile told him. "I must negotiate with the unicorn Herd
Stallion, and I cannot summon him here."

"That's for sure," Hulk agreed. "He never did have
much of a liking for you. Uh, for thee. I'd better go with
thee. That unicorn is one tough character."

"Nay, friend. I am in no danger from the unicorns. It is
the Lady Blue I worry about. I wish thee to guard her in
mine absence, lest my nameless enemy strike at me
through her. Thou hast not magic—at least, thou hast not
practiced it; but if no others know I am gone there should
be no hostile spells. Against else, thy skills suffice as well as
mine."

Hulk made a gesture of acquiescence. "She is surely
worth guarding."

"Yes. She maintained the Blue Demesnes after her lord,
mine alternate self, was murdered. Without her help I
could not fill this office of Adept. I have the power of
magic, but lack experience. I am reminded daily of this."
Stile smiled wryly, remembering how the Lady Blue had
just set him straight about Neysa. "And—"

"And she is an extraordinarily attractive woman," Hulk
finished. "A magnet for mischief."

"Mine alternate self had excellent taste."

"That's one thing I don't quite understand yet. If only a
person whose double in the other frame is dead can cross
the curtain that separates one frame from the other, what
about me? Do I have an alternate self here who died?"

Stile considered. "Thy tenure in the other frame of Pro-
ton was for twenty years. Was thy family there before
thee?"

"No. I came at age fifteen for my enlistment. My time
would have been up in a few more months. My family

Blue Adept                      7

never set foot on Planet Proton. They live fifteen light
years away."

"So thy existence on this planet stems only from thy
tenure as a serf," Stile concluded. "Thou hast no natural
existence in this other frame of Phaze. There is no alter-
nate self to fill thy place in the alternate scheme. So thou
art free to cross the curtain."

"So I was not murdered," Hulk concluded. "That's a
relief."

Stile smiled. "Who could murder thee? Thou couldst
pulp any normal man with the grip of one hand."

"Except thee, when we played the Game."

"The fortunes of chance," Stile said. "How could I
match thee, in fair combat?"

Hulk laughed good-naturedly. 'Tease me not, little
giant. Thy stature is as mine, in martial arts."

"In mine own weight-class," Stile qualified. It was good
to talk with someone who understood Stile's home-world
and the Game.

They started off within the hour. Stile played his har-
monica, accumulating his magic, then sang one of the
spells he had worked out: "By the power of magic vested
in me, make me blank so none can see." He was unable to
heal himself or cure himself of illness, but he could change
his aspect before other people. He held up his hand, then
waved it before his face: nothing. He was invisible.

Neysa, of course, knew him by smell and sound. She
was not spooked. "This way," he explained, "it will not be
obvious that I am departing."

"A watcher could see that the mare carries a burden,"
the Lady pointed out.

"That's right," Stile agreed, surprised. He considered a
moment, then sang: "By the power of magic vested in me,
make me as light as I can be." He felt the weight of his
body dissipate. "Excellent."

Both Hulk and the Lady looked perplexed. Stile laughed.
"I shall answer thy questions in turn. Lady, thou knowest
by my voice that I remain standing on the floor; how is it
that I do not float to the ceiling? Because my spell is very




8                      Blue Adept

similar to the last, and since no spell may be used twice in
succession, much of its force was abated. I am not as light
as I can be; my weight is perhaps a Efth normal. About
twenty pounds, or a trifle more. Hulk, how is it that I do
not glow like the sun, since that is also a meaning of the
term I used, 'light'? Because my words only vocalize what
is in my mind, and my mind provided the definition of my
terms. Had I wished to light brightly, despite already being
invisible, I could have used the same spell, shifting only my
mental intent, and it would have worked that way."

"Methinks Stile likes magic," Hulk muttered. "Person-
ally, I do not believe in it."

"Else mightest thou be Adept too," Stile said, laughing
to show the humor, though he suspected there was some
truth in it. Every person could do some magic, but few
could do strong magic. Stile's own magic talent was re-
flected in the science frame of Proton as considerable abil-
ity in other things, such as the Game, and Hulk was almost
as capable there. Hulk might be able to learn to be a
magician, if he ever cared to try. Perhaps there were many
others who could be similarly competent at magic, if they
only believed they could and worked to perfect their tech-
niques. But only one person in perhaps a thousand be-
lieved, so there were very few Adepts. Of course, the estab-
lished Adepts ruthlessly eliminated any developing rivals,
so it was safer to opt out of that arena entirely. The enmity
of an Adept was a terrible thing.

Stile bid his final farewells, mounted Neysa, needing no
saddle or bridle, and they joined Clip. The two unicorns
trotted briskly out the gate. To an observer it would seem
Clip was conducting his sibling to the breeding site, as
required. The little bit of weight Neysa carried hardly
made a difference.

It was good to travel with his unicorn again. Stile was
not sure whether he could transport himself magically
from place to place. If that came under the heading of
changing his aspect before others, then probably he could;

if instead it came under the heading of healing or changing
himself, then he probably could not. So far he had deemed
it expedient not to experiment; magic gone wrong could be

Blue Adept                     9

fatal. So he needed transportation, and Neysa was the best
he could ask for. She had been his first steed in this magic
frame, and his first true friend. His love of horses had
translated instantly to unicorns, for these creatures were
horse-^us: plus a musical hom that was also a devastating
weapon; plus special gaits and acrobatic abilities beyond the
imagination of any horse; plus human intelligence; plus the
ability to change shape. Yes, the unicorn was the creature
Stile had been searching tor all his life without realizing it
until he met one.

Neysa, in girl-form, had become his lover, before he had
met the Lady Blue and realized that his ultimate destiny
had to lie with his own kind. There had been some trouble
between Neysa and the Lady Blue at first; but now as oath-
friend to the Blue Adept, the unicorn needed no further
reassurance. In this magic frame, friendship transcended
mere male-female relations, and an oath of friendship was
the most binding commitment of all.

It was ironic that now that Neysa could achieve her
fondest wish—to have her own foal—that oath of friend-
ship interfered. Neysa's logic was probably correct; Stile
did need her to protect him from the pitfalls of this barely
familiar world until he could deal with his secret enemy.
Unicorns were immune to most magic; only Adept-class
spells could pass their threshold. Stile had reason to believe
his enemy was an Adept; his own Adept magic, buttressed
by the protective ambience of the unicorn, should safe-
guard him against even that level. As the Lady Blue had
pointed out, the original Blue Adept had not had a unicorn
to guard him, and that might have made the difference. He
really did need Neysa.

They moved into a canter, then a full gallop as the two
unicorns warmed up. Clip and Neysa ran in perfect step,
playing their horns. She took the soprano theme on her
harmonica, he the alto on his saxophone. It was another
lovely duet, in counterpoint, augmented by the strong
cadence of their hooves. Stile wished he could join in, but
he had to preserve his anonymity, just in case they were
being observed. There were baleful things lurking in these
peaceful forests and glades; the unicorns' familiarity with




10 Blue Adept

the terrain and reputation as fighters made the landscape
become as peaceful as it seemed. But there was no sense
setting up the Blue Adept as a lure for trouble.

Clip knew the way. The unicorn herd grazed wherever
the Herd Stallion decreed, moving from pasture to pasture
within broad territorial limits. Other herds grazed other
territories; none of them intruded on these local demesnes.
Human beings might think of this as the region of the Blue
Adept, but animals thought of it as the region of this
particular herd. Werewolves and goblins and other crea-
tures also occupied their niches, each species believing it-
self to be the dominant force. Stile made it a point to get
along as well as he could with all creatures; such detente
was much more important here in the frame of Phaze than
it was in any nonmagical frame. And he genuinely re-
spected those other creatures. The werewolves, for exam-
ple, had helped him to discover his own place here, and the
entire local pack was oath-friends with Neysa.

They galloped west across the terrain where Stile had
first encountered Neysa; it was a spot of special signifi-
cance for them both. He reached around her neck to give
her an invisible hug, and she responded by twitching ear
back and rippling her skin under his hands as though shak-
ing off a fly. Secret communication, inexpressibly precious.

To the south was the great Purple Mountain range; to
the north the White Mountain range. There was surely a
great deal more to Phaze than this broad valley, but Stile
had not yet had occasion to see it. Once he had dealt with
his enemy and secured his position, he intended to do some
wider explorations. Who could guess what wonders might
lie beyond these horizons?

They moved west for two hours, covering twenty miles.
This frame used the archaic, magic-ridden units of mea-
surement, and Stile was still schooling himself in them.
Twenty miles was roughly thirty-two kilometers in his
more familiar terms. Stile could have covered a similar
distance in similar time himself, for he was among other
things a runner of marathons. But for him it would have
meant a great effort, depleting his resources for days; for
these animals it was merely pleasant light exercise. Uni-

Blue Adept                    11

corns could travel twice this speed, sustained, when they
had to, and faster yet for shorter distances.

Now the sun was descending, getting in their eyes. It was
time to graze. Unicorns, like horses, were not simple run-
ning machines; they had to spend a good deal of their time
eating. Stile could have conjured grain for them, but actu-
ally they preferred to find their own, being stubbornly in-
dependent beasts, and they rested while grazing. Neysa
slowed, found a patch of bare rock, and relieved herself in
the equine manner at its fringe. This covered any sound
Stile might make as he dismounted. Then she wandered
on, grazing the rich grass, ignoring him though she knew
exactly where he was. She was very good at this sort of
thing; no observer would realize that an invisible man was
with her, and the rock concealed any footprints he made.

Stile had brought his own supplies, of course; the Lady
Blue had efficiently seen to that. No sense requiring him to
make himself obvious by performing unnecessary magic to
fetch food, apart from the general caution against wasting
one-shot spells. He would sit on the rock and eat, quietly.

Stile levered himself down, careful not to put strain on
his knees. Knees, as he had learned the hard way, did not
readily heal. Magic might repair them, but he could not
operate on himself and did not as yet trust the task to any
other Adept. Suppose the Adept he asked happened to be
the one who wanted to kill him? He could get along; his
knees only hurt when flexed almost double. He could still
walk, run and ride comfortably. His former abilities as an
acrobat had suffered, but there was still a great deal he
could do without flexing his knees that far.

After grazing, Neysa came to the edge of the rock and
stood snoozing. Stile mounted her, as she had intended,
and slept on her back. She was warm and safe and smelled
pleasantly equine, and there was hardly a place he would
have preferred to sleep—unless it were in the arms of the
Lady Blue. That, however, was a privilege he had not yet
earned, and might never earn. The Lady was true to her
real husband. Stile's double, though he was dead, and in no
way did she ever mistake Stile for that other man.




12 Blue Adept

Next morning they were off again. They cantered gently
until noon, when they spied the herd. It was grazing on a
broad slope leading down to an extensive swamp. Beyond
that swamp. Stile remembered, lay the palace of the Ora-
cle, who answered one and only one question for any per-
son, in that person's life. The Oracle had advised Stile to
"Know thyself"—and despite the seeming unhelpfulness of
it, that had indeed been the key to his future. For that self
he had come to know was the Blue Adept.

A lookout unicorn blew a trumpet blast, and the mem-
bers of the herd lifted their heads, then trotted together to
form a large semicircle open toward the two approaching
unicorns. Perceiving that formidable array of horns. Stile
was glad he was not approaching as an enemy. Neysa had
drilled him in the use of his rapier by fencing with her
horn, and he had come to appreciate what a deadly
weapon it could be. This was another respect in which
unicorns were fundamentally different from horses: they
were armed—more properly, horned—and were as likely
to attack as to flee. No sensible tiger, for example, would
attempt to pounce on a unicorn.

They trotted into the open cup of the semicircle. The
Herd Stallion stood in the center, a magnificent specimen
of equine evolution. His body was pearly gray deepening
into black legs, his mane and tail were silver, and his head
golden. He stood some eighteen hands tall, and was splen-
didly muscled. His horn was a glinting, spiral marvel: truly
a shaft to be reckoned with. He played a melodic ac-
cordion chord on it, and the circle closed in behind the
new arrivals.

Stile felt his weight increasing. He saw his arms before
him. His spells of lightness and invisibility were abating,
though he had not terminated them.

The Stallion snorted. Clip and Neysa hastily spun about
and retreated to the rim. Stile sprang to the ground before
the Stallion. Stile was now fully solid and visible.

The Stallion shifted to man-form. He was huge and
muscular, though not to Hulk's extent. He had a short
horn in his forehead. "Welcome to the Herd Demesnes, 0
Blue Adept," he said. "To what do I owe the dubious
pleasure of this encounter?"

Blue Adept                    13

So the closing of the unicorn circle nullified even the
spells of an Adept! Stile's magic could prevail over a single
unicorn, but not over the full herd—except in special
cases. Of course his two spells were now a day old and
must have weakened with time and use, since no spell was
eternal. Still, the effect was worth noting. Stile was not in
danger from hostile magic here, because the unicorn ring
would also nullify the spells of any enemy Adept. He re-
tained the basic privacy of his mission. "A greeting, Stal-
lion. I come to negotiate."

The man-Stallion put three fingers to his mouth and
blew another chord that still sounded like an accordion.
Two unicorns trotted in, supporting a structure on their
horns. They set it down and retreated. It was a table fash-
ioned of old unicorn horns, with attached seats. It was
surely far more valuable than ivory, for much of the magic
of unicorns was associated with their horns.

The Stallion sat, gesturing Stile to do the same. "What
has an Adept to negotiate with a simple animal like me?"

Stile realized this was not going to be easy. The Herd
Stallion was not partial to him, since Stile had embarrassed
the creature in the course of their first encounter. He
would have to explain carefully. "Thou knowest I was
murdered not long ago."

"Thou hast no need to negotiate for recognition of thy
status or right to thy Demesnes," the Stallion said, sur-
prised. "We honor the way that is. Only this herd and
Kurrelgyre's werewolf pack know thou art not the original
Adept. We accept thee in lieu, since thy magic is equivalent
and thou'rt a being of integrity, as are we. No news of thy
condition has escaped the herd."

Stile smiled. "It is not that. Sire. I have not made a
secret of my status. It is that I must secure my position and
avenge my murder."

"Indubitably."

"I believe it is an enemy Adept I seek. Therefore I must
approach the matter cautiously, and trust myself only to
my most reliable companion. That, of course, is mine oath-
friend Neysa. Therefore—"

"Now I chew on thy gist. A gravid mare would not be fit
for such excursion."

14 Blue Adept Blue Adept 15

"Exactly. I therefore seek a postponement of her breed-
ing, until my mission is done."

The Stallion frowned. "She has missed two seasons—"

"Because she was excluded from the herd—because of
her color," Stile said grimly. "Her color has not changed."

"Ah, but her status has! She has connections she lacked
before. The animals of my herd have taken a fancy to her,
and the wolves of the pack we oft have fought no longer
attack, because of her. In all the herds of all the valleys of
Phaze, none save her is steed to an Adept."

"Steed and friend," Stile said. "A friendship well
earned."

"Perhaps. In any event, that makes up for her deficiency
of—"

"Deficiency?" Stile demanded ominously, reaching for
his harmonica. He had intended to keep this civil, but this
was a sore point.

The Stallion considered. They were within the unicorn
circle, but it had not been proven whether that would stop
a newly fashioned spell performed in the heat of the Blue
Adept's ire. No creature insulted an Adept, or anything
dear to an Adept, carelessly. The Stallion retreated half a
step, figuratively. "Shall we say, her color pleases me now,
and what pleases me shall not be cause for comment by
any other unicorn."

"An excellent statement," Stile agreed, putting away his
instrument. He had discovered that one unicorn seldom
objected to praise or defense of another. It would be be-
neath the Herd Stallion's dignity to stud an inferior mare.
"Her presence at my side pleases me now," Stile continued.
"Who in thy herd can travel the flying league faster than
she?"

The Stallion raised his human eyebrow in an elegant
gold arch. "Who besides me, thou meanest?"

Now Stile had to back off diplomatically. "Of course. I
meant among mares—"

"I concede that for her size—"

"Is aught amiss with her size?" This was another power-
ploy, for Neysa was no smaller among unicorns than Stile
was among men.

"It is a serviceable size. I am certain she will bear a fine
foal."

They were sparring, getting nowhere. The Stallion still
intended to breed Neysa.

"I think thou didst not entirely withstand the oath of
friendship," Stile remarked. "The mare is more attractive
to thee than she was before."

The Stallion shrugged. It had been Stile's potent spell
that caused the other unicorns and the werewolves to swear
friendship with Neysa, and the Stallion did not like to
admit to being similarly affected. Yet he was proof against
such gibes. "Perhaps. But here thy power may yield to
mine, even as mine paled before thine in thy Demesnes."

Stile had set the unicorn back, during that prior en-
counter. Now the Stallion was having his satisfaction. One
offended a creature of power at one's own risk, even if one
had the power of an Adept. "I need Neysa, this season.
How may I obtain postponement of the breeding?"

"This is a matter of honor and pride. Thou must contest
with me in mine own manner, weapon to weapon. An thou
dost best me in fair combat, thou winnest thy plea. An
thou dost fail—"

Stile had a notion how savage such an encounter could
be. "If?" he prompted.

The Stallion smiled. "An thou dost fail, I win mine. We
contest not for life here, but only for the proper priority of
our claims. I claim the right to breed my mares as I see fit
and in mine own time; thou claimest the bond of friend-
ship to this mare. It ill behooves us two to strive against
each other on any except a civil basis."

"Agreed." Stile certainly had no need of a life and death
combat here! He had hoped a simple request would suffice,
but evidently he had been naive. "Shall we proceed to it
now?"

The Stallion affected amazement. "By no means. Adept!
I would not have it bruited about that I forced my suit
against one who was ill-prepared. Protocol requires that a
suitable interval elapse. Shall we say a fortnight hence, at
the Unolympics?"

"The Unolympics?"




16

Blue Adept

Blue Adept

17

"The annual sportive event of our kind, parallel to the
Canolympics of the werewolves, the Vampolympics of the
batmen, the Gnomolympics of—"

"Ah, I see. Is Neysa to compete therein?"

The Stallion evidently hadn't considered that. "She has
not before, for reasons we need not discuss. This year I
believe she would be welcome."

"And no apology to be made for any nuance of color or
size that any less discriminating creatures might note?"

"None, of course."

Stile did not like the delay, but also knew he had no
serious chance against the Stallion, who looked to weigh a
full ton, was in vibrant health, and had quite a number of
victory notches on his horn. The creature was in fact pro-
viding him time to reconsider, so that Stile could change
his mind and yield the issue without suffering humiliation
in the field. It was a decent gesture, especially when cou-
pled with the agreement to let Neysa enter the general
competition if she wanted to. Stile knew she could perform
the typical unicorn maneuvers as well as any in the herd,
and this would give her the chance to prove it at last. She
had suffered years of shame; now she could publicly vindi-
cate herself. "A fortnight," he agreed.

The Stallion extended his hand, and Stile took it. His
own hand was engulfed by the huge and calloused extrem-
ity with hooflike nails. Stile fought off his automatic re-
sentment and feeling of inadequacy. He was not inade-
quate, and the Stallion was being honorable. It was a fair
compromise.

The Stallion shifted back to his natural form. He blew
another chord on his horn. The unicorn circle opened. Stile
began to feel lighter. His body faded. His spells were re-
turning, as the anti-magic power of the unicorns diffused.
That also was worth noting: his spells had never ceased
operating, they had merely been damped out temporarily.

Neysa stepped forward hesitantly. "The Stallion invites
thee to participate in the Unolympics in two weeks," Stile
told her as he mounted.

She was so surprised she almost shifted into girl-form,
which would have been awkward for him at the moment.

She blew a querying note, hardly daring to believe the
news. But the Stallion made a chord of affirmation.

"And I will go there too, to meet the Stallion on the field
of honor," Stile added, as though this were an after-
thought.

This time she did change shape. Stile found himself rid-
ing the girl-form piggy-back, his legs around her tiny waist.
Hastily he dismounted. "Nay—" she said.

"Neigh indeedl If I weren't invisible and featherlight,
thou wouldst have been borne to the ground by my weight
in most indelicate fashion. Get back to thy proper form,
marel"

Hastily she complied. He remounted, and she galloped
away from the herd. It seemed that none of the unicorns
had noticed anything—until one mocking saxophone peal
of music sounded. Clip had been unable to hold back his
mirth any longer.

Neysa fired back an angry concatenation of notes, then
galloped harder. They fairly flew across the slope. Soon
they were well away. "Just for that, thou shouldst make
him participate in the Unolympics too," Stile suggested,
and she snorted affirmatively.

But now his own problem came to the fore. "Maybe I
can ask the Oracle how to handle the Stallion," Stile mused
aloud. But that was no good; he had used up his single
Oracular query before, in the process of discovering his
Phaze identity.

"One other thing bothers me," Stile remarked after a bit,
as they galloped across the lovely plain. "Why is the Herd
Stallion being so polite about it? He could easily have
insisted that I fight him today, and he surely would have
won. He has no special brief for me, yet he treated me with
extraordinary fairness."

Neysa veered to approach an island copse of oat trees.
Safely inside the tangle of growth, she made a shrug that
hinted he should dismount. When he did, she shifted to
girl-form again. "It is thy spell," she said. "All the herd is
oath-friend to me, and if he took me unfairly, humiliating
thee, they would turn against him."

Stile struck his head with the heel of his unseen hand.




18                     Blue Adept

"Of course! Even a king must consider how far his subjects
can be pushed." So his magic had indeed affected the Stal-
lion, albeit circuitously, by affecting those the Stallion had

to deal with.

Neysa stood, not yet shifting back, looking at him ex-
pectantly though of course her eyes could not focus on
him. Stile took her in his arms. "I believe these are more
words than thou has spoken to me in thy life before," he

said, and kissed her.

He turned her loose, but still she waited. He knew why,

yet could not act. They had been lovers, and she remained,
in girl-form, the nicest and prettiest girl he knew, and he
was not turned off by the knowledge that she was in fact a
unicorn. But their relationship had changed when he met
the Lady Blue. He found himself not constitutionally
geared to have more than one lover at a time in a given
frame. The irony was that he did not have the Lady Blue
as lover or anything else, though he wanted everything else.
If companionship, loyalty, and yes, sex sufficed, Neysa was

his resource.

And there it was. His aspirations had made a dimen-
sional expansion. He was not certain that he could ever
have all of what he wanted, yet he had to proceed as if it
were possible. And he had to explain this to Neysa without

hurting her feelings.

"What we had before was good," he said. "But now I

must look forward to a female of mine own kind, ]ust as
thou must look forward to the breeding and foal that only
a male of thine own kind can give thee. Our friendship
endures, for it is greater than this; it has merely changed its
nature. Had we any continuing sexual claim on each other,
it would complicate my friendship to thy foal, when it
comes, or thine to my baby, if ever it comes."

Neysa looked startled. It was almost as if her human
ears perked forward. She had not thought of this aspect.
To her, friendship had been merely a complete trusting
and giving, uncomplicated by interacting relationships of
others. Stile hoped she was able to understand and accept

the new reality.

Then she leaned forward to kiss him again, locating him

with uncanny accuracy—or was his spell weakening?—and

Blue Adept                    19

as their lips touched, she shifted back to equine form. Stile
found himself kissing the unicorn. He threw his arms
about her neck and yanked at her lustrous black mane,
laughing.

Then he mounted, hugged her again, and rode on. It was
all right.

CHAPTER 2

Lady

Back at the Blue Demesnes, Stile uninvoked the spells,
became visible and full-weight, and turned Neysa out to
graze. Then he talked to Hulk and the Lady Blue.

"I must meet the Stallion in ritual battle a fortnight
hence," Stile said. "At their Unolympic celebration. This is
for honor, and for the use of Neysa this season—yet I
know not how I can match him, and am bound to suffer

humiliation,"

"Which is what he wants," Hulk said wisely. "Not thy
blood, but thy pride. He wants to take a thing of value
from the Blue Adept, in public, not by theft or by techni-
cality but by right."

The Lady's blue eyes flashed. In this frame, it was lit-
eral: a momentary glare of light came from them. She was
no Adept, but she did have some magic of her own. Stile
remained new enough to Phaze to be intrigued by such
little effects. "No creature humiliates the Blue Adepti" she

cried.

"I am not really he, as the Stallion knows," Stile re-
minded her unnecessarily.

"Thou hast the image and the power and the office," she
said firmly. "It is not thy fault that thou'rt not truly he.
For the sake of the Demesnes, thou canst not let the uni-
corn prevail in this manner."




20                     Blue Adept

The preservation of the Blue Demesnes was of course
what this was all about, to her mind. Stile was merely the
figurehead. "I am open to suggestions," he said mildly. "I
would ask the Oracle how I might prevail, had I not ex-
pended my question in the course of achieving my present
status."

"The Oracle," Hull; said. "It answers one question for
any person?"

"Only one," Stile agreed.

"Then I could ask it!"

"Thou shouldst not waste thine only question on a con-
cern not thine," Stile said. "Ask instead about thine own
future here in Phaze. There may be an ideal situation
awaiting thee, if thou dost but inquire as to its where-
abouts."

"Nay, I want to do it," Hulk insisted. "Neysa is my
friend too, and it was thou who showed me how to cross
the curtain into this marvelous and not-to-be-believed
world. The least I can do is help thee in this matter."

"Let him go," the Lady murmured.

Stile spread his hands. "If thou truly dost feel this way,
go with my blessing. Hulk. I shall be in thy debt. I will
arrange for thee a magic conveyance—"

"Nay, I can walk."

"Not that far, and return in time to be of much help. I
need to know how to prepare as soon as possible. If I must
master a special skill—"

"Okay," Hulk agreed. "But I'm not good at riding uni-
corns."

The Lady smiled, and there seemed to be a momentary
glow in the room. "Only two I know of have ever ridden a
unicorn, except at the unicorn's behest: my lord Stile and
I. The Adept will summon for thee a traveling carpet—"

"Oh, no! Not one of those Hying things! I'd be con-
stantly afraid its magic would poop out right over a chasm
or near a nest of dragons. I'm not the lightest of creatures,
thou knowest. Can't we find a motorcycle or something?"

"A motorcycle?" the Lady asked blankly.

"A device of the other frame," Stile explained. "A kind
of traveling wheel, rather like a low-flying carpet. It is an

Blue Adept                    21

idea. Science is inoperative here, yet I might fashion a
magic wagon."

They went about it, and in the end Hulk had his motor-
cycle: two wooden wheels, a steering stick, a seat, a wind-
shield. No motor, no fuel, no controls, for it was motivated
by magic. Hulk had only to give it key verbal commands
and steer it. Both men were clinically interested in the
construction, determining how far magic would go, and
where the line between functional magic and nonfunctional
science was drawn.

Hulk boarded the magic machine and rode away in a
silent cloud of dust. A flock of grouse took off, startled by
the apparition. "I just hope he follows the map and doesn't
drive into a chasm or meet a monster," Stile said. "He
might hurt the monster."

"Nay, Hulk is kind to creatures," the Lady said, over-
looking the humor. "He is a gentle man, under all that
muscle. A clever and honorable man."

"True. That is one reason I brought him here."

The Lady rose and turned about, her blue gown flinging
out sedately. Every motion she made was eleganti "Now
we are alone, I would talk to thee. Adept."

Stile tried to still his suddenly racing pulse. She could
not mean she had had a change of heart about him; he
remained an imposter in her eyes. Her loyalty to her true
love was a thing he envied and longed for. Should such
loyalty ever be oriented on him ... "Any time," he agreed.

They went to her apartment, where she bade him be
seated in a comfortable blue chair. She maintained the blue
insignia of these Demesnes with loving determination. It
was a wonder, he thought with fond irritation, that she did
not dye her fair hair blue. "Thy friend Hulk told me of thy
life in Proton-frame," she said. "I bade him do it during
thine absence, as it behooves me to know of thee."

Pumping Hulk for information: a natural pastime. "I
would have told thee, hadst thou asked." But of course she
had wanted to obtain a reasonably objective view. What
was she leading up to?

"Now I know, from that third party, that thou art much
the way my husband was. A man of great honor and skill,




22                     Blue Adept

yet one who has suffered abuse because of size. Neysa, too,
has told me of thy qualities."

"Neysa talks too much," Stile muttered. It was a joke;

the unicorn was a marvel of brevity.

"Thou art a good man, and I wrong thee by mine aloof-
ness. Yet must I am the way I am. I feel it only fair to
acquaint thee with the way I was."

"I do not seek to force information from thee. Lady,"
Stile said quickly. But he really wanted to hear anything
she wanted to tell him.

"Then it comes to thee unforced," she said, with a fleet-
ing smile that melted his heart. Could she, could she really
be starting to soften toward him? No, she was not; she was
merely doing what she felt was right, giving him necessary
background.

Stile listened to her narration, closing his eyes, absorbing
her dulcet tones, picturing her story in full living color and
feeling as it unfolded.

Long and long has our realm of Phaze endured apart
from other worlds, from that time when first it separated
from the science frame of mythology. Three hundred
years, while our kind slowly spread across the continent
and discovered the powers that existed. The animal king-
doms too expanded and warred with each other and found
their niches, the dragons to the south, the snow demons to
the north, the giants to the far west and so on. Soon the
most talented among the Human Folk became adept at
magic, restricting others from its practice except in special-
ized ways, so that no more than ten full magicians existed
at any one time. Only talent distinguished them, not honor
or personal merit, and any who aspired to Adept status but
was less apt at sorcery than the masters were destroyed by
the established magicians. Today the common folk eschew
all save elementary enchantments, and associate not with
Adepts; likewise the animals keep largely to themselves.

I grew up in a village of fifteen families to the east, near
the coast, far removed from strong magic except the nat-
ural spells of the deepwoods. I thought I might marry a
local boy, but my folks wanted me to wait, to meet a wider
range before deciding. I realized not their reason, then;

Blue Adept                     23

they knew me to be fair, and thought I might waste myself
on some farmer's boy or fisherman if I chose quickly. Had
they known whom I was destined to marry, they would
have thrown me at the nearest pigherder! But they knew
not that an Adept sought me, and we were well off, with
good fields and animals, so that there seemed no need to go
early into matrimony. My father is something of a healer,
whether by nature or effort I know not, and I am too. We
helped the ill or injured animals of the village, never mak-
ing show of our talent, and never did the dire attention of a
hostile Adept focus on us for that.

When I was nineteen the lads and lasses of mine age had
already mostly been taken. But I loved the animals, and
felt no loss. It has been said that the women most attrac-
tive to men are the ones who need them least, and so it
seemed to be in my case. Then my horse's foal wandered
too far afield, returning not to our stable. I called her
Snowflake, for her color was white as snow though her
spirit was hot as peppercorn. Ever was she wont to take
that extra step, and this time she was lost. I rode out on my
good mare Starshine, Snowflake's dam, searching, search-
ing, but the prints we followed led into the deepwoods.
Then I knew in my heart that Snowflake was truly in
trouble, but I was nineteen and I loved that foal, and I
went into that jungle though I knew it was folly.

And in that wood I came upon moss that shrouded
whole trees and reached out for me, all green and hissing,
and sand that sucked at my horse's feet, and there were
shapes and shadows looming ever-near and nearer, and I
was afraid.

Then did I know I must turn back, that Snowflake was
doomed, and I would be in dire strait too an I not give over
this hopeless task presently. But still I adored my foal, as I
adore all horses, and the thought of Snowflake alone and in
straits in that wilderness tormented me, and I made pretexts
one after another to quest beyond yet another tree or yet
another looming rock. I thought I heard a tremulous neigh;

gladly I dismounted and ran, but there was nothing, only
a branch creaking in the rising wind.

A storm was coming, and that meant mischief, for in
our region the trolls come out in foul weather, yet I dallied




24                     Blue Adept

foolishly afoot. This time I was sure I heard a plaintive
neigh. I pursued it, but again found naught; it was a will-o'-
the-wisp.

Then the brooding sky let down and in a moment I was
drenched with the chill spillage of the heavens. A crack of
thunder spooked Starshine, and she bolted for home, for-
getting me, nor could I blame her. I fled for home myself,
shivering with more than cold, but the reaching brambles
tore at my skirts and the gusts buffeted me so harshly I
could not see. I cried out, hoping to be heard at home, but
this was futile in the fury of this storm.

It was the trolls who barkened, and when I saw the
grim apparitions I screqro«k4yi*h..tHuch-heightened force.
But the gross monsters caught hold of me, all gape and
callus, and I knew I was done for. I had not saved the life
of my pet; I had sacrificed mine own.

A troll clutched me by the hair, dangling me above the
ground. I was now too terrified to scream. I feared for
death, assuredly; more I feared for that which would surely
precede it, for the troll folk ever lust after human folk.

Then came the beat of hooves, approaching. Now did I
manage to cry out again, faintly, hoping Starshine was
returning, perhaps ridden by my father. And the beat came
nigh, and it was no horse I knew, but a great blue stallion
with mane of purple and hooves like blue steel, and on it a
manchild in blue—

("The Blue Adept!" Stile exclaimed, interrupting her.
The Lady nodded soberly, and resumed her narrative.)

I knew not who he was, then. I thought him a lad, or
perhaps one of the Little Folk. I cried out to him, and he
brandished a blue sword, and the trolls gibbered back into
the shadows. The small youth came for me, and when the
trolls saw what he sought, they let me go. I dropped to the
ground, unhurt in body, and scrambled toward him.

The lad put down a hand to help me mount behind him,
and I did, and then the blue stallion leapt with such power
the trolls scattered in fear and I near slid off his rear, but
that I clung desperately to my rescuer.

It seemed but a moment we were out of the wood,
pounding toward our village homestead. The rain still fell;

Blue Adept                     25

I shivered with chill and my dress clung chafingly to me,
but the boy seemed not affected. He brought me to mine
own yard and halted the stallion without ever inquiring the
way. I slid down, all wet and relieved and girlishly grateful.
"Young man," I addressed him, in my generosity granting
him the benefit of a greater age than I perceived in him.
"Thou'rt soaked. Pray come in to our warm hearth—"

But he shook his head politely in negation, speaking no
word. He raised a little hand in parting, and suddenly was
off into the storm. He had saved my honor and my life, yet
dallied not for thanks.

I told my family of mine experience as I dried and
warmed within our home before the merry fire. Of my
foolish venture into the wood, the storm, the trolls, and of
the boy on the great blue stallion who rescued me. I
thought they would be pleased that I had been thus spared
the consequence of my folly, but they were horrified. "That
is a creature of magic!" my father cried, turning pale.

"Nay, he is but a boy, inches shorter than I," I pro-
tested. "Riding his father's charger, hearing my cry—"

"Did he speak thus?"

I admitted reluctantly that the blue lad had spoken
naught, and that was no good sign. Yet in no way had the
stranger hurt me or even threatened me; he had rescued me
from certain horror. My parents quelled their doubts, glad
now to have me safe.

But the foal was still missing. Next day I went out again
to search—but this time my father went with me, carrying
a stout cudgel. I called for Snowflake, but found her not. It
was instead the blue lad who answered, riding across the
field. I saw by sunlight that the horse was not truly blue; it
was his harness that had provided the cast. Except perhaps
for the mane, that shone iridescently. "What spook of eve-
ning goes abroad in the bright day?" I murmured gladly,
teasing my father, for apparitions fear the sunlight.

My father hailed the youth. "Art thou the lad who res-
cued my daughter yesterday?"

"I am," the lad replied. And thereby dispelled another
doubt, for few monsters are able to converse in the tongues
of man.

"For that my deepest thanks," my father quoth, relieved.




26

Blue Adept

Blue Adept

27

"Who art thou, and where is thy residence, that thou com-
est so conveniently at our need?"

"I was of the village of Bront, beyond the low midvalley
hills," the lad replied.

"That village was overrun by trolls a decade pasti" my
father cried.

"Aye. I alone escaped, for that the monsters overlooked
me when they ravaged. Now I ride alone, my good horse
my home."

"But thou must have been but a baby theni" my father
protested. 'Trolls eat babies Erst—"

"I hid," the lad said, frowning. "I saw my family eaten,
yet I lacked the courage to go out from my hiding place
and battle the trolls. I was a coward. The memory is harsh,
and best forgotten."

"Of course," my father said, embarrassed. "Yet no one
would term it cowardice for a child to hide from ravaging
trollsl Good it is to remember that nature herself had ven-
geance on that particular band of trolls, for that lightning
struck the village and destroyed them all in fire."

"Aye," the lad murmured, his small face grim. "All save
one troll cub." At that my father looked startled, but the
lad continued: "Thou searches! for the lost foal? May I
assist?"

My father thought to demur, but knew it would draw
blame upon himself if he declined any available help, even
in a hopeless quest. "If thou hast a notion. We know not
where to begin."

"I am on tolerable terms with the wild equines," the lad
said. "If the Lady were to ride with me to the herds and
question those who may know ..."

I was startled to hear myself defined as "Lady," for I
was but a grown girl, and I saw my father was similarly
surprised. But we realized that to a lad as small as this I
might indeed seem mature.

"This is a kind offer," my father said dubiously. "Yet I
would not send two young people on such a quest alone,
and I lack the time myself—"

"Oh, please!" I pleaded, wheedling. "How could harm
come on horseback?" I did not find it expedient to remind
my father that I had gotten into trouble on horseback very

recently, when I dismounted in the wood near the trolls.
"We could range carefully—" Also, I wanted very much to
see the wild horse herds, a thing seldom privileged to vil-
lagers.

"Thy mare is in mourning for her foal," my father said,
finding another convenient objection. "Starshine is in no
condition for such far riding. She knows not thy mission."

I clouded up in my most appealing manner. But before I
spoke, the lad did. "I know the steed for her, sir. It is the
Hinny. The mare of lightest foot and keenest perception
in the wilds. She could sniff out the foal, if any could."

I clapped my hands in that girlish way I had. "Oh, yes!"
I knew nothing about that horse except that a hinny was
the sterile issue of stallion and jenny, most like a mule but
prettier, yet already I was eager to ride her.

My father, more sensible than I, brooded. "A hinny, and
wild. I trust this not. Such crossbreeds bear little good will
to men."

"True," the blue lad said. He never contradicted my
father directly. "But this is not any hinny. She is the
Hinny. She can be bred, but only by my blue stallion.
For that price she will be the best mount anyone could ask.
She is fit and wise in the ways of the wilderness; no
creature durst cross her, not even a troll or dragon. Like
unto a unicorn she is, almost."

My father wavered, for he had a deep respect for good
horses. To encourage his acquiescence, I threatened to cloud
again. I had a certain talent at that, and my father had a
certain weakness for it; oft had we played this little game.
"Canst thou summon this hinny here?" he inquired, tem-
porizing. "I would examine this animal."

The lad put fingers to his mouth and whistled piercingly.
Immediately, it seemed, there was the sound of galloping,
and an animal came. What a creature it wasi She was
shades of gray, lighter on the flanks and withers, darker at
the extremities with a mane of both shades a good yard
long that rippled languorously in the breeze. Her tail, too,
was variegated gray, like carven onyx, and flowed like the
waves of an ocean.

My father, prepared to be skeptical, gaped. "The speed
of that horse!" he breathed. "The lines of heri"




28                     Blue Adept

"Thy daughter will be safe on her," the blue lad assured
him. "What the Hinny cannot defeat she can outrun, ex-
cept for the unicorns, who leave her alone. Once she ac-
cepts the commission, she will guard her rider with her

life."

But my father was already lost. He stared at the Hinny,

the most beautifully structured mare ever to be seen in our
village. I knew he would have given his left hand to own
such a mount. "And she hearkens to thy summons," he

said, awed.

"Nay," the lad demurred quickly. "Only to my stallion."

Then he approached the Hinny and extended his hand,
slowly, as one must do for a strange horse, allowing her to
sniff it. Her ears were angled halfway back, silken gray.
When they tilted forward, reassured, he addressed her
directly. "Hinny, I require a service of thee, for the price

thou knowest."
The mare switched her nacreous tail and lifted her head.

She was by no means large, standing about fifteen hands
tall, but she had a slender elegance that made her classic.
She glanced sidelong at the blue stallion, and it was as if
magic electricity lifted her mane. She was interested.

"A service for a service," my father murmured, in-
trigued. He contemplated the lines of the blue stallion, rec-
ognizing in this creature the very finest of the breed. The

foal of such a union would be special.

"Thou must bear fhis Lady," the blue lad said, indicating
me. "Thou must carry her on her search for her lost foal,
and bring her back safely to her father. I will travel with
thee, assisting. An we find the foal not, but the Lady is

safe, payment will be honored. Agreed?"

"How can a horse comprehend all that?" my father mut-
tered skeptically. But the Hinny surveyed him with such
uncanny certainty that he could not protest further.

The Hinny now oriented on me. I held out my hand and
she smelled it, then sniffed along the length of my arm,
across my shoulder and up to my face. Her muzzle was
gray velvet, her breath warm mist with the sweetness of

cured hay. I loved her that moment.

The Hinny turned back to the blue lad, one ear moving

forward with agreement. My father found himself unable

29

Blue Adept

to protest; he too was enthralled by the mare. And it
seemed but a moment until arrangements were complete
and we were riding out, the Hinny's canter so gentle I
could close my eyes and hardly know we were moving, yet
so swift that the wind was like that of a storm. I had never
before ridden a steed like heri

It seemed but another moment, but when I opened mine
eyes we were miles from my village, proceeding west
toward the interior of the continent where the greatest
magic lay. The groves and dales were passing like the wind.
No horse could maintain such a pace, so smoothly—yet
the Hinny ranged beside the blue stallion, now and then
covertly turning a sleek ear on him; she desired the service
only he could serve. I wondered fleetingly whether it could
be like that for me as well, with only one man destined to
be my husband. Little did I know how close to the truth
that was, and that he was as close to me then as the
stallion to the Hinny.

"Whither do we go?" I asked the lad.

"The wild horses should know where thy foal has
strayed," he replied. "They range widely, but my steed is
searching them out."

"Aye," I said. "But will they not flee at the approach of

our kind?"

He only smiled. Soon we spied a herd, and its stallion
lifted his head toward us, and stomped the ground in warn-
ing. But the blue lad put his two hands to his mouth,
forming a conch, and blew a whistle-note, and at that
signal all the horses relaxed, and remained for our ap-
proach.

"They respond to thy whistle?" I asked, perplexed.

"They know my stallion," he said easily.

So it seemed. The wild stallion was a great buckskin
with dark legs, not as large as the blue stallion. The two
sniffed noses and thereafter politely ignored each other.
The Hinny was ignored from the start; she was not quite
their kind, being half-breed.

The lad dismounted, and I followed. It had been a long,
fast ride, but both of us were excellent riders, and both our
steeds were easy to use. They grazed, for horses are ever
hungry. We passed among the small herd—and strange it




30                     Blue Adept

was to be around these wild horses, who never ordinarily
tolerated the nearness of man. I was in young delight. They
were mostly Ene, healthy mares, with a few foals, but one
among them ailed. The blue lad went to this one, a spindly
colt, and ran his hands over the animal's body, and the
dam watched without interference while I stood amazed.

"What's wrong with him?" I asked, for I could not de-
termine the malady. I, who thought I knew horses.

"Spirit worms," the lad responded absently. "A magical
infestation, common in this region." Then he said to the
colt in a singsong lilt: "Comest thou to me, the worms will
flee." It was nonsense verse, a joke—yet suddenly the colt
perked up, took a step toward the lad, and there was a
ripple in the air as invisible yet ugly somethings wriggled
away. Instantly the colt seemed healthier, and his dam
nickered gratefully. I realized that a little encouragement
was all the colt had needed; he was not really sick, merely
undernourished.

The blue lad approached the herd stallion and said: "We
search for a lost foal, that went astray yesterday. Hast thou
seen it, or dost thou know aught of it?"

The stallion glanced at me as though requiring news
from me, and I said: "It is a filly, only a month old, pure
white and lovely and helpless. I call her Snowflake."

The stallion snorted.

"He says he has not seen the foal," the blue lad said.
"But he knows of one who collects white foals, and found
one in this area, and that is the Snow Horse."

"Where is this Snow Horse?" I asked.

"He knows not, for the Snow Horse ranges far and
associates not with ordinary equines. Only Peg can tell
where he might be now."

"Peg?" I asked, perplexed.

"I will take thee to her."

We remounted our steeds and were off again like the
wind. We ranged south across plains and woods, fording
streams and surmounting hills as if they were nothing. We
passed a young unicorn stallion grazing; he had pretty
green and orange stripes, and his hooves were ebony, and
his horn spiraled pearl. He started up, approaching us, and
I grew nervous, for that the unicorn is to the horse as the

Blue Adept                     31

tiger is to the housecat. But he merely ran beside us, and
then drew ahead, racing us. He wanted to play.

The blue lad smiled, and leaned forward, and the blue
stallion leaped ahead as though he had been merely idling
before, and the Hinny set back her ears and launched
herself after him. Oh, these fine animals loved a racel Now
the ground shot behind in a green blur, and trees passed
like arrows, and I clung to the Hinny's quicksilver mane
for fear I would fall, though her gait remained wonderfully
smooth. We passed the unicorn.

Now the unicorn lengthened his stride and made great
leaps, passing right over bushes and rocks while we had to
go around them. He recovered the lead, flinging his tail up
in a mirthful salute. But again the blue stallion bore down,
and the Hinny's body became like a hawk flying through a
gale, and we pounded out a pace that passed the homed
stallion again. Never had I traveled at such velocityl

A third time the unicorn accelerated, and now his body
was shimmering with heat, and fire blasted from his nos-
trils, and sparks cast up from his hooves, and slowly he
moved ahead of us once more. This time we could not
match him, for that our steeds carried burdens and were
merely physical equines, not magical. Yet had we given
that unicorn a good race, and made him heat before he
bested us. Very few natural horses could do that.

We eased off, cooling, and I patted the Hinny's shoulder.
"Thou'rt the finest mare I ever met," I murmured. "I could
ride with thee forever and never be bored." And so I be-
lieved.

Then we came to the purple slope of the great southern
range of mountains, ascending until the air was rare and
the growing things were stunted. There on a crag was a
huge nest, and in it lay what at first I took to be a mon-
strous bird, for that I saw the feathers on it. Then the
creature stood, perceiving our approach, and spread its
wings—and lo, it was a horse!

"Peg," the blue lad called. "We crave the favor of in-
formation. Wilst thou trade for it?"

Peg launched into the air, circled briefly, spiraled to the
ground and folded her pinions. The white feathers covered
her whole body so that only her legs and tail and head




32                     Blue Adept

projected, and the tail also had feathers that could spread
for aid in navigation in air. I had not before imagined how
large such wings would bel She neighed, her nose flicking
toward the nest.

"Mayst thou have what's best for thy new nest, the lad
said appreciatively, again in that lilt.

Then I noticed what I had not seen before: a pile of
vines, perchance the refuse of some farmer's harvest, too
long and tough to be ground for fodder. Peg went to them
as though she too had only now become aware, tugging
one out with her teeth, delighted. This was ideal fiber for
her nest. She neighed again.

"She says the Snow Horse is moving toward its fastness
in the White Mountains, and will be there by dawn tomor-
row," the lad said. "For us it will be a ride of more than a
day; we shall have to camp the night."

'Thou dost understand the language of horses?" I asked,
remembering how he had seemingly conversed with the stal-
lion of the herd, too. There was so much I knew not,
then!

He nodded. "How could I love them as I do, and not
converse with them? Who is better company than a horse?"
And of course I could not gainsay that.

We mounted and rode north. It was noon, and we had
far to go; we slanted north and west, wending toward the
white range. We halted for an hour when we came across a
grove of apple trees; we fed ourselves and our steeds on
delicious apples. The Hinny ate from my hand, and how I
wished she could be mine for life, but I knew she was only
on loan. I was not sorry this quest was stretching out; I
wanted to save Snowflake, but I wanted also to be a little
longer with the Hinny, and to experience more of the
magic of the interior wilds of Phaze.

In the early afternoon we halted again, for our steeds
had to graze and rest. The blue lad found raspberries grow-
ing on a slope, and a streamlet with freshest water, and
some ripe grain. He gathered dry wood and made a small
fire; from his saddlebag he brought a pot. We boiled the
grain until it was tender. I did not realize then that he had
used magic to facilitate things; the farthest thing from my

Blue Adept                     33

mind was that he could be Adept. He was only, after all, a
boy!

He brought next from his saddlebag—he had a bag
without a saddle, oddly—some material that he formed
into a canopy for me beside the fire. I lay down to sleep
feeling quite safe, for few wild creatures brave the fire, and
the two horses were grazing near.

But at dusk, as I was nodding off, glare-eyed little mon-
sters erupted from a trapdoor in the ground and swarmed
toward me. They were goblins, huge of head and foot,
vicious, out for human flesh. They feared not the fire, for
they used it in their subterranean demesnes. I screamed.

The Hinny was nearest me, for I had been placed in her
care. Now I discovered what that meant. She squealed and
charged, her hooves striking like dubs, each strike crushing
a goblin's head, while I huddled beside the fire in tenor.
The goblins fought her, for they liked equine flesh almost
as well as human; they scrambled up her tail, clung to her
mane, and tried to grab at her feet. There were so manyl I
saw one get on her head, and open its big frog mouth to
clamp its sharp alligator teeth on her sweet soft gray ear—
and suddenly I was on my feet and there, my hands on its
grotesque rat body, hurling it off her and away.

Then the blue stallion arrived, his hooves making the
very ground shudder, and he bellowed a battle-challenge
that nearly blasted the hair from my head and I cowered in
terror though I knew it was not me he fought. The goblins
panicked and fled, the stallion pursuing; where his foot
struck, the broken body of a goblin flew twenty feet across
the flickering night and dropped like a clod of dirt. The
stallion's eyes flashed like blue fire and the snort from his
flaring nostrils was like tempest-wind and the sheen of his
great muscles danced about his body as he plunged and
reared and kicked. In a moment the last living goblin had
vanished down the hole, and the trapdoor clanged shut. The
stallion stomped it again and again until naught save rub-
ble remained. It would be long before the goblins used that
exit again!

I collapsed in reaction. Never in my life had I been so
horrified, except perhaps during the episode of the trolls,
for goblins come not into the villages of the man-folk. The




34 Blue Adept

Hinny came and nuzzled me, and I was ashamed for that
I had let her 5ght while I did naught. But the blue lad told
me: "She thanks thee for casting the goblin from off her
ear; she knows what courage it required of thee for that
goblins terrify young ladies." Then I felt better, though by
no means proud, and resolved to be less squeamish in
future. I stroked my hands over the bruises and scratches
and bites on the Hinny's body, helping to heal them and
abate the discomfort, and she nudged me with that so-soft
nose and everything was nice.

The goblins came not again—and who would have, after
tasting the wrath of the blue stallion? I slept safely until
dawn. The blue lad was up before me, and had found ripe
pears from whence I knew not, and we ate and mounted
and were off again. I thought I might be sore from the
prior day's riding, but the Hinny's gait was so gentle I
suffered not at all. I wondered what the winged horse's gait
was like; what was the cadence of footfalls in air?

In due course we came to the White Mountains that
bound our land ill the north, and ascended their foothills.
The way grew steep, and there was hardly any easing as we
crested ridges and drove on up. For the first time the
Hinny's gait became rough, as she labored to carry me on
swiftly, and even the blue stallion was sweating, his nostrils
flaring and pulsing with the effort. We climbed slopes I
would not have cared to navigate on foot, rising into the
mountain range proper. The air grew chill, and wind came
up, and I gathered my cape about me, shivering.

The blue lad glanced at me. "May I speak bold?" he
inquired melodiously. "Thou art not cold."

"Not cold," I agreed bravely, for I knew that if we
desisted this quest now, never would I find Snowflake, and
evermore would I curse myself for my neglect. And,
strangely, I no longer felt the chill; it was as if my clothing
had become doubly insulative. It was of course his magic,
that I did not recognize. I was so young then, and so
innocenti

We climbed on into the snows, and there in a cave half-
hid in the white we found the lair of the Snow Horse. He
stood there awaiting us expectantly, a fine albino stallion
whose mane and tail resembled glistening icicles and whose

Blue Adept                    35

hooves were so pure white I could hardly tell where they
left off and the packed snow beneath them began.

The lad dismounted and walked to the Snow Horse. I
made to dismount too, but the Hinny swung back her head,
warning me "no" with a backward glance, so I obeyed her
and stayed put. I was learning already that here in the
wilderness the final word was not mine.

In a moment the lad returned. "The Snow Horse did lure
thy foal," he said to me. "He thought her of his kind, for
her color, but when they reached the snow she was cold,
and he knew she was no snow filly and he let her go, never
intending harm to her. But the snow demons came and
took her ere she could return to thee."

"The snow demonsi" I exclaimed, appalled. Never had I
heard good tidings of that ilk.

"Pray we are in time," he said.

"In time?" I asked blankly. "Snowflake is lost forever!
We can not brace snow demons, even if they have not yet
eaten her." I felt the hot tears burning mine eyes. "Yet if
there is a chance—"

"A white foal they will save—for a while." He mounted
and led the way along the slope.

We made our way deeper into the snowy region, and the
breath plumed out from the nostrils of our steeds, but still
I was not cold. Then the blue stallion halted, sniffing the
snow, and pawed the slope. I knew we were near the lair of
the demons, and I shivered with fear, not with cold. Al-
most, I preferred to let the foal go—but then I thought of
the demons devouring her shivering flesh, and horror re-
stored my faint courage.

A snow demon appeared on a ledge above us. "Whooo?"
it demanded, with sound like winter cutting past a frozen
crag.

The blue lad did not answer in speech. He stood upon
the back of his stallion and spread his arms, as if to say
"Here am II" I was both impressed and concerned. It was
clever of him to keep his balance like that, but he could so
readily fall and hurt himself. Though he acted as if the
demon should recognize him and be awed, in fact it was a
foolish posturing. An ogre or a giant might awe a demon;

the lad was pitiful in his insignificance.




36

Blue Adept

Blue Adept

37

To my astonishment, the demon drew back as if con-
fronted by a giant. "Whiiiy?" it demanded.

The lad pointed to the Hinny, then moved his hands
together to indicate small size. He had come for the foal.

The demon scratched its icicle-haired head in seeming
confusion: no foal herel The blue lad then did something
strange indeed. He brought out a large harmonica—I had
not known he carried such an instrument—and brought it
to his mouth. He played one note—and the demon reacted
as if struck. Sleet fell from it like droplets of perspiration,
and it pointed down the slope. I looked—and there, in a
patch of green in a narrow valley, stood my beloved Snow-
flake. The poor little filly was huddled and shivering, for

nowhere in the White Mountains is it warm.

The demon faded back into its crevice, and we made our
way down the steep slope to the valley. The way was
tortuous, but the blue stallion picked out footholds where I
thought none existed, and slowly we descended. It was like
being lowered into a tremendous bowl, whose sides were so
steep our every motion threatened to start a snowslide that
could bury the foal. Oh, yes, we moved cautiouslyl

At last we reached the patch of green. I dismounted and
ran to Snowflake, and she recognized me with a whinny.
The warmth that encompassed me seemed to enclose her
too, and she became stronger. "Oh," I cried, hugging her.
"I'm so glad thou art safel I feared—" But my prior wor-
ries were of no account now. The blue lad had enabled me
to rescue Snowflake, even as he had promised.

Then I heard a rumble. Alarmed, I looked up—and saw
the snow demons on high, pushing great balls of snow off
ledges. They were starting an avalanche—and we were at
the base of it! It was a trap, and no way could we escape.

For the first time I saw the blue lad angry. Yet he
neither swore nor cowered. Instead he brought out his
harmonica again and played a few bars of music. It was a
rough, aggressive melody—but what good it could do in
the face of the onrushing doom I knew not. Soon the
sound was drowned out by the converging avalanche.

The snows came down on us like the lashing of a water-
fall. I screamed and hugged Snowflake, knowing our end

had come. But as I braced myself for the inevitable, some-
thing strange happened.

There was a blinding flash of light and wash of heat, like
as an explosion. Then warm water swirled around my feet.

Warm water? I forced open mine eyes and looked,
unbelieving. The snows had vanished. All the valley, high
to the tallest surrounding peaks, was bare of snow, with
only water coursing down, and steam rising in places. We
had been saved by some massive invasion of spring thaw.

"It must be magic!" I cried, bewildered. "Unless this is a
volcanic region. But what a coincidencel"

The lad only nodded. Still I recognized not his power!

We walked up the slope, escaping the valley and the
deepening lake that was forming at its nadir. I rode the
Hinny, and Snowflake walked beside. It was a long climb,

but a happy one.

At the high pass leading to the outside the cold intensi-
fied. From out of a crevice a snow demon came. "Yyooool"
it cried windily, and with a violent gesture hurled a spell
like a jag of ice at the blue lad.

But the Hinny leaped forward, intercepting that scintil-
lating bolt with her own body. It coalesced about her front
legs, and ice formed on her knees, and she stumbled,
wheezing in pain. I leaped off, alarmed.

The blue lad cried out in a singsong voice, and the foul
demon puffed into vapor and floated away. Then the boy
came to minister to the Hinny, who was on the ground, her

knees frozen.

"That bolt was meant for me," he said. "Hinny, I can
cure thee not completely, for knees are the most difficult
joints to touch and thou canst not rest them now, but I will
do what I can." And he played his harmonica again, a few
bold bars, then sang: "Hinny's knees—now unfreeze."

The ice vanished from her legs. The Hinny hauled her-
self to her feet. She tested her knees, and they were sturdy.
But I could see some discoloration, and knew they had
been weakened somewhat. It seemed she could walk or run
on them, but special maneuvers might now be beyond her.

Then I realized what I should have known before. I
turned to the lad. "Thou didst thati" I accused him. "Thou
canst do magic!"




38 Blue Adept Blue Adept 39

He nodded soberly. "I concealed it not from thee," he
said, like as a child caught with hand in cookie-jar. He was
so shamefaced and penitent I had to laugh.

I put mine arm about his small shoulders and squeezed
him as a big sister might. "I forgive thee," I said. "But do
not play with magic unduly, lest thou dost attract the no-
tice of an Adept."

He made no comment. Shamed am I to recall now the
way I patronized him then, in mine ignorance! We re-
mounted and went on out of the mountains, slowly, in
deference to the Hinny's almost-restored knees and the
weakness of the foal. At last we reached the warmth of the
lowlands, and there we camped for the night. Snowflake
grazed beside the Hinny, who watched out for her in the
manner of a dam, and I knew the foal would not come to
harm. We foraged for berries and nuts, which fortunately
were plentiful and delicious. Such fortune was ever in the
presence of the blue lad, for he preferred to use his magic
subtly.

At dusk the sunset spread its splendor across the western
sky, and in the east a blue moon rose. The lad brought out
his harmonica again, faced the moon, and played. Before,
he had produced only single notes and brief strident pas-
sages. This time he started gentle, as it were tuning his
instrument, warming it in his hands, playing a scale. His
little hands were hardly large enough to enfold it properly,
yet they were marvelously dextrous. Then, as the moon
waxed and the sun waned, he essayed a melody.

I was tired, not paying real attention, so was caught by
surprise. From that instrument emerged music of such
beauty, such rare rapture as I had never imagined. The
tune surrounded me, encompassed me, drew me into itself
and transported my spirit up, high, into the ambience of
the blue moon. I sailed up, as it were, into the lovely blue-
tinged clouds, riding on a steed made of music, wafting
through blue billows toward the magic land that was the
face of the moon. Larger it grew, and clearer, its landscape
ever-better denned. As I came near it I saw the little blue
men on its surface, blacksmiths hammering out blue steel.
Bluesmiths, I suppose. Then I saw a lady in blue, and her
hair was fair like mine, and she wore a lovely blue gown

and blue slippers set with blue gems for buttons, and on
her head a blue tiara, and she was regal and beautiful
beyond belief. She turned and fixed her gaze on me, and
her eyes were blue like mine—and she was me.

Amazed, flattered and alarmed, I retreated. I flew back
past the blue mists like a feather-shafted arrow, and sud-
denly I was on the ground again. The boy stopped playing,
and the melody faded hauntingly.

I realized it not then, but he had shown me the Erst of
the three foundations of my later love for him: his music.
Never in all Phaze was there a man who could make
such—

(The Lady Blue paused, resting her head against her
hand, suffering. Stile started to speak, but she cut him off
savagely. "And thou, thou image, thou false likeness! Thou
comest to these Demesnes bearing his harmonica, using
it—"

("His?" Stile asked, astonished.

("Has it not the word 'Blue' etched upon it?" she de-
manded. "He had it imported from the other frame, to his
order."

(Stile brought out the harmonica, turning it over. There,
in small neat letters, was the word. "I conjured his instru-
ment," he murmured, awed and chagrined. "I must return
it to his widow."

(She softened instantly. "Nay, it is thine. Thou art the
Blue Adept, now. Use it well, as he did." Then she re-
turned to her narrative.)

I shook my head. "Never have I heard the like, thou
darling childl" I said. "How could a lad thine age master
music so well?"

He thought a moment, pensive in his concentration, as
though pondering some weighty ethical matter. Then he
replied: "May I show thee my village on the morrow? It is
not far out of our way."

"Was not that village destroyed?" I asked thoughtlessly.

"Aye, it was."

I was sony for my question. "Of course we can go there,
if it please thee. Unless the trolls remain—"

"No trolls remain," he assured me gravely, and I re-
membered that lightning had destroyed the trolls.




40 Blue Adept

Next day we came to the site. It was nothing, only a
glade of greenest grass and a few mounds. All had been
destroyed and overgrown. I was vaguely disappointed, hav-
ing anticipated something more dramatic—yet what is
dramatic about long-past death?

"May I show thee how it was?" he inquired, his small
face serious.

"Of course," I said graciously, not understanding what
he meant.

"Go and graze;" he said to our steeds. They moved out
gladly, and little Snowflake with them.

Then the blue lad played his harmonica again. Once
more the absolutely lovely music leaped out, encompassing
us, and some intangible presence formed. I saw a cloud
about the glade, and then it thinned to reveal a village,
with people going about their business, washing clothing,
eating, hammering horseshoes, playing. I realized that this
was a vision of his home as it had been, years ago, before
the disaster. A village very like mine own.

The village was perhaps a little better organized than
mine, however, more compact, with the houses in a ring
and a central court for socializing and supervision of the
children. Mine was a sea-village, mainly, open to the water;

this was an inland establishment, closed against the threats
of the land. The sun was shining brightly—but then the
shadows moved visibly, and I knew this was to show time
passing. Night fell, and the village closed down.

Then in the stillness of dark the trolls came, huge, gaunt
and awful. Somehow they had broken through the en-
chantment that protected the village, and they descended
on it in a ravening horde. Faintly I heard the screams as
the monsters pounced upon sleeping villagers. Men woke
Eghting, but each troll was large and strong, and there
were many of them. I saw a woman torn apart by two
trolls who were fighting over possession; they laughed with
great grotesque guffaws as her left arm ripped out of its
socket, and the troll holding that arm was angry because
he had the smaller share, and clubbed the other troll with it
while blood splattered everywhere. But then a screaming
child ran by, a little girl, and the troll caught that child and

Blue Adept                     41

brought her to its face and opened its awful mouth and—
and bit off her screaming head.

Then the image faded, mercifully, for I was screaming
myself. Never had I seen such horror! The darkness cov-
ered all. After a pause, the dawn came. The trolls were
hidden in the houses, gorged; they would not go abroad by
light of day, and suffered no fires, for that they were the
opposite of goblins in this respect and the light was painful
to them. They had buried themselves under piled blankets,
shutting out all signs of the day. They were safe; no villager
remained alive.

No—one remained. A child, a boy—he emerged from
the trunk of a hollow tree. It seemed he had been playing
in it when the trolls descended, or doing something he
wasn't supposed to, like practicing spells, then had hidden
frozen in fright until dawn made it safe to emerge. Now he
stood, surveying the ruin—and it was the blue lad.

"Thoul" I exclaimed. "Thou didst witness it all! Thy
village, thy family, most brutally destroyed!"

"Have no sympathy for me," he replied grimly. "I was
transformed that hideous night from youth to enchanter. I
realized that no force but magic could restore the balance,
and so—" He spread his hands. "Look what I did."

I looked—and saw the figure in the image raise his
hands, and I heard him faintly singing, though I could not
make out the words. Then, suddenly, a ring of fire ap-
peared, encircling the village, blazing ferociously. Magic
fire, I knew, but still fierce and hot. It burned inward, not
outward, while the blue lad watched. He must have spent
his sleepless hours in hiding devising that terrible spell,
perfecting it. It ignited the outer thatch cottages. Now the
trolls woke, and ran about in the fire, burning, terrified—
but they could escape only inward toward the center of the
village. And there the fire pursued them, itself a ravening
demon.

Now it was the trolls who gibbered in horror, and were
granted no reprieve, as they huddled in the center of the
village, heads covered, backs to the fire. Inevitably it closed
on them, torturing them before it consumed them, and
then fain would I have felt sony for the trolls, but that I

Blue Adept

42                           DIUC ruu^|»

remembered the woman torn apart and the decapitated
child. No mercy for the mercilessi The trolls fought each
other, trying to keep place in the closing circle, showing
not the faintest compassion for their fellows, only selfish-
ness.

At last the dread fire burned itself out, its magic con-
suming flesh as readily as wood. Only mounds and ashes
remained. All of the trolls had been destroyed. Except—
except there was a stirring in a mound, and from it came a
little troll, that must have been deeply buried by its mother,
so that it alone survived. Now it looked about and wailed,

afraid of the coming day.

The blue lad spied it, and knew that this one could not

have killed any people, and he cast a spell of darkness that
clothed it, and let the little troll go. "Thou'rt like me," the
blue lad quoth. Then he turned his back on what had been

his home, and walked away.
The music stopped and the vision dissipated. I looked

across at the blue lad. He had shown me his second major
component: his power. Yet I did not realize, or perhaps
refused to let myself know, the significance of this deadly

ability.

"Thou—thou wast as thou art nowl" I exclaimed. "Thou

hast not changed, not grown. But the destruction of thy
village occurred ten years agol How could—"

"I was seventeen," he replied.

"And now thou'rt—twenty-seven?" I asked, realizing it

was true. "I thought thee twelvel"

"I am small for my size," he said, smiling.
He was as much older than I, than I had thought him

younger. No child of twelve, but a full-grown man. "I—" I

began, nonplussed.

"Thou didst ask how a person my age could play the

harmonica so well," he reminded me.

"Aye, that I did," I agreed ruefully. Now that the joke

was turned on me, I felt at ease.

The blue lad—blue man—summoned our steeds, and we
proceeded on. We made good progress, and arrived the
next day at mine own village. Almost, I had been afraid I
would find it a smoking ruin, but of course this was a

Blue Adept                     43

foolish fantasy born of the horror I had viewed. My folks
rushed out to greet me in sheer gladness, and Snowflake
was reunited with her dam Starshine, and all was gladness
and relief.

Then the blue man said to his blue stallion: "Go service
the Hinny; she has completed her pact with me." And the
stallion went off into the privacy of the forest with the
Hinny, who must have been in heat—aye, in heat from the
first time she spied that stallion!—and I was glad for her.
She would have her foal, and well had she earned it.

My father's gaze followed them. "What a stallion! What
a mare!" he murmured. "Surely that foal shall be like none
known among us."

The blue man shrugged, and said to me: "Lady, an thou
ever needest me, sing these words: 'Blue to me—I summon
thee.'" Then he turned to my father, thinking me dis-
tracted by my tearful mother, for that my days-long ab-
sence had worried them much. "Sir, may I marry thy
daughter?" he asked, as if this were a question about the
weather.

My mouth dropped open in sheerest surprise, and I
could not speak.

"Art thou the Blue Adept?" my father asked in return.

I was stunned again, knowing suddenly the answer. How
could I have missed it, I who had seen his power!

Then the Blue Adept shook hands with my father and
walked in the direction the horses had gone. No answers
had been given, for none were needed. Normal people as-
sociated not with Adepts, and married them never.

The Lady Blue finished her narrative and looked up at
Stile. "Now canst thou go about thy business. Adept," she
said.

"I thank thee, Lady," Stile said, and departed her pres-
ence.




Blue Adept                     45

CHAPTER 3

Proton

Neysa carried Stile across the fields to the forest where the
nearest usable fold of the curtain passed. "While Hulk
remains away, and I am in the other frame, do thou pro-
tect the Lady Blue from harm," Stile murmured as she
galloped. "I have no better friend than thee to do this
bidding."

The unicorn snorted musically. He hardly needed to tell
her! Were they not oath-friends?

They reached the curtain, where it scintillated faintly in
the shadowed glade. "I will try to return in a day," Stile
said. "If I do not—"

Neysa blew a word-note: "Hulk."

"That's right. Send Hulk after me. He knows the frame,
he knows the Game. Should anything untoward happen to
me in Proton-frame—"

She blasted vehement negation. Her hom could sound
quite emphatic on occasion.

"Oh, I'll look out for myself," he assured her. "And
Sheen is my bodyguard there. She has saved me often
enough. But in the remote chance that—well, thou canst
go and get bred immediately, and raise thy foal—"

Neysa cut him off with a noise-note, and Stile let the
subject drop. It had been difficult enough getting her to
accept the fact of his Adept status; she was not about to
accept the prospect of his demise. He hoped he would not
disappoint her.

Stile faced the curtain. Through it he made out the faint
outline of a lighted hall, and piles of crates. A person was
walking down the hall, so Stile waited until it was clear.
Most people had no awareness of the curtain, and there
was a tacit agreement among curtain-crossers that the ig-
norance of such people be allowed to remain pristine. Then

44

he hummed an impromptu tune as he undressed and folded
his clothing carefully and hid it away in the crotch of a
branch.

As he stood naked, Neysa shifted into naked girl-form,
embraced him, kissed him, and laughed. "I am like Pro-
ton!"

"Takes more than nakedness to be part of Proton-
frame," Stile said gruffly. "Thou'rt full of mischief, uni-
corn." He disengaged from her and resumed his humming
before the curtain.

"Send me all into that hall," he singsonged, stepping
forward.

He felt the tingle as he passed through. He was in the
hall, naked, alone. He turned around and faced Neysa,
who was faintly visible beyond the curtain. She had shifted
back to her natural form. "Bye, friend," he called, and
waved to her.

Then he went resolutely back and walked rapidly down
the hall. It was strange being bare again, after getting ac-
customed to the mores of the other frame.

Soon the hall intersected a main travel route, where
many naked serfs walked swiftly toward their places of
employment. He merged with them, becoming largely
anonymous. He was smaller than all the men and most of
the women and some of the children, but he was used to
this. He still resented the disparaging glances some serfs
cast at him, but reminded himself that a person who made
a value judgment of another person solely in consideration
of size was in fact advertising his own incompetence to
judge. Still, Stile was glad to get out of the public hall and
into his private apartment.

His handprint keyed open the door. Stile stepped inside.

A naked man looked up, frowning. For a moment they
stared at each other. Then the other stood. "Sheen did not
tell me you would return this hour. I shall retire."

"One moment," Stile said. He recognized the man as his
double: the robot who filled in for him while he was in the
magic frame of Phaze. Without this machine. Stile's ab-
sences would become too obvious, and that could make
mischief. "I have not encountered you before. Does Sheen
treat you well?"




46 Blue Adept

"Sheen ignores me," the robot said. "Except when others
are present. This is proper in the circumstance."

"Yet you are programmed to resemble me in all things.
Don't you get bored?"

"A machine of my type does not get bored unless so
directed."

"Not even when you are put away in the closet?"

"I am deactivated at such times."

This bothered Stile, who felt sympathy for all oppressed
creatures. "If you ever do feel dissatisfied, please let me
know. I'll put in a word for you with the mistress."

"Thank you for your courtesy," the robot said without
emotion. "It does not fit my present need. I am a machine.
Should I retire now?"

"When is Sheen due back?"

"In four minutes, fifteen seconds from ... mark."

"Yes, retire now. I'll cover for you."

The robot, of course, did not assimilate the humor.
Robots came in many types and levels, and this one was
relatively unsophisticated. It had no consciousness feed-
back circuits. It walked to the wall, looking completely
human; it bothered Stile to realize that this was exactly the
way he looked to others, so small and nondescript. The
robot opened a panel and stepped into the closet-aperture
behind. In a moment it was out of sight and deactivated.

Stile was reminded of the golem that had impersonated
him, or rather, impersonated his alternate self the Blue
Adept until he. Stile, arrived on the scene to destroy it.
What was the difference, really, between a golem and a
humanoid robot? One was activated by magic, the other by
science. There were more parallels between these two
frames than geographicall

Stile sat down at the table the robot had left. A game of
cards—solitaire—was laid out. If the robot did not experi-
ence boredom, why was it playing cards? Answer: because
Stile himself would have done this, if bored, sharpening
obscure Game-skills. The robot probably followed Stile's
program of acrobatic exercises, too, though it could hardly
benefit from these. It was emulating him, so as to improve
verisimilitude—the appearance of authenticity.

He analyzed the situation of the cards, then resumed

Blue Adept                     47

play. He was deep in it when the door opened and Sheen
appeared.

She was beautiful. She was only slightly taller than he,
with over-perfect proportions—breasts slightly larger and
firmer and more erect than the computer-standard ideal for
her size and age; waist a trifle smaller, abdomen flatter,
hips and buttocks fuller—and luxuriantly flowing fair hair.
The average man wanted a better-than-average woman; in
fact he wanted a better-than-ideal woman, his tastes dis-
torted by centuries of commercialized propaganda that
claimed that a woman in perfect health and fitness was
somehow less than lovely. Stile's tastes were average—
therefore Sheen was far from average.

She reminded him moderately of another girl he had
known, years ago: a woman smaller than himself, a female
jockey he had thought he loved. Tune had been her name,
and from that encounter on he had been addicted to
music. Yet Sheen, he knew objectively, was actually a pret-
tier and better woman. She had only one flaw—and he was
not inclined to dwell on that at the moment.

Stile rose and went to her, taking her in his arms. "Oh—
is someone here?" she asked, surprised.

"No one," he said, bringing her in for a kiss. "Let's
make love."

"With a robot? Don't be silly." She tried to break free of
his embrace, but he only held her more tightly.

"It is best with a robot," he assured her.

"Oh." She considered momentarily. "All right."

Oops. She was going along with it! "All right?" he de-
manded. "Just how far do you go with robots?"

"My best friends aie robots," she assured him. "Come to
the bed."

Angry now. Stile let her go. But she was laughing. "You
amorous idiot!" she exclaimed. "Did you think I didn't
know you?" And she flung her arms about him and kissed
him with considerably more passion than before.

"What gave me away?" Stile asked.

"Aside from the differences between man and robot that
I, of all people, know?" she inquired mischievously.
"Things like body radiation, perspiration, heartbeat, res-
piration and the nuances of living reactions?"




48

Blue Adept

Blue Adept

49

"Aside from those," Stile said, feeling foolish. He should
have known he couldn't fool her even a moment.
"Your hands are tanned," she said.
He looked at them. Sure enough, there was a distinct
demarcation where his Phaze-clothing terminated, leaving
his hands exposed to 'the strong rays of the outdoor sun.
All living-areas on Proton were domed, with the sunlight
filtered to nondestructive intensity, so that only moderate
tanning occurred. And of course there were no demarca-
tions on the bodies of people who wore no clothing. Not
only did this uneven tanning distinguish him from the
robot, it distinguished him from the other serfs of Protoni
"I'll have to start wearing gloves in Phazel"

"No such heroic measures are necessary," she assured
him. She brought out some tinted hand lotion and worked
it into his hands, converting them to untanned color.

"I don't know what I'd do without you," Stile said grate-
fully.

"You'd stay in Phaze the whole time, with that blue
lady."

"No doubt."

"Well, this is another world," she informed him. "I had
a piece of you before you ever knew she existed. You have
a good six hours before the first Game of the Tourney, and
I know exactly how to spend it."

She did, too. She was as amorous as she was lovely, and
she existed only to guard and to please him. It was easy to
yield to her. More than easy.

Afterward, as they lay on the bed, she inquired: "And
how exactly are things in Phaze?"

"I killed the golem who was impersonating me, and gave
my friend Kurrelgyre the werewolf advice on how to regain
his standing in his pack—"

"I know about that. You returned here for the final pre-
Toumey qualifying Game, remember? What did you do on
your last trip there?"

"The werewolves and the unicorns helped me to estab-
lish my identity as the Blue Adept," Stile said, grossly
simplifying the matter. "I do magic now. But I have to
fight the unicorn Herd Stallion to preserve Neysa from
breeding for a season."

"I like Neysa," Sheen said. "But doesn't she get jealous
of the Lady Blue?"

"No, they are oath-friends now. Neysa knows my des-
tiny lies with my own kind."

"With the Lady Blue," Sheen said.

Stile realized he had carelessly hurt Sheen. "She is not of
this world, as you pointed out."

"That's what you think. It's a different world, but she's
here too. She can't cross the curtain, can she? So she must
have a double on this side."

Stile suffered a shock of amazement. "That's right!
There must be another self of her living here. My ideal
woman, all the time right here in Proton." Then he caught
himself. "An ideal—"

"Oh, never mind," Sheen said. "We both know I'm not
your kind, however much I might wish to be."

"But why did you tell me—"

"Neysa helped you reach the Lady, didn't she? Can I do
less?"

There was that. Sheen identified with Neysa, and tried to
emulate her reactions. "Actually, I can't afford to go look-
ing for her now—and what would I do if I found her?"

"I'm sure you'd think of something," Sheen said wryly.
"Men usually do."

Stile smiled. "Contrary to appearances, there is more
than one concern on this male mind. I am fated to love the
Lady Blue, though she may not be fated to love me—but
how can I love two of her? I really have no business with
her Proton-alternate."

"You don't want to see her?"

"I don't dare see her."

"My friends can readily locate her for you."

"Forget it. It would only complicate my life, and it is
already somewhat too complicated for equanimity. How
long can I continue functioning in two frames? I feel a bit
like a bigamist already, and I'm not even married."

"You really ought to settle this."

He turned on her. "Why are you doing this?" But he
knew why. He had hurt her, and she was expiating the hurt
by exploring it to the limit. There was a certain logic in
this; there was always logic in what Sheen did. They both




50                     Blue Adept

knew he could never tmly love Sheen or marry her, any
more than he could have loved or married Neysa. Sheen
would always love him, but could never be more to him

than a temporary mistress and guardian.

"You're right," she said, her pursuit abated by his
pointed question. "It is best forgotten. I shall store it in the

appropriate memory bank."

"You don't forget something by remembering iti"
"We have a Tourney to win," she reminded him, aptly

changing the subject in the manner of her sex.

"You understand," he cautioned her. "I can not reason-
ably expect to win the Tourney. I'm not at my peak Game
capacity, and in a large-scale double-elimination competi-
tion like this I can get lost in the crush."

"And if you lose early, your tenure as a Proton serf
ends, and you'll have to stay in Phaze, and I'll never see
you again," Sheen said. "You have reason to try. We need
to find out who has been trying to kill you here, and you
can only pursue an effective investigation if you become a

Citizen."

"There is that," he agreed. He thought of the anony-
mous Citizen who had had his knees lasered and gotten
him washed out as a jockey. The series of events that
action had precipitated had paradoxically enriched his life
immeasurably, introducing him to the entire frame of
Phaze—yet still an abiding anger smouldered. He had a
score to settle with someone—and Sheen was right, it was
an incentive to win the Tourney if he possibly could. For
the winner would be granted the ultimate prize of Proton:

Citizenship. Runners-up would receive extensions of their
tenure and the chance to compete again in a subsequent
Tourney. So he did have a chance, a good chance because
of his Game abilities—but the odds of final victory re-
mained substantially against him.

He wondered, coincidentally, whether the history the

Lady Blue had recently related had any bearing. A snow
demon had fired a freeze-spell at the Blue Adept, and it
had caught the Hinny and damaged her knees. Stile had
been lasered in the knees while riding a horse. Was this an
example of the parallelism of the two frames? Things did

Blue Adept                     51

tend to align, one way or another, but sometimes the route
was devious.

"One Game at a time," Sheen said. "If and when you
lose, I'll just have to abide by that. I know you'll try."

"I'll try," he agreed.

They reported on schedule to the Game Annex. Sheen
could not accompany him inside; only Tourney entrants
were permitted now. She would go to a Spectator Annex
and tune in his game on holo, unless it happened to be one
in which a live audience was permitted. She would lend her
applause and opinion when feedback opportunity occurred.

There was a line at the entrance. There was hardly ever
such a crowd—but the Tourney came just once a year. Six
hundred serfs had to report at once, and though the Game
facilities were extensive, this was a glut.

When he stepped inside, the Game Computer inter-
viewed him efficiently. "Identity?" a voice inquired from a
holographic image of the capital letters GC suspended a
meter before him at head height. The computer could
make any image and any sound emanate from anywhere,
but kept it token. Proton was governed by Citizens, not by
machines, and the smart machine maintained that in mem-
ory constantly.

"Stile, serf, ladder 35M, Rung 5." That gave his name,
status, age, sex and the fact that he had qualified for the
Tourney by holding the fifth rung of the competitive ladder
for his bracket: the minimum entry requirement. He could
have been first on his ladder had he gone for it earlier; he
was actually one of the best players extant. But all that
really counted was qualification. All had equal Tourney
status.

"Stile 35M-5, assigned number 281 for Round One only,"
the voice of the Game Computer said. A decal emerged
from a slot. Stile took it and set it against his forehead.
Now he was marked, for the purpose of this Round, with
the number and name: 281 STILE. "Proceed to the 276-
300 sub-annex and encounter your opposite number. Your
Game will be announced in due course. Respond immedi-
ately or forfeit."

"Acknowledged," Stile said. The floating GC faded out




52                     Blue Adept

and he proceeded to the designated annex. For this Round,
a number of waiting rooms and hall alcoves had been
converted to rendezvous points. After the first few Rounds
many of these would revert to their normal uses, as the
number of entrants decreased.

Already the annex was filling. Each person wore the
decal on his or her forehead, all numbers in the 276-300
range. Most were naked men and women, some familiar
to him. But before Stile could fully orient, a clothed man
stepped forward. "Salutation, opposite number," the man
said.

Stile was taken aback. This was a Citizen, fully garbed
in tan trousers, white shirt, jacket and shoes. But he did
bear the number on his forehead: 281, with no name.
Citizens were generally anonymous to serfs. Anonymity
was a privilege of status that showed most obviously in the
clothing that concealed bodily contours. Serfs had no se-
crets.

"Sir," Stile said.

"We are all equal, ad hoc," the Citizen said. He was
handsome and tall, a good decade older than Stile, and as
self-assured as all Citizens were. "Come converse in a
nook." He put his hand on Stile's elbow, guiding him.

"Yes, sir," Stile agreed numbly. His first match was
against a Citizen! Of course he had known that Citizens
participated in the Tourney; he just had not thought in
terms of playing against one himself. On Proton there were
two classes: the Citizens and the serfs. The Haves and the
Have-nots. Stile himself was employed by a Citizen, as
every serf was; no unemployed serf was permitted on the
planet beyond a brief grace period, and no employed serf
could remain beyond his twenty-year tenure—with certain
very limited exceptions. This was part of what the Tourney
was about.

The Citizen guided him to a bench, then sat down beside
him. This alleviated his third-of-a-meter advantage in
height, but not his immeasurable advantage in status. "I
am popularly known as the Rifleman. Possibly you have
heard of me."

Stile suffered a second shock. "The Tourney winner—fif-
teen years ago! I watched that Game ... sir."

Blue Adept                    53

The Rifleman smiled. "Yes, I was a serf like you. I won
my Citizenship the hard way. Now the perennial lure of
the Game brings me back. You never do get it out of your
system! Who are you?"

"Sir, I am—"

"Ah, now I connecti Stile is the designation of one of
the top current Gamesmeni I had not realized your tenure
was expiring."

"It had three years to go, sir. But I had a problem with
my employer."

"Ah, I see. So you had to go for double or nothing.
Well, this is a pleasurel I've entered other Tourneys since
my ascent, but the moment I matched with a serf he would
throw it into CHANCE, and two or three of those in
succession washed me out early. It is hard to beat a person
unless he thinks he can beat you. I'm sure you will give me
an excellent game."

"Yes, sir," Stile agreed. "I don't like CHANCE." He
didn't like having to play a Citizen either, but that could
not be said here. Of all the people to encounter this earlyl
A former Tourney winneri No wonder the Rifleman's op-
ponents in other Tourneys—a Citizen could enter anything
he wanted, of course, being immune to the rules governing
serfs—had avoided honest contests. CHANCE was at least
a 50-50 proposition, instead of a virtually guaranteed loss.
It was axiomatic that the poorer players preferred
CHANCE, while the better ones disliked it, and the top
players wished it would be abolished as a category.

Stile had been twenty years old, already an avid follower
of Tourneys, when the Rifleman fought his way up to
ultimate victory by shooting six target ducks against his
opponent's three. A highly skilled player, who had of
course taken a name reflective of that victory.

But that had been a long time back. The man could be
out of practice and out of shape. Unless he had been
practicing privately. Yet why should a Citizen bother? He
had nothing to win in the Tourney. A Citizen, almost by
definition, had everything. Fabulous wealth, power, and
prestige. If a Citizen saw an attractive serf-girl, he could
hire her and use her and fire her, all within the hour. It
would not even occur to her to protest. A Citizen could

54

Blue Adept

Blue Adept

55

have a household of humanoid robots, virtually indistin-
guishable from living people (until one got to know them,
which did not take long) to serve his every need. The finest
creature comforts of the galaxy were his, and the most
exotic entertainments. Small wonder that many Citizens
grew indolent and fat!

"I can virtually read your thoughts," the Citizen said.
"And I will answer them. I am not in the shape I was when
I won, but I have practiced somewhat and remain reason-
ably formidable. Of course I lack motive, now; victory will
not benefit me, and defeat will not harm me. Yet it would
be satisfying to win it again."

Stile was spared the awkwardness of answering by the
Game Computer's introductory announcement. "Attention
all entrants. The Tourney roster is now complete: four
hundred Citizens, six hundred serfs, and twenty-four aliens.
Pairing for individual matches is random each Round.
The Tourney is double-elimination; only entrants with two
losses are barred from further competition. Serfs among
the final sixty-four survivors will receive one year extension
of tenure. Those proceeding beyond that level will receive
commensurately greater rewards. The Tourney winner will
be granted Proton Citizenship. Judging of all matches in
the objective sphere is by computer; subjective judging is
by tabulated audience-response; special cases by panels of
experts. Bonus awards will be granted for exceptional
Games. Malingerers will forfeit." There was a momentary
pause as the computer shifted from general to specific. Now
it would be addressing the annexes individually. "Game-
pair 276 report to grid."

Hastily two serfs rose, a man and a woman, and walked
to the grid set up in the center of the room. They began the
routine of Game-selection.

"Ah, this is like old times," the Rifleman said apprecia-
tively.

"Yes, sir," Stile agreed. He would have liked to follow
the first couple's progress, but of course he could not ig-
nore the Citizen. "Not old to me, sir."

"Contemporary times for you, of course," the Citizen
said. "I have followed your progress intermittently. You

have played some excellent Games. Perhaps I misremem-
ber, don't you happen also to be an excellent equestrian?"

"I was a winning jockey, yes, sir," Stile agreed.

"Ah, now it comes backl You were lasered. Anony-
mously."

"Through the knees, yes, sir."

"That had to have been the action of a Citizen."

"Yes, sir."

"Citizens are a law unto themselves." The Rifleman
smiled. "Don't forget, I was a serf for nineteen years, and a
Citizen only fifteen. My fundamental values are those of
the serf. However, I doubt that even most birthright Citi-
zens would approve such vandalism. There are licit and
illicit ways to do business, and no Citizen should need to
resort to the illicit. A rogue Citizen would be a menace to
other Citizens, and therefore should be dealt with firmly
for a practical as well as legal reason."

"Yes, sir."

"As you know, I am in this Tourney merely for titilla-
tion. I now perceive a way to increase that interest. Allow
me to proffer this wager: if you overmatch me in this
Round, I shall as consequence make an investigation into
the matter of the lasering and report to you before you
depart the planet. Agreed?"

No serf could lightly say no to any Citizen, and Stile
had no reason to demur. He wanted very much to know
the identity of his enemyi Yet he hesitated. "Sir, what
would be my consequence if you defeat me?"

The Rifleman stroked his angular beardless chin. "Ah,
there is that. The stakes must equate. Yet what can a serf
offer a Citizen? Have you any personal assets?"

"Sir, no serf has—"

The Citizen waggled a finger at him admonishingly, smil-
ing, and Stile suddenly found himself liking this expressive
man. No serf could afford to like a Citizen, of course; they
were virtually in different worlds. Still, Stile was moved.

"Of course a serf has no material assets," the Rifleman
said. "But serfs often do have information, that Citizens
are not necessarily aware of. Since what I offer you is
information, perhaps you could offer me information too."




56

Blue Adept

Blue Adept

57

Stile considered. As it happened, he did have news that
should interest a Citizen—but he was honor-bound not to
impart it. He happened to know that a number of the most
sophisticated service robots were self-willed, acting on their
own initiative, possessing self-awareness and ambition.
Theoretically there could eventually be a machine revolt.
But he had sworn not to betray the interests of these ma-
chines, so long as they did not betray the welfare of Planet
Proton, and his word was absolute. He could not put that
information on the line. "I regret I can not, sir."

The Citizen shrugged. "Too bad. The wager would have
added luster to the competition."

As though the future of a serf's life were not luster
enough? But of course the Citizen was thinking only of
himself. "Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir. I would have liked to
make that wager, had I a stake to post."

"Are you not aware you could make the wager, and
renege if you lose? You really don't have much to lose."

Stile, under tension of the Tourney, was suddenly angry.
"That's reprehensiblel" Then, belatedly, "Sir."

"Ah, you are an honest man. I thought as much. I like
that. Most top Gamesmen do value integrity."

Stile was spared further conversation by the interjection
of the computer. "Game-pair 281 report to grid."

The Rifleman stood. "That's us. Good luck, Stile." He
proffered his hand.

Stile, amazed, accepted it. He had never heard of a
Citizen shaking hands with a serf! This was an extension of
courtesy that paralleled that of the Herd Stallion in Phaze:

the disciplined encounter of respected opponents.

Phaze! Suddenly Stile realized what he had to offer. The
knowledge of the existence of the alternate framel The
information might do the Citizen no good, since most peo-
ple could not perceive the curtain between frames, let alone
cross it, but it would surely be of interest to the man.
There was no absolute prohibition about spreading the
word, though Stile preferred not to. But if he won the
Game, he wouldn't have to. This seemed to be an accept-
able risk.

"Sir," Stile said quickly. "I do have information. I just
remembered. I believe it would interest—"

"Then it is a bargain," the Citizen said, squeezing Stale's
hand.

"Yes, sir. Only I hope you will not share the information
with others, if—"

"Agreed. This is a private wager and a private matter
between us—either way."

"Yes, sir."

"Second call for Game-pair 281," the computer an-
nounced. "Appear at the grid within ten seconds or both
forfeit."

"You bucket of bolts!" the Rifleman snapped. "Whom
do you suppose you are addressing?"

A lens swung about to fix on the Citizen. The response
was instant. "Abject apologies, sir. Time limit is waived."

The Rifleman's glance swept across the silent room.
"You may laugh now."

The remaining serfs burst into laughter.

"Rank hath its privileges," the Rifleman said. He put his
hand on Stile's elbow, guiding him to the grid. This was a
public mark of favor that awed the serfs present. Stile
included. This Citizen had been friendly and reasonably
solicitous throughout, but now he was being so when all
eyes were upon him.

"You lout," another Citizen said, laughing. "Now well
all have to show favor to our serfs!"

"What is Proton coming to?" a third Citizen inquired.
This one was a woman, elaborately gowned and coined,
with sparkling sapphires on her wrists and ankles and a
nugget of Protonite on her forehead, reminding Stile of
Neysa's snub-hom in her girl-form. Parallelism again, per-
haps. This Citizen, too, was smiling, seeming almost like a
person.

It occurred to Stile that even Citizens might get bored
with their routine existences, and appreciate comic relief
on rare occasions. The Tourney was a great equalizer!

Now he faced the Rifleman, the grid unit between them.
This was a column inset with panels on opposite sides. The
weight of the two men beside it caused the panels to il-
luminate. Stile's showed four categories across the top: 1.
PHYSICAL 2. MENTAL 3. CHANCE 4. ARTS. Four
more were down the side: A. NAKED B. TOOL C.




58 Blue Adept Blue Adept 59

MACHINE D. ANIMAL. The latter facet was highlighted:

Stile had to select from the letters.

He experienced the usual pre-Game tension, made worse
by the fact that this was no routine Game, but a Round for
the Tourney. And made worse yet by the fact that his
opponent was a Citizen. What column would the Rifleman
choose? PHYSICAL or MENTAL, surely; he was neither
a gambler nor an artist, and he wanted a good game. He
would want to get into 1B or 1C, tool- or machine-assisted
physical games like tennis or shooting, where his major
expertise lay, or into 2B where he might get into chess. He
had won a Tourney Game dramatically in chess. Stile re-
membered now, on his way up; in Efteen years he had
probably improved his game. It was necessary to stay clear
of this: Stile could play chess well himself, but he had not
had fifteen idle years to practice.

He was up against someone who really could play the
Game. This could be the toughest opponent he would face
in the entire Tourney. A good Game that he lost in a con-
test was no good; he needed a likely winner. His only real
course seemed to be ANIMAL. Then he could get into
horseracing or liontaming. His knees were weak, but this
only became acute when he flexed them completely; he
could do ordinary riding better than anyone he knew, and
remained pretty good at trick-riding. His smaller weight
would give him an advantage, for the Tourney made no
allowances for size or sex. All games were unhandicapped.
And he liked animals, while the Rifleman, an expert
hunter, probably did not have as close rapport. Yes.

Stile touched D. Immediately a new grid showed: ID,
PHYSICAL/ANIMAL. The Rifleman had chosen as ex-
pected.

Now the top line was 1. SEPARATE 2. INTERACTIVE
3. COMBAT 4. COOPERATIVE, and the sideline was A.
FLAT B. VARIABLE C. DISCONTINUITY D. LIQUID.
Stile had the letters again, which was fine. Horseracing was
on a flat surface, and he had control of the surfaces. He
did not want to get involved with trained sharks or squid
wrestling in the LIQUID medium, and feared the Rifleman
might be experienced in falconing in DISCONTINUITY,
i.e., air. Mountain Rodeo would be all right, in the VARI-
ABLE surface; Stile had bulldogged mountain goats be-
fore. But that category also included python tug-of-war in
trees, and Stile did not care for that. So he stuck with A.
FLAT.

The Rifleman selected 2. INTERACTIVE. So they were
in box 2A. No horseracing, but there could be two-horse
polo or—

The new grid was upon them, nine squares to be filled in
by turns. Lists of games and animals appeared.

The Rifleman met Stile's gaze over the column. "Take
it," he said, smiling. He was giving Stile the advantage of
first selection, rather than requiring the Game Computer to
designate the turn randomly. Such minor courtesies were
permitted; they facilitated the selection process.

"Thank you, sir." Stile designated POLO/HORSE in the
center box.

The Citizen put BASEBALL/ANDROID in the right
upper box.

Oh, no! Stile had not considered that androids counted
as animals for Game purposes. Baseball was played by
modified twentieth-century rules: nine players per team. It
was a ballgame, but there was some overlap in categories;

ballgames could appear in several sections of the master
grid. This was an animal-assisted ballgame, as was polo.
The difference was, there were a number of animals here,
not used as steeds but as actual players. Obviously the
Rifleman was expert at this sort of game, while Stile was
only fair. He had walked into a trap.

Sure enough, while Stile filled in other individual animal
contests, the Rifleman filled in android team games: Soc-
cer, Basketball, Football. And when they played the grid,
the Citizen won: FOOTBALL/ANDROID.

Disaster! Stile had not played team football in a long
time. He could pass, kick and catch a football, but an hour-
long session with twenty bruisingly huge androids? What a
horror!

There was no chance now to brush up on the antique
Earth-planet Americana the Rifleman evidently liked. Stile
had to play immediately, or forfeit. The Citizen did not
bother to ask him to concede, knowing he would not. For
better or worse, this had to be fought out on the field.




60 Blue Adept

They adjourned to the bowl-stadium. It was sparsely
attended by spectators, since there were several hundred
Games in progress and serf interest was divided. However,
a number began to file in as the news of a Citizen-serf-
android match spread. It was not that serfs were interested
in Stile, at this point; they merely hoped to see a Citizen
get knocked about a little with impunity.

"In the interest of economy of time and efficient use of
facilities, this Game will be abbreviated to thirty minutes
playing time without interruption," the Game Computer
announced. "Each party will select twenty animal players,
from which a continuous playing roster of ten will be
maintained. Substitutions are limited to one per team per
play, performed between plays. Proceed."

The computer was certainly moving it along! And no
wonder, for a second playing field was already being util-
ized, and the remaining two would surely be in use before
Stile's game finished.

They reviewed the androids. The artificial men stood in
a line, each hulking and sexless and stupid but well mus-
cled. Each carried a placard labeling its specialty: FULL-
BACK, HALFBACK, QUARTERBACK, and an array of
offensive and defensive linemen. The capability of each
was set within a standard tolerance; an android could per-
form exactly what it was supposed to do, no more and no
less. Thus the outcome of the Game would be determined
by the management and strategy and participation of the
two human players, not the skill of the androids.

The largest imponderable was that of human skill. For
this was not a remote-control game; the androids were
there merely to assist the real players, who could occupy
any position on their teams, but had to participate contin-
uously. A good contestant would enable his team to pre-
vail; a bad one would drag his team down to defeat. Stile
feared that the Rifleman would prove to be good, while
Stile himself, partly because of his size, would be less-than-
good.

The Rifleman selected four pass receivers and a solid
offensive line. He was going for an aerial offense, without
doubt! Stile chose pass receivers too, and a passing quarter-
back, then concentrated on his defensive line. He had to

Blue Adept                     61

hope for a stalled game and errors; as he saw it, defense
was the refuge of incompetence, and that was apt to be
him. He dreaded this Game!

It began. Chance gave Stile's team first possession of the
ball. His animals were in white, the Rifleman's in black.
The opposing team lined up like faceless demons from the
frame of Phaze, darkly formidable. They swept forward,
kicking the ball ahead, converging on its locale as it landed.
Stile's receiver-android had no chance; he was down on
the ten-yard line.

Yards, Stile thought. This was one of the few places
where the old system of measurements prevailed on Planet
Proton, because of the vintage and origin of this particular
game. It was easiest to think of them as scant meters.

Now the onus was on him to devise a strategy of play
that would bring the football down the field and across the
opposing goal line. Stile had a hunch this would not be
easy. He assigned himself to be a pass receiver, and sched-
uled the play for his runner. That should keep Stile himself
from getting crushed under a pile of android meat. Of
course he knew the androids were programmed to be very
careful of human beings; Still, a tackle was a tackle, and
that could be bruising. He was thoroughly padded in his
white playing suit, of course, but he knew accidents could
happen.

The play proceeded. The pass receivers dodged the op-
posing linemen and moved out on their patterns. Stile got
downfield and cut back as if to receive the ball—and found
himself thoroughly blocked off by the android pass de-
fender. Catch the ball? He could not even see it! The only
way he could hope to get it, had it been thrown to him,
was if it passed between the animal's legs.

Fortunately he knew no pass was coming. Stile's runner
bulled into the line, making one yard before disappearing
into the pileup. That, obviously, was not the way to go.

Still, this first drive was mainly to feel his way. The
nuances were already coming back to him, and he was
getting a feel for the performance tolerances of the an-
droids. He should be able to devise good strategy in due
course.

62                     Blue Adept

Next play he tried a reverse end run. He lost a yard. But
he was watching the Black team's responses. The androids,
of course, lacked imagination; a really novel play would
fool them, and perhaps enable his team to make a big gain
or even score.

On the third play he tried a screen pass to one of his
receivers. The pass was complete, but the receiver ad-
vanced only to the line of scrimmage before getting
dumped. No breakthrough here!

Fourth down and time to kick the ball downfield. Stile
signaled his kicker to come in—and realized belatedly that
he had selected no kicker. None of his animals specialized
in any kind of kick, and therefore could not do it. If he
had his quarterback make the attempt, the job would
surely be bungled, and the other team would recover the
ball quite near the goal line. Yet if he did not—

A whistle blew. The referee, penalizing his team for
delay of game. Five yards. He had to kick it away!

No help for it; Stile would have to kick it himself. He
would not have the booming power of an android, and he
dreaded the thought of getting buried under a mound of
tackling animals, but at least he could accomplish some-
thing. If he got the kick off promptly, he might get away
without being bashed.

No time to debate with himself! He called the play,
assigning the kick to himself. The teams lined up, the ball
was snapped, and the enormous Black line converged on
Stile like a smashing stonn wave.

Stile stepped forward quickly and punted. Distracted by
the looming linemen, he dropped the ball almost to the
ground before his toe caught it. The ball shot forward,
barely clearing the animals, and made a low arch down-
field, angling out of bounds just shy of the fifty-yard line.
Not bad, all things considered; he had gained about forty
yards. He had been lucky, had the Black androids had the
wit to expect an incompetent punt, they might have
blocked it or caught it before it went out, and had an
excellent runback.

Luck, however, seldom played consistent favorites. Stile
had to do better, or the first bad break would put him
behind.

Blue Adept                    63

Now it was the Rifleman's turn on offense. The Citizen
had stayed back during the prior plays, keeping himself out
of mischief. Now he made his first substitution, bringing in
one of his pass receivers. Stile exchanged one of his receiv-
ers for a pass defender. The first plays would probably be
awkward, since most of Stile's players were offensive and
most of the Rifleman's players defensive—but the longer
the drive continued, the more qualified players could be
brought in, at the rate of one per play. Of course the
offensive and defensive lines were fairly similar, for Game
purposes, so the exchange of as few as three backfield
players could transform a team. All the same. Stile hoped
the drive did not continue long.

The Rifleman assumed the position of quarterback. His
animals lined up. The play commenced. Stile's line charged
in, but the Rifleman reacted with poise, making a neat,
short bulletlike pass to his receiver on the sideline. It was
complete; the pass had been too accurately thrown for the
receiver to miss, too swift for the defender to interfere
with. The Citizen had a net gain of eight yards.

The Rifleman—now Stile appreciated how this applied
to football, too. The Citizen was a superior player of this
arcane game, better than an android passer. Therefore he
had a superior team—while Stile had an indifferent team.

Stile substituted in another pass defender—but the Citi-
zen brought in another receiver. Stile could not double-
cover. Those passes were going to be trouble!

They were. The Rifleman marched his team relentlessly
downfield. Not every pass connected, and not every play
was a pass, but with four tries to earn each first down, the
offensive team had no trouble. All too soon the Rifleman
scored. Then the Rifleman substituted in his own place-
kicker and let him make the extra point. The score was 7-
0, the Rifleman's advantage.

Complete team substitutions were permitted after a
touchdown. It was a new game, with Stile receiving again,
except that he was now in the hole. Five playing minutes
had elapsed.

Stile's team received the ball and attempted a runback.
His animal got nowhere. Stile had his first down on the
twelve-yard line.




64 Blue Adept

It was time to get clever. If he could fool the defenders
and break an android free, he might score on a single play.
But this could be risky.

He set up the play: a fake run to the right, and a
massive surge to the left, with every android lineman mov-
ing across to protect the runner.

The result was a monstrous tangle as stupid animals got
in each other's way. His runner crashed into his own pileup,
getting nowhere, and the referee imposed a fifteen-yard
penalty for unnecessary roughness, holding, and offensive
interference. Half the distance to Stile's goal line.

Second down, long yardage, from the six-yard line. So
much for innovation I Stile tried to complete another pass,
this time to himself; maybe the Rifleman wouldn't expect
him to expose himself that way, and the surprise would
work. A long bomb, trying for the moons, double or noth-
ing.

The play commenced. Stile ducked through the line and
charged straight downfield. The Rifleman cut across to
guard him. Together they turned at the fifty-yard line, and
Stile cut back to the appointed spot to receive the pass, and
the Rifleman cut in front of him and intercepted it while it
remained too high in the air for Stile to reach.

"Sorry about that, friend," the Citizen said as Stile hast-
ily tackled him and the whistle blew to end the play.
"Height has its advantage."

It certainly did. Stile had lost the ball again without
scoring. He heard the roar of reaction and applause from
the filling audience section of the stadium; the Rifleman
had clearly made a good play. Now Stile would have to
defend again against the devastating passing attack of his
opponent.

He was not disappointed. Methodically the Rifleman
moved the ball down the field until he scored again. This
time he passed for the extra points, and made them. The
score was fifteen to nothing.

The first half of the game was finished: fifteen minutes
of playing time. Stile had tried every device he could think
of to stop his opponent from scoring, and had only man-
aged to slow the rate of advance and use up time. The
Rifleman had averaged a point per minute, even so. Stile

Blue Adept                     65

had to move, and move well, in the second half, or rapidly
see the game put out of reach. He needed a dramatic,
original system of defense and offense. But what could he
do?

Surprise, first. What could he do that really would sur-
prise his opponent, while staying within the clumsy rules of
this game? He couldn't run or pass or kick the ball away—

The kick. It was possible to score on the kick. Field
goals, they were called, worth three points each. Except
that he had no kicker other than himself. That was only
slightly better than nothing, considering his near bungle of
his first attempt to punt. The moment he set up for a
placekick instead of a punt, those Black armored animals
would be upon him. Even if he got the kick off, even if he
somehow scored, he would wind up crushed at the bottom
of the pile of meat. There was not any great future in that.
If by some fluke he scored several field goals, enough to
win, he would still be so battered he would be at a serious
disadvantage in other Games of the Tourney. It would
really be better to forfeit this one; it took two losses to
eliminate an entrant, so he could afford that gesture.

Nol He was not about to forfeit anything! If he lost, it
would only be because he had been fairly beaten.

Still, the lack seemed to be his best chance. A surprise
punt on first or second down, catching the Rifleman with
his guard down. Then an attempt to force an error, an
interception, or a fumble. Playing for the breaks. It would
take nerve and luck and determination, but it was a chance.

Stile's team received the kickoff. This time the ball
bounced into the end zone, and was brought out to his
twenty-yard line for play.

Stile called for the punt, after a fake pass. His quarter-
back would simply fade back and hand the ball to Stile,
then serve as interference to the ladders while Stile got the
kick off.

It worked. Stile got a beautiful—for him—punt off, es-
caping unscathed himself. The ball was low and fast, skim-
ming over the heads of the animals, bouncing, and rolling
rapidly onward. No one was near it.

The Rifleman, playing the backfield, was first to reach
the ball. But the thing was still hopping crazily about, the

66 Blue Adept Blue Adept 67

way an unround and pointed ball was apt to do, as if it
were a faithful representative of its crazy period of history,
and it bounced off the Citizen's knee. Now, according to
the peculiarities of this sport, it was a "live" ball, and
Stile's onrushing animals had the limited wit to pounce on
it. There was a monstrous pileup—and Stile's team recov-
ered the football on the thirty-yard line of Black. A fifty-
yard gain!

"Nicely played," the Rifleman said, smiling. "I was be-
ginning to fear the game would be unconscionably dull."

"No Tourney Game is dull," Stile said. "Sir."

Now he had the ball in good field position—but could he
seize the opportunity to score? Stile doubted it. He simply
did not have the ability to advance the ball consistently.

So he would have to attempt to score from this range.
That meant a forty-yard field goal. No, Stile doubted he
had the power or accuracy for that. He would merely be
throwing the ball away, unless he could get closer to the
goal. His androids evidently couldn't do that, and Stile
himself was too small to carry it; the pass interception had
shown that. This was one game where no advantage could
be achieved from small size.

Or could it? These android brutes were accustomed to
dealing with creatures their own size, and were slow to
adjust. An agile, acrobatic man his size—why not show
them some of the tricks he could do? Stile was small, but
no weakling, and the androids were programmed not to
hurt real people. He just might turn that into an advantage.

In the huddle he had specific instructions for his center.
"You will hike the ball to me—make sure you get it to me,
for I am smaller than your regular quarterback—then
charge forward straddle-legged. I clarify: hike the ball,
then block forward and up, your feet spread wide. Do you
understand?"

Dully, the android nodded. Stile hoped the creature
would follow orders literally. These androids were the
match of real people physically, but science had not devel-
oped their brains to work as well as the human kind.
Androids cast in petite female forms were said to be quite
popular with some men, who considered their lack of wit
to be an asset. Specialized androids were excellent for other

purposes such as sewer cleaning. It just happened that in
this Game, Stile had to push to the intellectual limit of the
type. In a real game of football, as played on Earth cen-
turies ago, such an android would have been fully compe-
tent: this was not that.situation.

The creature did as ordered. Stile took the ball, ducked
down—and charged forward between the animal's spread
legs. The slow-witted opposing androids did not realize
what had happened; they continued to charge forward,
looking for a ball carrier to tackle. Stile scooted ahead five,
ten, and finally fifteen yards before the Rifleman himself
brought him down. "Beautiful play!" the Citizen said as
they bounced together on the turf, their light armor ab-
sorbing most of the shock of impact. With a fifteen-point
lead, he could afford to be generous. But the growing
stadium audience also cheered.

Stile had his first down on the fifteen-yard line, but he
knew better than to try the same stunt again. At any rate,
he was now in field goal range, for his kicking ability—
except that he still did not relish getting crushed in the blitz
that would converge on the placekicker.

Then he dredged from his memory an alternative: the
dropkick. Instead of having the ball held in place by an-
other player for the kick, the kicker simply dropped it to
the ground and kicked it on the bounce. A dropkick, unlike
a punt, was a scoring kick. Its disadvantage was that it was
less reliable than a placekick, since the bounce could go
wrong; its advantage was that it could be done on ex-
tremely short notice. Short enough, perhaps, to surprise the
androids, and enable Stile to complete it before getting
tackled and buried.

He decided to try it. He took the ball as quarterback,
faded back a few yards, then dropped it for the kick. The
ball bounded up, and the androids ceased their charge,
realizing that this differed from a punt.

Stile watched with gratification as the football arced be-
tween the goal posts. It was wobbly and skewed but within
tolerance. The referee signaled the score: three points.

"The drop kick!" The Rifleman exclaimed. "I haven't
seen one of those in years! Magnificent!" He seemed more
pleased about it than Stile was.




68 Blue Adept

But now it was Stile's turn to kick off to the Rifleman.
He decided to gamble again. "Do you know the onside
kick?" he asked his teammates.

Blank stares were returned. Good—the animals had not
been programmed for this nuance. Probably the other
team's androids would not know it either, so could reason-
ably be expected to flub it. The Rifleman would know
it—but Stile intended to kick the ball away from him.

He tried it and it worked. Stile's team had possession of
the football at midfield. "Oh, marvelous!" the Rifleman
exclaimed ecstatically.

Back in the huddle. "Number One will field the ball,"
Stile told the animals, referring to the Rifleman's shirt
designation. "Charge him, box him in, but do not tackle
him. I will tackle him."

Uncomprehending, the androids agreed.

Stile punted on first down. This time he had the feel of
it, and hung the ball up high, giving his players time to get
down to it before it landed. The Rifleman, alert to this
play, caught the ball himself, calling his own players in
around him. Thus the two groups formed in a rough circle,
Stile's animals trying to get past the Rifleman's animals
without actually contacting the Rifleman.

Perplexed by this seeming diffidence, the Citizen started
to run with the ball. That was when Stile shot between two
of his own players, took a tremendous leap, and tackled
the Rifleman by the right arm where the football was
tucked. He made no bruising body contact, for that would
have brought a penalty call, but yanked hard on that arm.

As the two twisted to the ground, the ball passed from
the Citizen's grasp to Stile's. Stile was of course adept at
wresting control of objects from others; he had specialized
in this maneuver for other types of games. Once again, his
team had possession of the ball.

"Lovely," the Rifleman said, with slightly less enthusi-
asm than before.

The ball was now just inside the twenty-yard line. Stile
drop-kicked another field goal. Now he had six points. And
eleven minutes remaining in the game.

He knew he would not get away with another onside
kick. The Rifleman would already have alerted his team to

Blue Adept                    69

that. This time Stile would have to play it straight, and
hope to stop the Citizen's devastating drive.

Stile kicked it deep, and it went satisfyingly far before
being fielded by a Black android. Stile's androids were alert
to this routine situation, and they brought the carrier down
on the twenty-yard line.

Now Stile had to stifle the passing attack. He decided to
concentrate on rushing the passer and hoping for an inter-
ception. He himself would cover one of the Rifleman's
receivers, while double-covering the other with androids.

This seemed to be effective. The Rifleman faded back for
his pass, did not like the situation, but did not want to
run or get tackled. So he overthrew the ball, voiding any
chance for an interception. According to the quaint con-
ventions for this sport, all parties knew exactly what he
was doing, and it mandated a penalty for deliberate
grounding, but none was called. Because if deliberate
grounding of the ball was done with discretion, it was
presumed to be a throwing error instead of what it obvi-
ously was. Presumably this sort of thing added luster to the
game.

On the second down the Rifleman tried a pass to the
double-covered receiver, but two androids were better than
one and again it went incomplete. Good: one more such
failure and he'd have to turn over the ball on a kick. Stile
was at last managing to stifle the Citizen's passing attack.

On third down, the Rifleman rifled the ball directly to
the receiver Stile was covering. He aimed it high, to be out
of Stile's reach, but reckoned without Stile's acrobatic abil-
ity. Stile leaped high to intercept it—and was banged aside
by the receiver, who had not realized what he was going to
do. No android would have leaped like that. A referee's flag
went down.

The penalty was offensive pass interference. Stile's team
had the ball again. This time the Rifleman's congratulation
was definitely perfunctory.

The ball was on the Black thirty-five-yard line. Time
remaining was nine minutes. Those incomplete passes had
expended very little time. Still, Stile was getting nervous; he
really needed to break loose and score a touchdown.

"Number 81—can you receive a lateral?" he asked.

r

70 Blue Adept

"Yuh," the animal agreed after a brief pause for thought.

"Then follow me and be ready." Stile turned to a line-
man. "When the ball is hiked, you turn, pick me up, and
heave me over the Black line." He seemed to remember an
ancient penalty for such a trick, but it was not part of the
Game rules.

"Duh?" the android asked. The concept was too novel
for his intellectual capacity. Stile repeated his instructions,
making sure the animal understood what to do, if not
why.

When the ball was hiked. Stile tucked it into his elbow
and stepped into his lineman's grasp. The android hurled
him up and over. Stile had been given such a lift in the
course of gymnastic stunts, and was pretty much at home
in the air. He flipped, rolled off a lineman's back, landed
neatly on his feet and charged forward toward the goal
line.

This time, however, the Rifleman had a couple of guards
in the backfield, and they intercepted Stile before he had
gone more than ten yards.

Now Stile lateraled to Number 81, who was right where
he was supposed to be. What these creatures did, they did
well! The android caught the ball and bulled ahead for
eight more yards before being stopped.

They were within kicking range again. Stile decided not
to gamble on another running play; he drop-kicked another
field goal. The score was now 15-9, with eight minutes
remaining. At this rate, he could do it—provided he had
no bad breaks. Unfortunately, he was overdue for one of
those. He had been playing extremely chancy ball.

Should he try another onside kick? No, that would only
cost him yardage at this stage. He had to make the Rifle-
man travel as far across the field as possible, so that he had
the maximum opportunity to make an error. So Stile
played it straight.

This time he managed to put the ball all the way into the
end zone. The Rifleman put it into play on the twenty-yard
line. This time, wary of passing into Stile's double cover-
age, he handed it off to his runner. But the android pro-
ceeded without imagination and was downed at the line of
scrimmage. Any play left purely to the animals was basi-

Blue Adept                     71

cally wasted time; the capacities of the androids had evi-
dently been crafted for that. The human players had to
make their physical and/or mental skills count.

Now Stile was sure the Citizen was beginning to sweat.
The Rifleman knew that if he failed to move the ball, he
would have to turn it over—and then Stile would find some
devious way to score. A touchdown and extra point would
put Stile ahead in the closing minutes. But the Citizen was
unable to advance the ball. What was he to do?

What could he do? He risked another pass to his double-
covered android receiver. It was perfectly placed, threading
between the defenders to reach its target. How that man
could pass! But one defender managed to tip it, and the
receiver did not catch it cleanly. The ball squirted out of
his grasp, bounced on the ground, and one of Stile's ani-
mals, not realizing the ball was dead, fell on it.

It was obviously an incomplete pass. But the referee
signaled a fumble. Now it was Stile's ball on the thirty-two-
yard line.

"Now, wait," Stile protested. "That's a miscall. The re-
ceiver never had control of the ball."

"Aren't you aware that these referees are programmed to
make at least one major miscall per game?" the Rifleman
called to him. "That's to emulate the original style of play,
back on crazy Earth. You happen to be the beneficiary of
that error."

The referees were robots, of course; Stile hadn't noticed.
They could be set at any level of competence. "But that's
luck, not skill!"

"There's an element of luck in most games. That lends a
special fascination. The human species loves to gamble.
Play, before you draw another delay-of-game penalty." The
Rifleman did not seem upset, perhaps because this change-
of-possession was obviously no fault of his own.

Hastily, Stile played. He accepted the hiked ball, faded
back for a pass, found his receivers covered, saw three
huge animals bearing down on him, dodged them all, cir-
cled behind one and safely overthrew his covered receiver.
The moment he released the ball, he hunched over as
though still carrying it. The turning android saw that and
grabbed him, not having seen the ball go.




72                     Blue Adept

The tackle was bruising despite the armor, but at least
the padding protected him from more than superficial
abrasion. A flag went down.

Roughing the passer. Fifteen-yard penalty. First down.
Once again Stile was within Eeld goal range.

He drop-kicked again, of course. The audience cheered.
The stadium was almost full now; news of this game was
evidently spreading. But he had to keep his attention on the
field. Now he had twelve points, and six minutes to go.
Maybe he could pull it out after all.

But the Rifleman had the ball again, and now he was
determined. There were not going to be any more breaks or
mistakes.

Stile's misgivings were well taken. The Rifleman shot his
passes too high and fast for Stile to intercept, settling for
swift, short gains. When Stile tried too hard he got tagged
for interference. Slowly and erratically, but inevitably, the
Citizen hammered out the yardage.

On Stile's thirty-yard line, the Rifleman's first pass at-
tempt failed. On second down his run got nowhere. On
third down Stile gambled on a blitz, sending eight of his
animals in to overrun the quarterback before he could
pass. It worked; the Rifleman was sacked. Loss of six
yards.

Now it was fourth down, and the Rifleman had to kick
out. He tried a placekick and field goal, but was too far
out; the ball fell short, to Stile's immense relief.

Stile had the ball again, with four minutes remaining.
Time enough—if he could move the ball.

He moved it. He had his animals open a hole in the
center, and he slipped through for several yards. He had
his passer send a screen pass to him, and he dodged and
raced up the sideline for several more yards. He was wise
to the ways of the androids, now; he knew their little
individual foibles. Some were faster than others; some were
less stupid. One android did not have the wit to out-
maneuver another, but Stile did. He could get past them—
so long as he did it himself, not delegating the job to an
animal of his own. So long as he carried the ball himself,
he could progress; that was the key. That was why the
Rifleman had succeeded so well in moving the ball at the

Blue Adept                     73

outset, while Stile floundered. The Rifleman had drawn on
his own abilities, not limited by those of the androids. Now
Stile was doing it too—and had been doing it, every time
he kicked. Now, so late in the game, understanding came.
It really was a game of two, not of twenty-two.

But this was bruising. The constant exertion and batter-
ing were taking it out of him, and Stile could not maintain
the drive. It stalled out on the Rifleman's forty-yard line.
Too far for another field goal. Stile had to punt, regret-
fully.

He went for the coffin comer, angling the ball out of
bounds at the four-yard line. That forced the Rifleman to
play in his own end zone.

The Citizen was showing overt nervousness now. He did
not like being backed up this way. He tried a pass, but it
was wobbly and off-target, incomplete.

Now it was time to strike. Stile caught the arm of his
center as the lines reformed. "Make a hole to spring me
through," he said, and (he creature nodded. The androids
were slow thinkers, but they did orient somewhat on the
needs of their supervisors. This one now understood what
Stile wanted.

When the ball was hiked, the android shouldered into his
opposite number, lifting him entirely off the ground. Stile
scooted through, so low that his flexing knees hurt, and
emerged directly in front of the Rifleman.

"Oh, nol" the Citizen exclaimed. Losing his poise, he
tried to run from Stile instead of throwing the ball away. It
was a mistake; he moved right into a pocket of White
linemen and was downed in his own end zone.

It was a safety: two points. The score was now 15-14,
with two minutes left to play. And Stile's team would get
the ball.

It was put into play by a free kick from the Rifleman's
twenty-yard line. The kicker, under no pressure from the
opposing line, got off a booming spiral that lofted high and
far. One of Stile's receivers took it on his thirty-yard line
and ran it all of two yards before getting buried.

Now Stile was highly conscious of the clock. He dared
not give up the ball again, for the Rifleman would surely
consume the remaining time in a slow drive and win by a

74 Blue Adept

single point. But how could Stile move it down to field goal
range against the desperation defense he knew he would
encounter?

Answer: he had to do it himself. He would get battered,
but it was the only way.

"Run interference for me," he told his three most com-
petent animals. "You two in front, you behind. Right end
run. You two receivers go out for a fake pass. And you,
you runner—you fake a run to the left." He was pulling
out all the stops. If the Rifleman anticipated his strategy,
he would swamp Stile with a blitz. It had to be risked.

But the Citizen, too, was tiring. He was in fit condition

—but Stile was not merely fit, he was an excellent athlete
in peak condition, strongly motivated. His toughness and
endurance were counting more heavily now. The Citizen
stayed well back, avoiding physical contact whenever pos-
sible. In effect, he had dropped off his team. That meant
that not only did Stile have eleven effective players to ten,
but he had the most animated team. Now he could put
together a sustained drive—theoretically.

His animals blocked and Stile ran around the end. And

—it worked. He made several yards before his escort fell in
assorted tangles. Now a huge Black android pounced on
him for the kill—and Stile cut in under the brute and
threw him with a solid shoulder boost. It was partly the
disparity of size that enabled Stile to come in low, and
partly surprise that put him in close instead of where the
android expected him. The creature went tumbling across
Stile's back and rolled to the turf.

Suddenly Stile was in the relative clear, and still on his
feet. He accelerated forward, drawing on his reserves of
energy, determined to make the most of his opportunity.
Dimly he heard the roar of the crowd, excited by the dra-
matic run. The stadium had been constantly filling, and
now more than half the seats were filled—and it was a fair-
sized chamber, sufficient for perhaps a thousand. Stile knew
these spectators didn't care who won the Game; they
merely responded to unfolding drama. Still, their applause
encouraged him. His bruises and fatigue seemed to fade,
and he shot ahead at full speed. Five yards, ten, fifteen,
twenty—

Blue Adept                    7S

In the end it was the Rifleman who caught him. The
man was not to be tricked by a martial arts throw; after all,
he was a former Tourney winner who had to be conversant
with all forms of physical combat. He caught Stile by one
arm and swung him around and down. He tried to wrest
the ball away, but Stile was on guard against that, and
plowed into the turf without giving it up.

He was now on the Rifleman's forty-five-yard line with a
first down. His ploy had paid off handsomely.

On the next play Stile tried a short pass, from android to
android. While he himself faked another run. This was not
as spectacularly successful as his last play, but it was
good for eight more yards. Most of the attention had been
on Stile's fake, and the Rifleman's pass defense had loos-
ened up.

Then a quarterback sneak, good for three more yards,
and a first down on the thirty-four-yard line. He was get-
ting near field goal range—but now he had only thirty
seconds remaining. With no time-outs, he had no time to
spare for fancy planning. "Give me the ball," he said.
"Protect me."

But this time he got nowhere; his strategy had been too
vague. Fifteen seconds remaining. Time for one final des-
peration measure. "Take a lateral," he told his primary
pass receiver. "Step clear and lateral back to me."

Stile took the hiked ball, stepped back, lateraled to his
receiver, and shrugged at the onrushing tacklers as they
struggled to avoid him. The Rifleman didn't want any game
penalties stopping the clock at this point!

The android lateraled back. Stile stood alone, having
been forgotten by the tacklers. As the pileup formed about
the pass receiver. Stile dodged forward, passing confused
androids of both teams who somehow thought the play had
ended, and were slow to reorient. He cut to the left, getting
clear of the central .glut, then forward again. He had made
it to field goal range!

Then he heard the final gun. He had used up all his time
in the course of his maneuvering, and now the game was
over. There would be no more plays, no chance to drop-
kick the winning field goal.

Stile slowed to a walk, disconsolate. So close—only to




76 Blue Adept

fail. To reach the fifteen-yard line in the clear, and have to
quit, defeated by a single point.

Then, from the front tier of seats, he heard Sheen's
voice. "Run, you idiot!" And he saw the animals of both
teams converging on him.

Suddenly he realized that the game was not quite over.
The play was still in session. Until he was tackled, it was
not finished.

But the Rifleman, more alert to the situation than Stile
had been, was now between him and the goal line. The
Citizen was calling directions to his troops. Stile knew he
could not make it all the way.

He began running across the field, toward the center,
where more of his own animals were. "Protect mel" he
bawled.

Dully, they responded. They started blocking off the
pursuit. Stile cut back toward the goal, making it to the ten-
yard line, the five—

A Black android crashed through the interference and
caught Stile from behind. Stile whomped down in a for-
ward fall, and the ball squirted from his grasp. A fumble at
the worst possible timel

The androids knew what to do with a loose ball. Ani-
mals of both teams bellyflopped to cover it. In a moment
the grandest pileup of the game developed. The whistle
blew, ending the play and the game.

The delirious cheering of the crowd abruptly stilled. Ob-
viously the ball had been recovered—but where, and by
whom? It was impossible to tell.

Slowly, under the supervision of the referees, the
androids were unpiled. The bottom one wore a White suit,
and lay just within the end zone.

Stile had six more points.

Now the crowd went absolutely crazy. Serfs and Citizens
alike charged onto the field. "Let's get out of here before
we're both trampled to deathi" the Rifleman exclaimed,
heading for the exit tunnel.

"Yes, sirl" Stile agreed.

"By the way—congratulations. It was an excellent
Game."

"Thank you, sir."

Blue Adept                     77

They drew up inside the tunnel. Here they were safe; the
crowd was attacking the goal posts in some kind of insane
tradition that went back before Planet Proton had been
colonized. "I have not forgotten our private wager," the
Rifleman said. "You played fair and tough and made a
remarkable game of it, and you prevailed. I shall be in
touch with you at another time."

"Thank you, sir," Stile said, unable to think of anything
better.

"Now let's get out of these uniforms."

"Yes, sir."

Then Sheen was trotting toward them, her breasts
bouncing handsomely. She was ready to assume control of
Stile's remaining time in this frame. It would be several
days before all of the Round One matches cleared, since
there were 512 of them. But Stile would not be able to
linger long in Proton-frame; he had to get back to Phaze
and find out how to handle the Unicorn Herd Stallion in
combat. Otherwise his tenure in Phaze could become even
shorter than his tenure in Proton.

But Sheen was aware of all this. She took him in tow,
stripping him of his armor in literal and figurative fashion.
Stile was able to tune out the contemporaneous proceed-
ings. How good it was to have a friend like Sheen here, and
one like Neysa therel

CHAPTER 4

The Little People

Stile stepped through the curtain into the deep and pleasant
forest of Phaze. He recovered his clothing, dressed, then
hummed up an ambience of magic. He could signal Neysa
with a spell, and she would come for him.




78

Blue Adept

Blue Adept

79

Then it occurred to him that this would consume time
that would be better spent otherwise. Why not experiment,
and discover whether he could indeed transport himself?
He pondered a moment, finding himself quite nervous,
then singsonged a spell: "Transport this man to the Blue
Castle's span." It was not good verse, but that didn't mat-
ter; abruptly he stood in the castle court.

He felt dizzy and nauseous. Either he had done an in-
expert job, or transporting himself was not good procedure.
Certainly he would not try that again in a hurry; it had
gotten him here, but at the expense of his feeling of equi-
librium and well-being.

Neysa was in the court, nibbling on the magic patch of
bluegrass. Every bite she took was immediately restored, so
there was no danger of overgrazing, despite the smallness
of the patch. She looked up the moment he appeared, her
ears swiveling alertly. Then she bounded across to join
him.

"Careful! Thou wilt spear me!" he protested, grabbing
her about the neck and hanging on to steady himself.

She snorted. She had perfect control of her horn, and
would never skewer something she didn't mean to, or miss
something she aimed for. She blew a questioning note.

"Nice of thee to inquire," Stile said, ruffling her sleek
black mane with his fingers. He was feeling better already;

there was a healing ambience about unicorns. "But it's
nothing. Next time I'll have thee carry me; thou dost a
better job."

The unicorn made another note of query.

"Oh, that," he replied. "Sheen took care of me and got
me to the Game on time. I had to match with a Citizen, a
former Tourney winner. He nearly finished me."

She blew a sour note.

"No, he was a top Gamesman," Stile assured her. "A
player of my caliber. It was like doing battle in this frame
with another Adept! But I had a couple of lucky breaks,
and managed to win in the last moment. Now he's going to
help me find out who, there, is trying to wipe me out." He
tapped his own knee, meaningfully. "And of course once
we settle with the Herd Stallion, we'll set out to discover
who killed me here in Phaze. I don't like having anony-
mous enemies." His expression hardened. "Nay, I like that
not at all!"

The Lady Blue appeared. She wore a bathing suit, and
was as always so lovely it hurt him. It was not that she was
of full figure, for actually she was less so than Sheen, but
that somehow she was exquisitely integrated, esthetically, in
face and form and manner. The term "Lady" described her
exactly, and she carried its ambience with her regardless
what she wore. "Welcome back, my lord," she murmured.

"Thank thee. Lady." He had been absent only a day, but
the shift of frame was so drastic that it seemed much
longer.

"Thy friend Hulk has returned."

"Excellent," Stile said. He was somewhat stiff from the
bruising football game, but glad to be back here and quite
ready to receive the Oracle's advice.

"Thou'rt weary," the Lady said. "Let me lay my hands
on thee."

"Not necessary," Stile demurred. But she stopped him
and ran her soft hands across his arms and around his
neck, and where they touched, his remaining discomfort
faded. She kneaded the tight muscles of his shoulders, and
they loosened; she pressed his chest, and his breathing
eased; she stroked his hair and the subconscious headache
became nonexistent. The Lady Blue was no Adept, but she
did possess subtle and potent healing magic, and the con-
tact of her fingers was bliss to him. He did not want to love
her, yet, for that would be foolhardy; but only iron disci-
pline kept him from sliding into that emotion at a time like
this. Her touch was love.

"I would that my touch could bring the joy to thee that
thy touch does to me," Stile murmured.

She stopped immediately. It was a silent rebuke that he
felt keenly. She wanted no closeness with him. Not while
she mourned her husband. Perhaps not ever. Stile could
not blame her.

They moved on into the castle-proper. The Lady pre-
ceded him to the bath, where Hulk soaked in a huge tile
tub set flush with the floor, like that of a Proton Hammam.
The huge man saw the Lady, nodded, then in an after-
thought sought ineffectively to cover himself. "I keep for-




80 Blue Adept

getting this is not Proton," he muttered sheepishly. "Men
don't go naked in mixed company here."

"Thou'rt clothed in water," the Lady reassured him. "We
be not overly concerned with dress, here. My present suit
differs not much from nudity." She touched the blue ma-
terial momentarily. "I have myself stood naked before a
crowd and thought little of it. The animals wear no cloth-
ing in their natural forms, and oft not in their human
shapes. Even so, I would not have intruded, but that my
lord is here and needs must be informed immediately."

"That's rightl" Hulk agreed. "Do thou step outside a
moment. Lady, and I'll get right out of this."

"No need," Stile said. "I am here." He had been behind
Hulk, whose attention had been distracted by the prior
entry of the Lady.

"Oh. Okay. I have the Oracle's answer. But thou dost
not have much time. Stile. May I talk to thee privately?"

"If the Lady is amenable," Stile agreed.

"And what is this, un5t for mine ears?" the Lady Blue
demanded. "Well I know you two are not about to ex-
change male humor. Is there danger?"

Hulk looked guilty. He used his fingers to make a ripple
in the bath water. "There may be. Lady."

The Lady looked at Stile, silently daring him to send her
away. She called him "lord" and deferred to him in the
presence of others, for the sake of appearances, but he had
no private power over her.

"The Lady has suffered loss already," Stile said. "I am
no fit replacement, yet if the Oracle indicates danger for
me, she is rightfully concerned. She must not again be
forced to run the Blue Demesnes without the powers of an
Adept."

"If thou wishest," Hulk agreed dubiously. "The Oracle
says that thou canst only defeat the Herd Stallion by ob-
taining the Platinum Flute."

"The Platinum Flute?" Stile repeated, perplexed.

"I never heard of it either," Hulk said, making further
idle ripples with his hand. The ripples traveled to the edges
of the tub, then bounced back to cross through the new
ripples being generated. Stile wondered passingly whether
the curtain that separated the frames of science and magic

Blue Adept                     81

was in any way a similar phenomenon. "But there was
another querist there, a vampire—"

"The likes of us have naught to do with the likes of
them!" the Lady Blue protested.

"Or with the unicorns or werewolves?" Stile asked her,
smiling wryly.

She was silent, unmollified. Certainly her husband had
not had much association with such creatures. The free
presence of unicorns and werewolves in the Blue Demesnes
dated from Stile's ascendance. He felt this was an improve-
ment, but the Lady was evidently more conservative.

"Actually, he was not a bad sort at all," Hulk said. "I
lost my way, going in, and he flew by in bat-form, saw I
was in trouble, and changed to man-form and offered to
help. He hadn't realized I was human; he thought I was a
small giant or an ogre, and those pseudomen sort of look
out for each other. I think he was rather intrigued by my
motorcycle, too; not many contraptions like that in Phazel
I was afraid I was in for the fight of my life, when I
realized what kind of creature he was, but he told me they
only take the blood of animals, which they normally raise
for the purpose and treat well. In war, they suck the blood
of enemies, but that's a special situation. They never bother
friends. He laughed and said it wasn't true that people
bitten by vampires become vampires themselves; that's a
foul myth propagated by envious creatures. Maybe that
story originated from a misinterpretation of their love-rites,
when a male and a female vampire share each other's
blood. The way he told it, it almost sounded good. A
fundamental act of giving and accepting. I guess if I loved
a vampire lady, I'd let her suck—" He broke off abruptly,
embarrassed. "I didn't say that well. What I mean is—"

Stile laughed, and even the Lady smiled briefly. "There
is no shame in love, any form," Stile said.

"Uh, sure," Hulk agreed. "I got to talking with him, and
the more I knew him, fhe better I liked him. He drew me a
map in the dirt so I could locate the Oracle's palace with-
out getting in trouble. Then he changed back to a bat and
flew off. And you know, that route he pointed out for me
was a good one; I made it to the Oracle in a couple more

82                     Blue Adept

hours, when it could've been days the way I had been
going."

Hulk made another wave on the water, one that
swamped the pattern of wavelets. "I'm finding it harder not
to believe in magic. I saw that man change, I saw him fly.
He was there when I arrived, and showed me that room
where the Oracle was—just a tube sticking out of the wall.
I felt sort of silly, but I went ahead and asked 'How can
Stile defeat—' I forgot to use thy Phaze title, but it was too
late, and it didn't seem to matter to the Oracle—'How can
Stile defeat the unicorn Herd Stallion in fair combat at the
Unolympics?' And it replied 'Borrow the Platinum Flute.' I
couldn't understand that, and asked for a clarification, but
the tube was dead."

"The Oracle has no patience with fools," the Lady said.
"It answers only once, and considers all men fools; no
offense to thee, ogre."

Hulk smiled. It seemed he had been nicknamed after the
monster he most resembled, and he did not mind. "So I
discovered. But I feared I had failed thee. Stile."

"I was as baffled when it told me to 'Know Thyself,'"
Stile said. "My friend Kurrelgyre the werewolf was told to
'Cultivate Blue' and could not understand that either. We
all have trouble with Oracular answers, but they always
make sense in the end."

"Not always desired sense," the Lady Blue agreed.
"When it told me 'None by One,' I thought it spouted
nonsense. But now I know to my grief what—" She turned
away, but Stile had glimpsed the agony that transfixed her
face before she hid it. He had not realized that she had
ever been to the Oracle. That answer must have related to
the death of her husband.

Hulk filled in the awkward pause. "I talked again with
Vodlevile Vampire—that's his name—and we compared
notes. It seemed he had asked the Oracle how to help his
son, who was allergic to blood—that's no joke to a vam-
pire—"

"I should think not!" Stile exclaimed.

Hulk was quite serious. "They don't live on blood all the
time. But they need it to be able to change to their bat-
form and fly. The blood facilitates the magic. So his boy

Blue Adept                     83

couldn't keep up with the family, if—well, I guess I'd be
concerned too, in that situation."

"Of course," Stile agreed, sony that he had even consid-
ered any humorous side to this.

"But all the Oracle told him was 'Finesse Yellow.' That
made him furious, because he said Yellow is an Adept, and
vampires don't deal with Adepts. They live near one, and
they're afraid of her and leave her strictly alone. But if
they did have truck with Adepts, they wouldn't try to cheat
them or anyone else, and Yellow was the very worst one
anyway. Several of their number have been trapped by her
and sold to other Adepts, who spell them into blind loyalty
and use them for spying and for terrorizing other captives.
Gives the whole tribe a bad name. So he was going home
without an answer he could use. I couldn't help him; I
don't know anything about Adepts. It was too bad."

"He sounds like a creature of character," Stile said.
"Why should the Oracle suggest to such a creature that he
cheat? That's the same as no answer."

"Finesse is not the same as cheat," the Lady pointed out.
"It implies some artifice or devious mechanism, not dis-
honesty."

"Vodlevile is a very forthright person," Hulk said. "No
tricks in him. Still, he helped me. He told me that most of
the metal tools and weapons and musical instruments of
Phaze are made by the Little People, the tribes of Dark
Elves, and that some worked with bone, and some with
wood, and some with silver, or with gold, or with platinum.
So probably if thou canst find the right tribe of elves—"

"The Little Folk are not easy to find," the Lady Blue
said. "They dwell mainly in the Purple Mountains, and
they dislike normal men and deal with them seldom. Most
of all they detest Adepts. When my lord desired an excel-
lent musical instrument, he could not go to them, but had
to trade with a hawkman who had a connection across the
curtain. He said he would like to be in touch with the
Little Folk, but that they wanted naught he had to offer."

"So Vodlevile informed me," Hulk said. "That's what I
meant about danger. It seems that the more precious the
metal a tribe works with, the less use that tribe has for
men, because men try to steal the artifacts. Especially they




84                     Blue Adept

hate big men. I'd be dead the moment I set foot in their
territory. And the Blue Adept—" He shook his head. "So
my Oracle answer isn't much use either. But I report it to
thee, for what it's worth, and hope this doesn't cause mis-
chief."

Stile was already deep in thought. "The advice of the
Oracle is always practical, if obscure. One has to work to
understand it, usually. But it surely makes sense—for both
me and the vampire. And him I may be able to help, in
return for his help to thee."

"I had hoped thou wouldst see it that way," Hulk admit-
ted. "It really is thy mission he tried to facilitate."

"I like this not," the Lady said. "Thou meanest to go
among the Little Folk."

"Perhaps," Stile agreed. "That's the mischief Hulk feared,
knowing mine inclination. But first I must tackle the
matter nearer at hand. It will take me a moment to devise a
suitable spell. Let's meet in the courtyard in ten minutes."

"No spell will take thee safely to the fastness of the
Little Folk," she protested. "Like the unicorns, they resist
magic. Better thou goest among trolls or goblins; there at
least thou wouldst have a fair chance."

"I had in mind summoning the Yellow Adept."

"The Yellow Adepti" she cried, horrified. "In these
Demesnes?"

"I swore never to return to her Demesnes, so must needs
she visit mine. Thus do I finesse the restriction. Come
on—we have to give Hulk a chance to get dressed." Stile
led the way out. The Lady was spluttering, but offered no
further resistance.

They met in due course in the courtyard. The Lady had
evidently communicated the situation to the unicorn, for
Neysa was moving her horn about angrily and snorting just
beneath the level of meaning.

Stile played his harmonica to bring the magic ambience.
Then he intoned: "Yellow Adept, I ask of thee, come to
the Blue Demesnes, to me."

Abruptly the yellow hag was there before them. "Blue,
methought we were at quitsl" she snapped. "Seekest thou
war between Adepts?"

Blue Adept                     85

"By no means. Yellow. I only wish to bargain with thee,
to mutual advantage, and may not invade thy Demesnes
again."

Her somewhat beady eyes peered about. "There is that,
my handsome. Thou'rt a man of thy literal word. But I am
not garbed for socializing. Give me leave to freshen up
first." And she felt about her baggy old dress, searching for
a potion.

"Allow me, since thou'rt my guest." Stile played a bar of
music, then intoned: "While Yellow visits Castle Blue,
grant her youth, image and hue."

In place of the old crone stood a ravishingly beautiful
young woman with an hourglass configuration and long
golden-yellow tresses, wearing a marvelously fetching eve-
ning gown. Hulk's jaw fell, and the Lady Blue's eyes wid-
ened. Neysa merely snorted disparagingly; she had seen it
before.

Lovely Yellow brought out a vial, shook out a drop, and
caught it as it formed into a mirror. "Oh, thou shouldst
not, thou darling man! Yes, thou hast recaptured it per-
fectly, my deliciousl"

"Yet she remains a witch," the Lady Blue said tightly.
Neysa snorted agreement.

Yellow shot a glance at them. "Witch, thou sayst? And
aren't we all, regardless of our shapes or magic? What
chance does any man have, against a vamp of whatever
color?"

"None," Hulk muttered. Neysa made as if to stab him
with her horn, and he hopped out of the way.

"What I wish is this," Stile said briskly. "There is a
vampire man, Vodlevile, whose son is allergic to blood.
The Oracle told him to finesse Yellow. He refuses to
deal—"

"Aye, I have a potion to cure that malady," Yellow
agreed. "But what does he offer in return?"

"Nothing," Stile said. "The vampire folk are wary of
thee, for what reason I do not pretend to comprehend."

She waggled a pretty finger at him wamingly, in much
the way the Rifleman had in Proton. "Play not the inno-
cent with me, pretty man! I have back orders for bats
galore. Though I daresay their fear of female Adepts de-




86

Blue Adept

Blue Adept

87

rives somewhat from propinquity, since they reside near
one the canines would term 'woman.' "

Hulk stiSed a chuckle. Insults were very much a matter
of viewpoint, here.

"Vodlevile will not deal with thee," Stile said evenly.
"But I will. If thou wouldst trade favors with me, as one
professional to another, this is the favor I crave."

"What has the bat done lately tor thee?"

"He helped my friend Hulk, who was on a mission for
me. Never did the bat ask for mine assistance, nor does he
know it is coming."

She shook her head. "The machinations of honor and
friendship are a fascination to the likes of me! Thy gener-
osity to animals will cost thee yet. Blue." She glanced at
Neysa, whose ears angled quickly back. "Yet 'tis a true
finesse that does appeal to me. My livelihood is in dealing
and wheeling, and I will deal with thee. The bat shall have
his potion."

"I thank thee, witch. And what favor dost thou crave in
return?"

She considered prettily. "I could wish that thou wouldst
come to see me, as once I thought thou wouldst—" Her
eyes traveled to the Lady Blue, who gazed disdainfully
away, and back again to Neysa, whose nostrils were begin-
ning to steam. "Yet thine oath forbids, and if it did not, I
think others would say nay, or neigh."

Now a small jet of fire shot from Neysa's nostril, and the
tip of her horn made a tiny motion suggestive of mayhem.
"Even so," Stile agreed, straight-faced. He despised Yel-
low's business of trapping and selling live animals, but he
rather respected her personally. A romantic alliance was
certainly out of the question, as well she knew; Yellow was
only teasing the competition. Such lighthearted malice was
no doubt more of a pleasure for the men to note, than to
the females against whom it was directed.

"Then methinks I will take it on the cuff," Yellow de-
cided. "Some day, when I am in some minor way in need
and call on thee for aid—"

"Agreed," Stile said. "Provided only that the service vio-
lates no ethic of mine, and I am then alive."

"There is that. Thou hast a veritable stormcloud of a

future." She pondered again. "Then let me protect mine
investment, and give thee a potion." She fished a tiny bottle
out of her bodice and presented it.

Stile accepted it, disregarding Neysa's fiery snort. "If I
may ask—"

"No secret, my scrumptious. This elixir renders the
wearer less noxious to the Elven folk."

"Thou vixeni" Stile exclaimed. "Thou conniving wenchi
Thou wert aware of my mission all the timel"

"Even so, on all counts," she said. "Though I prefer the
term 'foxy' to 'vixen.' " She vanished.

"Some company thou keepesti" Hulk remarked appreci-
atively. "She is foxy!"

"Or bitchy," the Lady Blue muttered as she and Neysa
walked stiffly away.

Stile smiled. "She's not a bad sort, considering that she
really is a hag and a witch. She really did look like that, a
century or so ago when she was young." He considered
briefly. "Hulk, I don't have much time for the probable
magnitude of this mission, so I'll set off for the Purple
Mountains this afternoon, as soon as I do some spot re-
search to pinpoint the platinum-working elves."

"I'll go with thee!"

"Nay, friend! Thy appearance would only antagonize
these folk, and I go not to quarrel but to borrow. I need
thee to guard the Lady Blue, as thou hast done so ably
before."

Hulk frowned. "I prefer not to do that. Stile."

Stile was perplexed. "Thou likest it not here? I would not
hold thee—"

"I like it well here. That is the problem."

"Something tells me I am being opaque about some-
thing."

"Aye."

"Thou dost not get along with the Lady Blue?"

"The Lady is a wonderful person."

"Then I don't see—"

"Thou needest an Oracle?"

Stile shook his head. "I must."

The big man paced the courtyard. "Thou and I strike
others as quite different. The giant and the dwarf. Yet we




88 Blue Adept

are similar. The same age, the same culture, similar Game
skills, similar honor." He paused. "Similar taste in women."

Stile began to get the drift. "Thou didst like Sheen at the
first sight of her, and thou dost get along great with
Neysa—"

"Yes. But for their special natures—" Hulk shrugged.
"The Lady Blue is another matter. It befits me not to guard
her any more."

Now Stile began pacing. "Thou knowest she is not
mine."

"She sure as hell isn't minel" Hulk exploded. "She may
not be thine now, but she is destined for thee and no other.
Thou'rt the Blue Adept, the keeper of these Demesnes, and
she is the Lady Blue. She is the finest woman I have
known. Were there another like her—"

"There is another like her," Stile said, remembering
Sheen's comment. "And I owe thee for the manner in
which thou hast given up thine only Oracle answer to my
need."

The two men exchanged glances, a remarkable notion
dawning. "Another—in Proton," Hulk said. "Of course.
Her alternate self. But that one too should be—"

"Nay. Not mine. I can not love two."

"With all the qualities I have seen, but versed in Proton
culture." Hulk smiled, liking the notion. "Then thou
wouldst not oppose—7"

"That Proton-lady sure as hell is not mine," Stile said,
smiling as he echoed Hulk's expression. "Go to Proton. It
is a different frame. Thou knowest thou canst never bring
her here."

"Yet even for brief visits—it is all I could ask."

"Cross the curtain, talk to Sheen. Her friends will locate
the lady for thee."

Hulk nodded. He stopped before Stile and put forth his
hand. Stile shook it gravely, knowing this was their parting.
Hulk would not come to the Blue Demesnes again. Stile
felt a certain smouldering resentment that the big man had
taken an interest in this particular woman, and a certain
relief that there was in this case a solution, and a certain
guilt for both the resentment and the relief. Hulk was a
good man; he deserved the best, and the best was the Lady

Blue Adept                     89

Blue. Her Proton alternate surely had similar qualities. So
this was a triumph of fortune and common sense—yet it
bothered him. He was simply not as generous in his private
heart as he was externally. He had some growing to do,
yet.

Now he had no guard for the Lady Blue. He could not
leave her alone for any length of time; whatever enemy
had struck down Stile's alternate self, the true Blue Adept,
would surely strike again now that it was known the Blue
Adept had been reconstituted. Stile had been constantly
devising and rehearsing spells and strategies to deal with
such an attack, and felt reasonably confident he could
handle the situation. But suppose the enemy took the Lady
Blue hostage and used her against Stile? He could not risk
that.

While he pondered, the Lady reappeared. "The ogre
prepares to depart. Know ye why?"

"I know," Stile said.

'I like this not"

How did she feel about this arrangement? "He is a good
man, worthy of the likes of thee, as I am not."

If she grasped his hidden meaning, she gave no sign.
"Worth is not the issue. I have a premonition of doom
about him."

"I confess to being uneasy. I thought it was jealousy or
guilt."

"Those, too," she agreed, and then he was sure she
understood. But she did not elaborate.

He changed the subject. "Now I fear to leave thee here
alone—yet must I seek the Flute, lest mine enemy move
against me. Neysa will go with me."

"Is it security thou seekest—or vengeance?"

Stile grimaced, looking at her. "How is it thou knowest
me so well?"

"Thou'rt very like my love."

"Would he not have sought vengeance?"

"For himself, nay. For those he held dear—" She halted,
and he suspected she was remembering her vision of the
fiery destruction of the trolls who had wiped out the Blue
Adept's village. Then she met his gaze again. "Without

90                     Blue Adept

Hulk or Neysa, the Blue Demesnes be not safe for me now.
I must go with thee to the Purple Mountains."

"Lady, it may be dangerousl"

"More dangerous with thee and thy magic than without
thee?" she inquired archly. "Have I misjudged thee after
all?"

Stile looked askance at her. "I had thought thou dost not
crave my company. For the sake of the good work done by
the Blue Adept thou callest me lord, but in private we
know it is not so. I do not mean to impose my presence on
thee more than necessary."

"And with that understanding, may not the Lady ac-
company the Lord?"

Stile sighed. He had made due protest against a prospect
that in fact delighted him as much as it made him nervous
and guilty. "Of course she may."

The Lady rode a pale blue mare, the offspring of the foal
of the Hinny and the Blue Stallion. As she had described,
this mare's color was mainly an echo of the blue harness,
but the effect was there. The Blue Stallion had been alive
but aging when the Blue Adept was killed; the horse, it was
understood, had died of grief.

Stile rode Neysa. He had never ridden another steed
since taming her. No horse could match her performance,
but it was more than that. Much more.

They crossed the fields south of the Blue Castle and
entered the forest adjacent to the Purple Mountain range.
Soon they were in the foothills. According to Stile's refer-
ences, the geographical tomes collected by his other self,
the tribe of the Dark Elves who worked platinum lived on
a mountain about fifty miles east of where the convenient
curtain-access to Proton was. The animals knew the way,
once it had been determined; Neysa had ranged these lands
for years and knew the location by description, though she
was not conversant with the actual Elven Demesnes.

Here the lay of the land was gentle, and the air balmy,
with patchwork clouds making the sunshine intermittent.
The ride became tedious despite the pleasure of the sur-
roundings. Had Stile been riding alone, he would have
slept, trusting Neysa to carry him safely, or have played his

Blue Adept                     91

harmonica, or simply have talked to the unicorn. But the
presence of the Lady Blue in her natural splendor in-
hibited him.

"It was across this country I rode the Hinny, so long it
seems ago," she remarked.

Stile found no appropriate response. He rode on in si-
lence, wishing that the tragedy of his other self did not lie
between them.

"The Hinny," she repeated musingly. "How I miss that
fine animall"

This was safer ground. "How is she now? Ten years is a
fair span in the life of a horse, about thirty of ours, but not
interminable."

"Of course thou knowest not," the Lady said somberly.
"The Hinny was bred by the Blue Stallion, and returned
to her wilderness fastness alone. The blue lad went back to
his business, about which we inquired not, but which I
believe was the meticulous construction of the Blue Castle.
I remained with my family and with Snowflake, the white
foal we had rescued. Sometimes out in the fields we
thought we glimpsed the Hinny, and our hearts yearned
toward her, but never came she nigh. Yet I was ill at ease.
The revealed identity of my erstwhile companion the blue
lad astounded me, and I was shamed. Yet I was intrigued
too, and potently flattered by his suit. I remembered the
vision I had had while he played his music, the Lady in the
blue moon, and the subtle appeal of that notion grew.
Later I learned that he had gone to inquire the identity of
his ideal wife, and fhe Oracle had named me. It had for
once been not obscure or circuitous or capable of alternate
interpretation; it had told him exactly where and when to
find me. Hence he had come at the designated moment,
extremely fortuitous for me as I hung dangling in the
clutch of the troB, and preserved my life when else it
would have ended there. He had done all that he had done
only to win my favor, though I was his by right from the
moment he rescued me. And I only an ignorant peasant-
girl!"

"The Oracle knew better," Stile murmured. "Thy Lord's
legacy lives on in thee, when else it would have perished."

She continued as if she had not heard him. "Ah, what a




92 Blue Adept Blue Adept 93

foolish girl was I in that time. Long and long was it before
ever I gave him the third Thee."

"I beg thy pardon. Lady. I don't follow—"

She gestured negligently with one hand. "Of course fhou
art from another culture, so I needs must inform thee. In
Phaze, when a person loves another and wishes to have it
known without obligation, she omits the statement and
repeats only the object. Thee, three times. Then that other
may do as he wishes, without reproach."

"I don't understand," Stile said. "Just to say to a person
Thee, th— "

Neysa nearly bucked him off as she drowned him out
with a blast from her horn.

"Say it not carelessly nor in jest," the Lady reproached
him. "It has the force of an oath."

Shaken, Stile apologized. "I have much to learn yet of
this culture. I thank thee. Lady, for educating me, and
thee, Neysa, for preventing me from compromising myself
ignorantiy." But it would not have been a lie if he had said
it to the Lady; this was a battle all but lost at the outset.
Still, it would have put her in an awkward situation.

"When next I saw the Hinny," the Lady continued
blithely, "she was in sad state. Gravid, she had been beset
by cowardly predators, jackals, and was nigh unto death.
She limped to our gate, remembering me, and I screamed
and roused my rather. Never did I see him so angry, for
the Hinny had been his admiration since the instant he saw
her Erst. He took his cudgel and beat off all the curs that
harried her, while I tried to help her. But all was for
naught; she had lost much blood, and expended her last
store of vitality reaching us, and the Hinny died at our
door.

"Then did I remember the spell the blue lad had left me.
*Blue to me—I summon thee!' I cried. And he was there.
When he saw the Hinny he gave a great cry of agony and
fell upon her, taking her head in his arms, and the tears
flowed down his face. But she was dead, her open eyes
seeing naught, and all his magic availed not.

"The lad brought out his harmonica and played a tune,
wondrously sad, and two moons clouded over and the sun
faded, and a shimmer formed in the air between us. It

made a picture, and it showed the Hinny, as she had been
in life, great with foal, grazing near the wood. Then a pack
of jackals charged, a foul horde, surly ill-kempt curs of
scant individual courage, like to wolves as goblins be to
men, seeking to overrun their quarry by sheer mass. She
leaped away, but the weight of the foal within her made
her ponderous and somehow her front feet stumbled, caus-
ing her to fall and roll, and the brutes were on her in a
motley pile, ripping at her flesh, tearing at her ears and tail.
She struggled to her feet, but they hung on her like despic-
able leeches, and her precious blood was flowing. Gashed
and weakening, she struggled out of that wood, the jackals
constantly at her feet, leaping at her, trying to drag her
down again, so that she left a trail of blood. So at last she
came to me, and I saw myself scream and throw my hands
to my head, reacting hysterically instead of helping her,
and then my father came with his cudgel, and the magic
vision faded.

"My father stood beside me, watching the sorrow of
Blue, and indeed we shared it. Then did I comprehend the
third of the great qualities about the Blue Adept that were
to be the foundation of my love for him. His music, his
power—and his abiding love for—" She hesitated momen-
tarily. "For equines."

Stile realized she had been about to say "horses" and
had reconsidered, from deference to Neysa.

"At last the blue lad rose, and it was as if the blood had
been drained from him as it had from the Hinny. 'Because
her knees were weak, the jackals caught her,' he said. "The
knees she sacrificed for me.' And I could not say nay, for I
had seen it happen.

" 'Yet can I do somewhat,' he continued, and there was
that in him that frightened me, and I began to get a glim-
mer of the meaning of the sorrow and anger of an Adept.
Turn you both about, lest you see what pleases you not.'
And my father, wiser than I, took mine arm and made
me turn with him. There was a pause, then sweet, bitter
music as the lad played his harmonica. Then the muttering
of an incantation, and an explosion of heat and odor. We
turned again—and the corpse of the Hinny was gone,
blasted by Blue's magic, and in the swirling smoke the lad




94 Blue Adept

stood, holding in his arms a newbom foal, light blue in
hue.

" 'The Hinny be dead, but her foal lives,' he said. "This is
why she came to thee.' Then before we could properly
react, he addressed my father. "This foal is birthed before
her time. Only constant, expert care can save her. I am no
healer; she requires more than magic. I beg thee, sir, to
take her off my hands, rendering that which only thou
canst give, that she may survive and be what she can
be.'

"My father stood bemused, not instantly comprehending
the request. "The Hinny came to thee,' the lad continued,
'knowing thou couldst help her. More than all else, she
wanted her foal to live and to be happy and secure. No
right have I to ask this favor of thee, knowing it will be
years before thou art free of this onus. Yet for the sake of
the Hinny's faith—' And he stepped forward, holding forth
the foal. And I knew my father was thinking of the Hinny,
the Enest mare of any species he had ever beheld, and of
the Blue Stallion, the Enest stud, and seeing in this foal a
horse like none in Phaze—worth a fortune no man could
measure. And I realized that in the guise of a request, the
lad was proffering a gift of what was most dear to my
father's dreams. It was Blue's way.

"My father took the foal in silence and bore her to our
stable, for she needed immediate care. I remained facing
the lad. And something heaved within my breast, not love
but a kind of gratitude, and I knew that though he looked
to be a lad and was in fact a nefarious magician, he was
also a worthy man. And he inclined his head to me, and
then he walked away toward the forest where the jackals
had attacked the Hinny. And in a little while there was a
brilliant burst of light there, and that whole forest was
aflame, and I heard the jackals screaming as they burned.
And I remembered how he had destroyed the trolls, and
was appalled at this act of vengeance. Yet did I understand
it also, for I too loved the Hinny, and who among us
withholds our power when that which is dear to us is
ravaged? The power of an Adept is a terrible thing, yet the
emotion was the same as mine. No creature aggravates an
Adept but at the peril of his kind. Yet when later I rode

Blue Adept                     95

Starshine out to that region, I found the forest alive and
green. Only the charred skeletons of the jackals remained;

none other had been hurt. I marveled again at the power of
the Adept, as awesome in its discretion as in its ferocity.

"After that my father made no objection to Blue's suit,
for it was as if he had exchanged me for the precious foal,
and duly the banns were published and I married the Blue
Adept though I did not really love him. And he was ever
kind to me, and made for me the Ene domicile now called
the Blue Demesnes, and encouraged me to develop and
practice my healing art on any creatures who stood in
need, even trolls and snow demons, and what I was unable
to heal he restored by a spell of his own. Some we healed
were human, and some of these took positions at the castle,
willingly serving as sentries and as menials though no con-
tract bound them. But mainly it was the animals who came
to us, and no creature ever was turned away, not even
those known as monsters, so long as they wreaked no
havoc. It was a picturebook marriage."

She abated her narrative. "I thank thee for telling me
how it was," Stile said carefully.

"I have not told thee the half of how it was," she said
with surprising vehemence. "I loved him not, not enough,
and there was a geas upon our union. He knew both these
things, yet he treated me ever with consummate respect
and kindness. How I wronged him!"

This was a surprise. "Surely thou dost overstate the easel
I can not imagine thee—"

But confession was upon her. Neysa made a little shake
of her horn, advising him to be silent, and Stile obeyed.
"The geas was inherent in his choice of me to wed. He had
asked the Oracle for his ideal wife, but had failed to in-
clude in that deEnition the ideal mother of his children.
Thus I learned when I queried the Oracle about the num-
ber and nature of my children-to-be. 'None by One,' it told
me in part, and in time I understood. There was to be no
child by my marriage to him; no heir to the Blue Demes-
nes. In that way I wronged him. And my love—" She
shrugged. "I was indeed a fool. Still I thought of him as a
lad, a grown child though I knew him for a man, and a
creature of incalculable power. Perhaps it was that power

96                     Blue Adept

that straitened my heart against him. How could I truly
love one who could so readily destroy all who stood against
him? What would happen if ever he became wroth with
me? And he, aware of this doubt, forced me not, and
therefore had I guilt. So it was for years—"

She broke off, overcome by emotion. Stile remained si-
lent. This was an aspect of her history that instilled misgiv-
ing, yet he knew it was best that he know it.

"Those wasted yearsi" she cried. "And now too late!"

They had come to rougher territory, as if the land itself
responded to the Lady's anguish of conscience. These were
the mere foothills to the Purple Mountains, Stile knew, yet
the ridges and gullies became steep and the trees gro-
tesquely gnarled. The turf was thick and springy; the steeds
were not partial to the footing. Stile found the landscape
beautiful, original, and somehow ominous—like the Lady
Blue.

"Can we skirt this region?" Stile asked Neysa.

The unicorn blew a note of negation. It seemed that this
was the only feasible route. Stile knew better than to chal-
lenge this; the unicorn could have winded a dragon or
some other natural hazard, and be threading her way safely
past. So they picked their path carefully through the
rugged serrations of the land, making slow progress toward
the major range.

The Lady's horse balked. She frowned and gently urged
it forward, but the mare circled instead to the side—and
balked again.

"This is odd," the Lady commented, forgetting her re-
cent emotion. "What is bothering thee, Hinblue?"

Then the Lady's fair tresses lifted of their own accord,
though there was no wind.

Neysa made a double musical snort. Magicf

Stile brought out his harmonica. "Nay, play not," the
Lady said hastily. She did not want him to show his power
in the vicinity of the land of the Little Folk.

But her hair danced about and flung itself across her
eyes like a separately living thing, and her horse fidgeted
with increasing nervousness. Neysa's hom began to lower
to fighting range.

97

Blue Adept

"Just a melody," Stile told her. "Neysa and I will play a
little tune, just to calm thy steed." And to summon his
magic—just in case.

They played an impromptu duet. Neysa's music was
lovely, of course—but Stile's carried the magic. It
coalesced like a forming storm, charging the immediate
atmosphere.

And in that charge, dim figures began to appear: small,
slender humanoids, with flowing hair and shining white
robes. They had been invisible; now they were translucent,
the color slowly coming as the music thickened the magic
ambience. Stile's power was revealing them. One of them
was hovering near the Lady, playing with her hair.

"The Sidhe," the Lady breathed, pronouncing it "Shee."
"The Faerie-folk. They were teasing us."

Stile squeezed Neysa's sides with his knees questioningly.
She perked her ears forward: a signal that there was no
immediate danger.

Stile continued playing, and the ethereal figures solidi-
fied. "0, Sidhe," the Lady said. "Why do you interfere
with us? We seek no quarrel with your kind."

Then a Faerie-man responded. "We merely played with
thee for fun. Lady of the Human Folk, as we do so often
with those who are unaware of our nature. Innocent mis-
chief is the joy of our kind." His voice was winningly soft,
with the merry tinkle of a mountain streamlet highlighting
it. Stile could appreciate how readily such a voice could be
mistaken for completely natural effects—flowing water,
blowing breezes, rustling leaves.

"And thou," a Sidhe maid said to Stile as he played.
"What call hast thou, of Elven kind, to ride with a mun-
dane woman?" Her voice was as soft as the distant cooing
of forest doves, seductively sweet, and her face and form
were similarly winsome.

Stile put aside his harmonica. The Sidhe remained tangi-
ble; now that they had been exposed, they had no further
need of invisibility. "I am a man," he said.

"A man—on a unicorn?" she inquired derisively. "Nay,
thou art more likely a giant kobold, serving in the house of
the human lady. Thou canst not fool her long, sirrah!




98

Blue Adept

Come, I will offer thee entertainment fit for thy kind." And
she did a little skip in air that caused her white skirt to sail
up, displaying her immortal legs to advantage.

"Thou'rt not my kind," Stile insisted, intrigued.

"Dost thou jilt me already?" she flashed, and evanescent
sparks radiated from her hair. "I will have thy fanny in a
hoist, ingratel"

Neysa shifted her horn to bear on the Faerie-lass, who
skipped nimbly aside. These magical creatures might not
fear the weapons of human beings, but the unicorn's horn
was itself magical, and would take its toll of any creature.

Stile lifted his harmonica to his mouth again.

"Yea, play!" the Sidhe lady exclaimed. "I will forgive
thee thine indiscretion if thou playest while we dance."

It was a face-saving maneuver on her part, but Stile
decided to go along. He did not want to have to use overt
magic here. He played, and Neysa accompanied him, and
the music was marvelously light and pretty. Stile had been
a fair musician before he came to Phaze, but he had im-
proved substantially since.

The Sidhe flocked in and formed their formation in mid-
air. They danced, wheeling in pairs, singing and clapping
their little hands. The males stood about four and a half
feet tall, with calloused hands and curly short beards; the
females were closer to four feet, and all were delicate of
limb and torso. They whirled and pranced, the girls flinging
their skirts out with delightful abandon, the men doing
elaborate dance steps. It was beautiful, and looked like an
extraordinary amount of fun.

After a time, the Sidhe damsel floated back down to
Stile. She perched on Neysa's hom, somewhat to the uni-
corn's annoyance. She was breathing briskly, her full
bodice flexing rhythmically. "Give o'er, giant elf; thou'rt
forgiven!" she exclaimed. "Now come dance with me, be-
fore sunset, while thy steed plays her hom." And she
reached out a hand to him, the tiny fingers beckoning.

Stile glanced at the Lady Blue, who nodded affirmatively.
Neysa shrugged. Both evidently felt it was better to go
along with the Faerie-folk than to oppose them. They were
getting along well at the moment; better not to disrupt the
mood, for such creatures could be unpleasant when an-

Blue Adept                     99

gered, and their tempers were volatile. Stile had seen that
in the mercurial reactions of this little lady.

Yet he demurred, more diplomatically this time. "Elven
lass, I can not dance in air without magic." And he was
not about to reveal his true nature now. Already he under-
stood that Adepts were held in as poor regard by the Little
Folk as by ordinary human people.

"Then shall I join thee below," she said, descending
lightly to the turf. Then, abruptly shy: "I am ThisUepuff."

Stile dismounted. "I am Stile." He stood almost a foot
taller than she, and really did feel like a giant now. Was
this the way Hulk saw the world?

"The bridge between pastures?" Thistlepuff exclaimed,
correctly interpreting his name. Then she did a pirouette,
again causing her skirt to rise and expose her fine and
slender legs. This was a characteristic gesture with her. In
the frame of Proton, where all serfs were naked, no such
effect was possible, and Stile found it almost embarras-
singly appealing. The brief glimpse seemed better than the
constant view, because of the surprise and mystery. Cloth-
ing, he realized, was also magic.

Stile had played the Game in Proton for most of his life.
Part of the Game was the column of the Arts, and part of
the Naked Arts was Dance. He was an athlete and a
gymnast, and he had a good memory and sense of pace.
Hence Stile could dance as well as any man, and a good
deal better than most. He had watched and analyzed the
patterns of the Faerie dance, and now understood it well
enough. If this sprite thought to make a fool of him for the
entertainment of her peers, she would be disappointed.

He went into a whirl of his own, matching Thistiepuff's
effort. There was a faint "Oooh" of surprise, and the other
Faerie-folk gathered about to watch. Yes, they had thought
to have sport with himi

The lass stepped blithely into his arms, and he swung her
in Sidhe fashion. Her head topped at the level of his shoul-
der, and she was light as a puff of smoke, but she was also
lithe and sweet to hold. She spun out and kicked one leg
high in the manner of a ballerina—oh, didn't she love to
show those legsl—while he steadied her by the other hand.
Then she spun back into his embrace, making a little leap




100 Blue Adept

so that her face met his in a fleeting kiss that struck and
dissipated like a breath of cool fog.

They moved into a small promenade, and he tossed her
into the air for a graceful flip and caught her neatly at the
waist. Light as she was, it was easy to do the motions, and
he enjoyed it. He felt more and more like the giant he
never had been, and privately he reveled in it.

When the demonstration was through, the Sidhe specta-
tors applauded gleefully. "Thou hast danced beforel" This-
tlepuff exclaimed, her bosom heaving with even more
abandon. "Yet thou dost claim to be humani"

"Human beings can dance," Stile said. "The Lady I serve
could do as well." He hoped that was the case; it occurred
to him as he spoke that though he had seen the Lady Blue
ride marvelously well, he had never seen her dance. Yet of
course she could do it!

Neysa blew a note of caution. But it was too late. Stile,
in his inexperience with the Faerie-folk had made another
blunder. Thistlepuff was frowning mischievously at the
Lady Blue.

"So thou sayest?" the Sidhe inquired, as sharply as the
sound of the wood of a tree-limb snapping under too great
a burden of snow. "Thou art of the Elven kind, surely; but
she is as surely mundane. We shall see how she can dance."
And the Sidhe recentered their ring on the lady.

He had gotten her into this; he would have to get her
out. Stile crossed to the Lady as she dismounted. He could
not even apologize; that would betray the situation to the
Faerie-folk. He had to bluff it through—and he hoped that
she could and would go along.

The Lady Blue smiled enigmatically and took his prof-
fered hand. Good; at least she accepted him as a partner.
It would have been disaster with a mischievous four-and-a-
half-foot-tall Sidhe male for a dancing partneri At least
Stile would keep his feet mainly on the ground.

It would have to be impromptu free-form, for they had
had no rehearsal. Stile hoped the Lady had analyzed the
dancing patterns as he had. But he let her lead, so that she
could show him what she wanted.

Suddenly they were in it. The Lady was taller than he
and as heavy—but also as lithe and light on her feet as a

Blue Adept                   101

woman could be. When he swung her, she was solid, not at
all like Thistlepuff, yet she moved precisely. He did not try
to toss her in air, but she was so well balanced he could
hold her up readily, and whirl her freely. When he moved,
she matched him; when he stepped, she stepped; when he
leaped, she was with him. In fact, she was the best dancer
he had encountered.

It was a fragment of heaven, being with her like this.
For the moment he could almost believe she was his. When
they danced apart, she was a marvel of motion and sym-
metry; when they danced together, she was absolute de-
light. Now he wished this dance could go on forever, keep-
ing his dream alive.

But then Neysa brought her harmonica melody to a
close, and the dance ended. The Sidhe applauded. "Aye, she
can dancel" Thistlepuff agreed ruefully. "Mayhap she has
some inkling of Faerie blood in her ancestry after all. Thou
hast shamed us, and we must make amend. Come to our
village this night."

"We dare not decline their hospitality," the Lady Blue
murmured in his ear. She was glowing with her effort of
the dance, and he wished he could embrace her and kiss
her. But this was one blunder he knew better than to
make.

Now the steep bank of a ridge opened in a door. There
was light inside, and warmth. The passage into the hill was
broad enough for the steeds, and these were of course
welcome. They walked into the Faerie village.

Inside it was amazingly large. This was technically a
cave, but it seemed more like a clearing in a deep wood at
night, the walls invisible in their blackness. A cheery fire
blazed in the center. Already a feast was being laid out: a
keg of liqueur, many delicious-smelling breadstuffs, fresh
vegetables, pots of roasted potatoes and buckets of milk
and honey and dew. For the animals there was copious
grain and fragrant hay and a sparkling stream.

Then Stile remembered something from his childhood
readings. "If a human being partakes of Faerie food, is he
not doomed to live among them forever? We have business
elsewhere—"

Thistlepuff laughed with the sound of rain spattering

102                   Blue Adept

into a quiet pond. "Thou really art not of our kind, theni
How canst thou believe that myth? Thou hast it back-
wards: if ever one of the Sidhe forsakes his own and con-
sumes mundane food, he is doomed to become mortal.
That is the true tragedy."

Stile looked at Neysa, embarrassed. She blew a positive
note—no danger here. ThistlepufE had spoken the truth, or
close enough to it to eliminate his concern. So he had
blundered again, but not seriously; the Sidhe were amused.

Now they ate, and it was an excellent repast. After-
wards, pleasantly sated, they availed themselves of the
Faerie sanitary facilities, which were concealed in a thick
bed of toadstools, then accepted invisible hammocks in lieu
of beds. Stile was so comfortable that he fell almost in-
stantly to sleep, and remained in blissful repose until a
beam of sunlight struck his face in the morning.

Startled, he looked about. He was lying in a bed of fem
in a niche in the gully. No cave, no invisible hammock, no
Faerie village! The Lady Blue was up before him; she
had already fetched fruit from some neighboring tree.
Neysa and Hinblue were grazing.

Stile was abashed. "Last night—what I remember—the
Sidhe—did I dream—?"

The Lady Blue presented him with a pomegranate. "Of
dancing with the Faerie-folk? Sharing their food? Consum-
ing too much of their nefarious dew so that thou didst
sleep like a rock forever in their invisible hammock? It
must have been a dream, for I remember it not."

There was a musical, mirthful snort from Neysa.

"Even so," Stile agreed, concentrating on the fruit. Was
his face as red as its juice? The Sidhe had had some sport
with him after all. But how glad he was to note that the
Lady's heavy mood had lifted.

"Yet dost thou dance divinely in thy dreams." The Lady
was for a moment pensive, then reverted briskly to busi-
ness. "If thou dost not get thy lazy bones aloft, never shall
we locate the Platinum Elves in time for thee to go divert
thyself at thy next otherframe game with thy mechanical
paramour."

Barbed wit, there! The Proton Tourney was no fun di-
version, but a matter of life or nonlife on that planet. Stile

Blue Adept                    103

rose with alacrity. "One more day, one more night—that's
all the time I have until I have to report for Round Two of
the Tourney."

Soon they were on their way again. It had been a good
night; human and equine beings had extra vigor. Neysa
and Hinblue stepped out briskly, hurdling the ridges and
gullies and hummocks. Neysa, conscious of the equine lim-
itations of the natural horse, did not push the pace too fast,
but miles were traversed swiftly. The Lady Blue, of course,
rode expertly. Stile might be the best rider in Phaze, but
she was the second best.

After an hour Stile became aware of something fleeting.
"Hold," he murmured. Neysa, feeling his bodily reaction,
was already turning around.

"Is aught amiss?" the Lady Blue inquired, elevating an
eyebrow prettily.

"The curtain," Stile said. "We just passed it. I need to
note where it is, as a matter of future reference. There may
be good places to cross it to Proton, if only I can locate
them."

"There are times when I wish I could cross that curtain,"
she said wistfully. "But hardly can I even perceive it."

"Ah—here it is," Stile said. "Proceeding northeast/
southwest, angling up from the Purple Mountains. Of
course it may curve about, in between reference points,
but—"

The Lady waved a hand. "Cross it, my lord, and see
where it leads. Only forget not to return, lest I abscond
with thy steed."

Stile laughed, then spelled himself through.

The other side was hot and bleak. The ubiquitous cloud
of pollution was thinner here, but the haze still shrouded a
distant force-field dome. This was not a good place to
cross; he needed a section within a dome, or very close to
one. Ah, well—it had been worth checking. He released his
held breath and willed himself back into Phaze as he
stepped back across the faint scintillation.

It was a great relief to see the lush greenery form around
him. What a mess the Citizens had made of the surface of
their planet, in the name of progressi "I'm satisfied. Let's
go"




104                    Blue Adept

"Yet if I could cross, it would mean there would be no
one for Hulk," the Lady concluded.

By midmorning they had reached the fringe of the Plati-
num Demesnes; Elven warner-markers so informed them.

Now Stile uncorked the Yellow Adept's gift-potion and
applied it liberally to his face and hands. He offered some
to the Lady, but she demurred; she did not care to smell
like an elf. Since she was obviously no threat to anyone,
Stile trusted it would be all right.

The Platinum Demesnes were in the Purple Mountains
proper. The access-pass was marked by a neat wooden
sign: PT78. Stile smiled, recognizing the scientific symbol
and atomic number of platinum; surely some crossover
from the frame of Proton, here. Evidently these Little Peo-
ple had a sense of unity or of humor.

They rode up the narrow trail. The mountain slopes rose
up steeply on either side, becoming almost vertical. It
would be very easy for someone to roll boulders down; the
stones would flatten anyone misfortunate enough to be in
their way. Except an ogre or an Adept. Stile kept his hand
on his harmonica and his mind on a boulder-repulsion spell
he had devised. He did not want to use magic here, but he
wanted even less to suffer death by stoning.

Then they encountered a hanging bridge. It crossed a
deep, dark chasm too wide for Neysa to leap, but the
bridge was too narrow and fragile to support equine weight.
Neysa could change form and cross, but that would not
help Hinblue. Stile considered casting a spell to transport
the horse across, but vetoed it himself; the Platinum Elves
could be watching. So—they would have to cross the hard
way, by navigating the chasm manually. Perhaps this was a
deliberate hurdle to test the nature of intruders, separating
the natural from the supernatural—or, more likely, the
Elven folk did not want mounted visitors charging into
their Demesnes.

There was a precarious path down into the chasm, and
another rising on the far side. Probably the two connected,
below. Stile and the Lady started down, riding, because the
steeds did not trust the people's ability to navigate such a
pass safely alone. But Stile kept his hand on the har-
monica.

Blue Adept                   105

The touch of that musical instrument reminded him—he
was coming here for a flute. Yet how could a musical
instrument avail him? What he really needed was a
weapon. Well, he should soon be finding out!

Fortunately the path did not descend far. It reached a
broad ledge that cut into the chasm, reducing it to a width
that could be conveniently hurdled by the steeds. The path
continued on down into the chasm, but they did not follow
it. They jumped across the ugly crack and started up the
other side. Stile was aware of a hot draft that came up
erratically from the depths, smelling of sulfur. He did not
like it.

They emerged at the top of that chasm, and continued
on up the path. Now they were higher in the mountain
range, nearing the top—and they rounded the crest, and
the landscape leveled, and lo! it was only a larger foothill.
Ahead the real mountains loomed, sloping up into the
clouds. They were tall enough to maintain snow, but it was
purple snow.

On this brief level spot was a mound, overgrown by turf
and vines. The path led right to it; in fact there was a stone
entranceway. "Methinks we have arrived," Stile murmured,
dismounting.

"Methinks thou shalt not swiftly depart," a voice said
behind him. Stile turned to find a small man in the path
behind. He stood about four inches shorter than Stile, but
was broader in proportion. His skin was an almost translu-
cent blue, and his clothing was steel-gray.

"Thou must be of the Elven Folk," Stile said. "I come
to beg a favor of the workers of platinum."

"We do work platinum," the elf agreed. "But we do no
favors for outsiders. Thou art now our prisoner, and thy
human companion." He gestured with his shining sword.
"Now proceed into the mound, the two of you. Thine
animals will join our herds outside."

Neysa turned on the arrogant elf, but Stile laid a cau-
tioning hand on her back. "We came to petition; we must
yield to them," he murmured. "If they treat us ill, thou
canst then act as thou seest fit. An thou dost find me
fettered, free me to play my music."




106

Blue Adept

Blue Adept

107

Neysa made an almost imperceptible nod with her horn.
Once Stile had access to his music, he could bring his pow-
ers of magic into play, and would then be able to handle
himself. So the risk was less than it seemed. He and the
Lady suffered themselves to be herded into the mound.

Inside it was gloomy, with only wan light Eitering in
through refractive vents. Several other armed elves were
there, garbed like the first. Their leader stepped up and
appraised Stile and the Lady as if they were newly pur-
chased animals. He sniffed as he approached Stile. "This
one be Erven," he pronounced. "But the woman is human.
Him we shall spare to labor at our forges; her we shall use
as tribute to the beast."

"Is this the way thy kind welcomes those who come
peaceably to deal with thee?" Stile asked. There was no
way he would permit the Lady Blue to be abused.

"Silence, captive!" the elf cried, striking at Stile's face
with a backhand swing of his arm.

The blow, of course, never landed. Stile ducked away
from it and caught the elf's arm in a punishing submission
hold. "I can not imagine the elders of thy kind being thus
inhospitable," he said mildly. "I suggest that thou dost
summon them now."

"No need," a new voice said. It was a frail, long-bearded
old elf, whose face and hands were black and wrinkled.
"Guards, begone! I will deal with this matter myself."

Stile let go his captive, and the young elves faded into
the crevices and crannies of the chamber. The oldster faced
Stile.

"I am Pyreforge, chief of the tribe of Platinum Mound
Folk of the Dark Elves. I apologize for the inhospitability
shown thee by our impetuous young. It is thy size they
resent, for they take thee to be a giant of our kind."

"A giant!" Stile exclaimed, amused. "I'm four feet eleven
inches talll"

"And I am four feet five inches tall," Pyreforge said. "It
is the odor of thy potion that deceives us, as well as thy
size. To what do we owe this visit by the Lady and Blue
Adept?"

Stile smiled ruefully. "I had thought not to be so ob-
vious."

"Thou art not. I was delayed researching my references
for thy description. I pored all through the Elven species in
vain. It was the unicorn that at last betrayed thee, though
we thought Blue recently deceased."

"Neysa would never—"

The old elf held up a withered hand. "I queried the
'corn not. But no man save one rides the unicorn, or trav-
els with the fairest of human ladies. That be the imposter
Blue Adept—who I think will not be considered imposter
long."

Stile relaxed. "Oh. Of course. Those must be compre-
hensive references thou hast."

"Indeed. Yet they are oft tantalizingly incomplete. Be it
true that thou didst come recently on the scene in the guise
of thy murdered self, and when the unicorns and were-
wolves challenged thee performed two acts of magic, the
first of which was inconsequential and the second enchant-
ment like none known before, that established thee as the
most powerful magician of the frame despite being a
novice?"

"It may be true," Stile agreed, taken aback. He had
rather underestimated his magical strength on that occa-
sion! Probably it had been the strength of his feeling that
had done it, rather than any special aptness at magic.

Then, perceiving that the Elder was genuinely curious,
he amplified: "I am of Proton-frame, come to take up the
mantle of my Phaze-self and set to right the wrong of his
murder. When the unicorn Herd Stallion challenged me to
show my magic, I made a spell to wall him in. When my
unicorn steed yielded her ambition on my behalf, I made
an oath of friendship to her. It had a broader compass than
I expected."

The Elder nodded. "Ah. And the 'corns and 'wolves
have not warred since. Thou art indeed Adept."

"Yet not omnipotent. Now must I need meet the Herd
Stallion again, at the Unolympics, and I am not his match
without magic. The Oracle sent me to borrow the Platinum
Flute."

"Ah, now it comes clear. That would of course avail
thee." Yet the elf seemed cold.




108 Blue Adept

"That I am glad to hear," Stile said. "I have heard it said
that music has charm to soothe the savage breast, but
whether it soothe the breast of a beast—"

The Elder frowned. "Yet it is forbidden for us to yield
this instrument, however briefly, to a human person, and
doubly forbidden to lend it to an Adept. Knowest thou not
its power?"

Stile shook his head. "I know only what the Oracle ad-
vised."

"No need for mystery. The wielder of the Flute is im-
mune from the negation of magic. There are other qualities
about it, but that is the primary one."

Stile thought about that. For an ordinary person, the
Flute would provide little advantage. But for a magic crea-
ture, such as a werewolf, it would protect his ability to
shape-change, and that could on occasion be a matter of
life and death. For an Adept—

With the Flute in his possession. Stile could draw on his
full powers of magic, even within the magic-negating circle
of unicorns. The Herd Stallion would not be able to stand
against him. The Oracle had spoken truly; this was the
instrument he needed.

But at the same time, he could understand why the
Mound Folk did not want him to have it. The existence of
various magic-nullifiers prevented the Adepts from being
overwhelmingly powerful. If an Adept obtained possession
of the Platinum Flute, there would be no effective limit to
his will.

"I appreciate thy concern," Stile said. "In fact, I agree
with it. The likes of me should not possess the likes of
this."

The Lady Blue's head turned toward him questioningly.
'Thou dost not abuse thy power."

"How could the Mound Folk be assured of that?" Stile
asked her. "There is corruption in power. And if the Flute
were taken from me by another Adept, what then would be
the limit?"

"It is good that thou dost understand," the Elder said.
"The Oracle oft does give unuseful advice, accurate though
it be. We Elves have great pride in our artifacts, and trade
them freely for things of equal value. But the Flute is

Blue Adept                    109

special; it required many years labor by our finest artisans,
and is our most precious and potent device. It has no equal
value. No other tribe has its match; not the goldsmiths or
the silversmiths or the ironsmiths or the woodsmiths or
bonesmiths. We alone work the lord of metals; we alone
control the platinum mine and have the craftsmen and the
magic to shape it into usable form. Thou art not asking for
a trifle. Adept."

"Yes," Stile agreed. "Yet is the Oracle wont to provide
advice that can in no wise be implemented?"

"Never. I termed it unuseful, in the sense that surely
there is some simpler way to achieve thy mission with the
Herd Stallion than this. Misinterpretations may abate the
worth of an Oracle's message, but always the essence is
there and true. There must be some pattern to this. There-
fore must we deal with thee, can we but find the way. Thou
knowest that even for the briefest loan we must extract a
price."

"I am prepared to offer fair exchange, though I know
not what that might be."

"There is little we need from thy kind."

"I do have resources, shouldst thou choose to tolerate
the practice of magic in thy Demesnes. Is there anything
that requires the talent of an Adept?"

Pyreforge considered gravely. "There be only two things.
The lesser is not a task any man can perform, and the
greater is unknown even to us. We know only that it must
be performed by the finest mortal musician of Phaze."

"I do not claim to be the finest musician, but I am
skilled," Stile said.

The wizened elf raised a shriveled eyebrow. "Skilled
enough to play the Flute?"

"I am conversant with the flute as an instrument. I
should be able to play the Platinum Flute unless there be a
geas against it."

The Elder considered again. He was obviously ill at ease.
"It is written that he who plays the Flute well enough to
make our mountain tremble will be the foreordained savior
of Phaze. Dost thou think thou art that one?"

Stile spread his hands. "I doubt it. I was not even aware
that Phaze was in jeopardy."




110

Blue Adept

Blue Adept

111

"The Oracle surely knows, however. If the Time of De-
cision draws nigh . . ." Pyreforge shook his head dolefully.
"I think we must try thee on the Flute, though it grieves
me with spreading misgiving." He glanced at a crevice,
where a guard lurked. "How be the light outside?"

The guard hurried outside. In a moment he returned.
"Overcast, shrouded by fog. It will not lift this hour."

"Then may we gather outside. Summon the tribe this
instant."

The guard disappeared again. "This be no casual matter,
Adept. The Flute extends its force regardless, protecting
the magic of the holder. An thou shouldst betray us, we
must die to a man to recover it, killing thee if we can. I
think thou canst be trusted, and on that needs must I
gamble; my life be forfeit an I be in error."

Stile did not like this either, but he was not sure how to
alleviate the elf's concern.

"Let thy warriors fix their threats on me," the Lady
Blue said. "My Lord will not betray thee."

Pyreforge shook his head. "This be not our way. Lady,
despite the ignorance of our commoners. And it would not
avail against the typical Adept, who values nothing more
than his power."

"Well I know the justice of thy concern. Yet would I
stake my life upon my Lord's integrity."

The Elder smiled. "No need. Lady. Already have I
staked mine. No lesser hostage preserves the peace in these
Demesnes, when an Adept manifests here. I do this only
for that the Oracle has cast its impact on us, and my books
suggest the ponderosity of the situation. Fate draws the
string on every creature, inquiring not what any person's
preference might be." He returned his attention to Stile.
"The Flute's full power is available only to the one who
can master it completely, the one for whom it is destined.
We made it, but can not use it; only the Foreordained can
exploit it ultimately. When he comes, the end of the
present order will be near. This is why we can not give up
the Flute to any lesser person."

"I seek only to borrow it," Stile reminded him. But this
did not look promising. If he were not the Foreordained,
they would not let him borrow the Flute; if he were, there

was a great deal more riding on this than his encounter
with the Herd Stallion!

They walked outside. The cloud-cover had intensified,
shrouding all the mountain above their level, leaving only a
low-ceilinged layer of visibility, like a huge room. The elves
of the tribe had gathered on the knoll, completely sur-
rounding the mound—young and old, women and children
too. Most were slender and handsome, and among them
the women were phenomenally lovely, but a few were
darkened and wrinkled like the Elder. Stile was the cyno-
sure of all their eyes; he saw them measuring him, dis-
comfited by his large stature; he did indeed feel like a
giant, and no longer experienced any exhilaration in the
sensation. All his life he had privately longed for more
height; now he understood that such a thing would not be
an unmixed blessing, and perhaps no blessing at all. Hulk
had tried to tell him. The problem was not height; it was in
being different, in whatever manner.

"We can not bear the direct light of the sun, being Dark
Elves," the Elder said. "Should a sunbeam strike us, we
turn instantly to stone. That is why the fog is so important,
and why we reside in these oft-shrouded mountains, and
seldom go abroad from our mounds by day. Yet like all
our kind we like to dance, and at night when it is safe and
the moons be bright we come out. I was in my youth
careless, and a ray pierced a thin cloud and transfixed me
ere I could seek cover; I turned not to stone but became as
I am now. It was the wan sun, not mine age, that scorched
me."

"I might heal thee of that," Stile said. "If thou wishes!
A spell of healing—"

"What I might wish is of no account. I must needs live
with the consequence of my folly—as must we all."

Now an elf brought, with an air of ceremony, a somber
wooden case. "Borrow the Flute for the hour only," the
Elder told Stile. "Ascertain for thyself and for us thy rela-
tion to it. The truth be greater than the will of any of us; it
must be known."

Stile took the precious case. Inside, in cushioned splen-
dor, lay the several pieces of gleaming metal tubing. Plati-
num, yes—a fortune in precious metal, exclusive of its




Blue Adept

112

worth as a music instrument, which had to be consider-
able, and its value as a magic talisman. He lifted out the
pieces carefully and assembled it, conscious of its perfect
heft and workmanship. The King of Flutes, surely!

Meanwhile the Mound Folk watched in sullen silence,
and the Elder talked, unable to contain his pride in the
instrument. "Our mine be not pure platinum; there is an
admixture of gold and indium. That provides character
and hardness. We make many tools and weapons and uten-
sils, though few of these are imbued with magic. There is
also a trace of Phazite in the Flute, too."

"Phazite?" Stile inquired, curious. "I am not familiar

with that metal."

"Not metal, precisely, but mineral. Thou mayst know of

it as Protonite."

"Protonitel" Stile exclaimed. "The energy-mineral? I
thought that existed only in Proton-frame."

"It exists here too, but in another aspect, as do all
things. Wert thou not aware that Phazite be the fundamen-
tal repository of magic here? In Proton-frame it yields
physical energy in abundance; in Phaze-frame it yields
magic. Every act of magic exhausts some of that power—
but the stores of it are so great and full Adepts so few that
it will endure yet for millennia."

"But in Proton they are mining it, exporting it at a

horrendous ratel"

"They are foolish, there. They will exhaust in decades
what would otherwise have served them a hundred times as
long. It should be conserved for this world."

So Phaze was likely to endure a good deal longer than
Proton, Stile realized. That made Phaze an even better
place to be. But why, then, was there this premonition of
the Foreordained, and of the end of Phaze? Stile could
appreciate why Pyreforge was disturbed; there were indeed
hints of something seriously amiss.

What would happen when Proton ran out of Protonite?
Would Citizens start crossing the curtain to raid the sup-
plies of Phazite? If so, terrible trouble was ahead, for Citi-
zens would let nothing inhibit them from gratification of
their desires. Only the abolition of the curtain would pre-
vent them from ravishing Phaze as they had ravished Fro-


Blue Adept                   113

ton. Yet how could a natural yet intangible artifact like the
curtain be removed?

Now the Flute was assembled and complete. It was the
most beautiful instrument Stile had ever seen. He lifted it
slowly to his mouth. "May I?" he asked.

"Do the best thou canst with it," the elf said tightly.
"Never have we heard its sound; we can not play it. Only a
mortal can do that."

Stile applied his lips, set his fingers, and blew experi-
mentally.

A pure, liquid, ineffably sweet note poured out. It
sounded across the landscape, transfixing all the spectators.
Elder and elves alike stood raptly, and Neysa perked her
ears forward; the Lady Blue seemed transcendentally fair,
as if a sanguine breeze caressed her. There was a special
flute-quality to the note, of course—but more than that,
for this was no ordinary flute. The note was ecstatic in its
force and clarity and color—the quintessence of sound.

Then Stile moved into an impromptu melody. The in-
strument responded like a living extension of himself,
seeming to possess nerves of its own. It was impossible to
miskey such a flute; it was too perfect. And it came to him,
in a minor revelation, that this must be the way it was to
be a unicorn, with a living, musical horn. No wonder those
creatures played so readily and welll

Now the Mound Folk danced. Their sullenness vanished,
compelled away by the music, and their feet became light.
They formed their ranks on the ground, not in the air, and
kept their motions on a single plane, but they were aban-
doned in their sheer joy of motion. The elves scintillated
as they turned, and their damsels glowed. They spun into
convoluted patterns that nevertheless possessed the beauty
of organization. They flung out and in; they kicked their
feet in unison; the elves swung the maids and the maids
swung the elves; they threaded their way through each
other in a tapestry of ever-increasing intricacy. There were
no tosses or acrobatic swings, merely synchronized patterns
that coalesced into an artistic whole. Over and through it
all passed the grandeur of the music of the Flute, fashion-
ing from disparate elements an almost divine unity. It was
not Stile's skill so much as the talent bequeathed by the




114                    Blue Adept

perfect instrument; he could not shame it by delivering less
than his ultimate.

Stile saw that the fog was lifting and thinning, as if
dissipated by the music. The clouds roiled and struggled to
free themselves of their confinement. He brought the re-
cital to a close, and the dancing came to a neat halt as if it
had been planned exactly this way. Again the Mound Folk
stood still, but now they were smiling. Even the guards
who had greeted Stile so inhospitably had relaxed their
resentment.

"That was the loveliest music I ever did hear," the Elder
said. "It made our finest dance. Thou hast rare talent. Yet
did the mountain not shake."

"It did not shake," Stile agreed, relieved.

"Thou art not the Foreordained."

"Never did I claim to be."

"Still, thou canst play marvelously well. If the Oracle
decrees that the Flute be loaned to thee, it may be that we
are constrained to oblige."

"This I would appreciate," Stile said, taking apart the
instrument and returning it carefully to its case. "If thou
dost trust me with it."

But now the circled Mound Folk frowned and muttered.
The roil of the clouds had stilled when the music stopped,
but the disturbance seemed to have passed into the elves.
"Nay, my people will not so lightly tolerate that. Perhaps if
we borrowed thy service in exchange—"

The muttering subsided. "I am willing to do what service
I may," Stile said. "But I can not remain here long. I have
commitments elsewhere. I will need the Flute for a number
of days, until the Unolympic."

The muttering began again. "Desist this noisel" the
Elder cried at the elves, annoyed. "We shall fashion a fair
bargain or not part with the Flute." He accepted the Flute-
case from Stile; in this judgment, at least, he had not been
mistaken. Stile had neither abused the Flute nor sought to
retain it without permission. "Now get under cover before
the cloud breaksl"

There was little danger of that now, but the Mound Folk
hurried away. Stile and the Lady returned inside the near-


Blue Adept                   115

est mound with the Elder, while Neysa and Hinblue re-
turned to their grazing.

"It could be said," Pyreforge said after reflection, "that
thou dost borrow the Flute only to bring it to the one for
whom it is intended. The Foreordained."

"But I do not know the Foreordainedl"

"Then shalt thou quest for him."

Stile understood the nature of the offer. Such a quest
could take as long as he needed for the Flute. Yet it would
have to be a true mission. "How could I know him?"

"He would play the Flute better than thee."

"There may be many who can do that."

"I think not. But thou wouldst send him to us, as we can
not fare forth to seek him, and we would know by the
tenor of the mountain his identity. If he played well, but
was not the Foreordained, we at least would have the Flute
back."

"This seems less than certain. I think, at least for the
acquiescence of thy people, I need to earn this borrowing.
Thou didst mention two tasks, the lesser of which no man
might perform. Yet I am Adept."

"Canst thou wield a broadsword?"

"I can," Stile replied, surprised.

"This task bears the threat of ugly death to any but the
most skilled and persistent swordsman."

"I have faced such threats before. I would feel more
secure from them with the Flute in my hands and a broad-
sword ready."

"Assuredly. Then listen. Adept. There is beneath our
Mound Demesnes and below our platinum mine, deep in a
cave hewn from out of the Phazite bedrock, one of the
Worms of the fundament, ancient and strong and savage
and Eery."

"A dragon!" Stile exclaimed.

"Even so. But not one of the ordinary reptiles of the
southern marches beyond these mountains. This monster
has slowly tunneled through the mountain range during all
the time we have mined here. Now we have come within
awareness of each other. The Worm be centuries old, and
its teeth are worn and its heat diminished so that it can no




116                    Blue Adept

longer consume rock as readily as in bygone centuries, yet
it is beyond our means to thwart. It requires from us
tribute—"

"Human sacrifice!" Stile exclaimed, remembering the
threat the elves had made concerning the Lady Blue.

"Even so. We like this not, yet if we fail to deliver on
schedule, the Worm will exert itself and undermine our
foundations and melt our platinum ore and we shall be
finished as smiths. We are smithy elves, highly specialized;

it took us a long time to work up to platinum and become
proficient with it. We can not go back to mere gold, even if
other tribes had not already filled in that specialty. We
must maintain our present level, or become as nothing. My
people would sooner go out in sunlight."

"So thou dost need that dragon eliminated," Stile con-
cluded.

"For that I believe my people would abate their dis-
quietous murmurings about the loan of the Flute."

"Even so," Stile said warily. "This is a large dragon?"

"Enormous."

"Breathes fire?"

"Twenty-foot jets from each nostril."

"Armored?"

"Stainless steel overlapping scales. Five-inch claws. Six-
inch teeth. Lightning bolts from eyes."

"Temperament?"

"Aggressive."

"Resistive to magic?"

"Extremely. The Worm beds in Phazite, so has devel-
oped a considerable immunity."

"I wonder what it was like in its prime?" Stile mused.

"No matter. In its prime it needed not the tribute of our
kind."

"But if the Platinum Flute were employed—"

"The magic of the Flute be stronger than the anti-magic
of the Worm."

"Then it is possible that an Adept carrying the Flute
could dispatch the creature."

"Possible. But hardly probable. The Worm cannot be
abolished by magic alone."

"Well, I'd be willing to make the attempt."

Blue Adept                   117

"Nayl" the Lady Blue cried. "Few dragons hast thou
encountered; thou knowest not their nature. Accept not
this perilous mission!"

"I would not borrow a thing of value without giving
service in return," Stile said. "But if I could borrow the
Flute to brace the Worm, thereafter I would feel justified
in borrowing it for one task of mine own. There might be
other uses I could make of it besides matching a unicorn
stallion, until I locate the one for whom the Flute be
intended."

"Thou meanest to brace the Worm?" the Elder asked.

"At least to make the attempt. If I fail to dispatch it, I
will return the Flute immediately to thee, if I remain able
to do so."

"Nayl" the Lady cried again. "This is too high a price to
risk, for the mere postponement of the breeding of one
mare. She is mine oath-friend, yet—"

"For that trifle thou dost this?" the Elder demanded,
abruptly suspicious. "Thou dost risk thy life against the
Worm, and thy pride against the Stallion, for ... ?"

"She is a very special mare, also mine oath-friend," Stile
said stiffly, not wanting to admit that things had pyramided
somewhat.

"I fear my people will not support this," the Elder said.
"They will fear thou wouldst borrow the Flute merely to
abscond with it, facing no Worm. Who would stop thee,
armed with it?"

Both Stile and the Lady reacted with anger. "My Lord
Blue does not cheat!" she flared. "I thought we had already
made proof of this. Again will I stand hostage to that."

"Nay," Stile said, touched by her loyalty, though he
knew it was the honor of the Blue Demesnes she was
protecting rather than himself. "Thou'rt no hostage."

The Elder's canny gaze passed from one to another.
"Yet perhaps this would do, this time. Let the Lady be my
guest, here, for a few hours; do we care if others assume
she be security for this loan of the Flute? Methinks no man
would leave his love to be sacrificed to a dragon. If the
Worm be slain, thy mettle is proved, and the loan is good."

"The Lady is not my—" Stile started, then reconsidered.
It was a matter he preferred not to discuss here. Also, he

118

Blue Adept

Blue Adept

119

would be operating on an extremely tenuous footing if he
denied his love for her. He would not permit her to be fed
to the dragon, whatever her feeling for him.

"Others be not aware of that," the Elder said, delicately
skirting the issue. "Few know that the Lord of the Blue
Demesnes has changed. Let her remain with me, and none
of my people will hold thy motive in suspicion. She will
not be ill-treated." He glanced at the Lady. "Dost thou
perchance play chess?"

"Perchance," she agreed, smiling.

Stile realized that the Elder had proffered a viable com-
promise. It was a way to suppress the objections of the
Mound Folk, without really threatening the Lady. Cer-
tainly Stile was not about to take her with him to meet
the dragon!

"Do thou keep the harmonica during mine absence,"
Stile said to the Lady, handing her the instrument. "This
time I must use the Flute."

"I like this not," she said grimly. But she took the har-
monica. If Stile did not return, she would at least retain
this memento of her husband.

Pyreforge, meanwhile, was setting up the chessmen.

Stile carried the Flute with him into the depth of the
crevice. Now he knew the origin of the hot wind and
demonic odor from this crevasse. The Worm lurked below!

He had never fought a real dragon before, as the Lady
had mentioned, and was not entirely sanguine about this
one. The closest approach to a dragon he had made was
the one in the Black Demesnes, actually formed from a
line, and when balked it had unraveled literally into its
component string. The Worm surely would not do that!
Adept-quality magic should prevail—but still, if anything
went wrong—

Well, he should have the advantage of surprise. The
Worm would assume Stile was another item of tribute, a
victim to be consumed. He should be able to get quite close
before the monster realized what it was up against. That
would give him time to survey the situation. Pyreforge had
assured him that the Flute would facilitate his magic, yet

he had also said that magic alone would not suffice; that
suggested that the Flute was not quite as powerful a charm
as the Mound Folk wished to believe.

Now they were well below the ledge they had hurdled
before. Neysa picked her way carefully as the path nar-
rowed, and Stile kept the Flute assembled and handy. For
him it should serve double duty—both to protect his ability
to do magic, and to summon the magic itself, since he
needed music for his spells. He would have been in trouble
if he had needed to play two different instruments simul-
taneously for those purposes! He was rehearsing those
spells in his mind now—one to abate fire, another to shield
him from biting, another to make him invisible. But mainly
he needed one to eradicate the Worm, one way or another.
Could the creature be banished to Hell? Here in this magic
frame, there really was a Hell. He had accidentally sent
Neysa there once; that had led to a lot of trouble. Which
meant that that option was out, now; Neysa would not go
for it. He was extremely wary of antagonizing his unicorn
friend; unicorns were devastatingly stubborn once they
made an issue of something.

Not Hell, then. How about a size change? Convert the
giant Worm into a midget worm, harmless. Maybe in three
more centuries it would grow back into a giant, but by
then it should be far away—if some hungry bird hadn't
snapped it up in the interim. What would be a suitable
spell? Monstrous Worm, be small as a germ. Hardly great
art, he lamented as usual, but for the purpose of magic it
only needed to rhyme and have appropriate meter.

What kind of magic would be wrought by superior
verse? Some day he would have to experiment with genuine
poetry, instead of doggerel, and see what happened.

Now the path leveled out. A large, round tunnel took off
to the side—the bore of the Worm. A hot drift of air came
from it. The Worm could not be far distant.

Stile hesitated. He leaned down to whisper into Neysa's
left ear, which rotated obligingly to receive his words. "If
we march blithely into the Worm's lair, methinks we'll be
slightly cooked," he said. "Yet if we do not, the monster
may become suspicious. I would like to lure it out to a




120                    Blue Adept

location convenient for me, so that at least I can survey it
before emerging to engage it—yet how can I bring it to me
•without engaging it?"

Neysa blew a short, positive note. Realizing that she had
a notion, Stile dismounted.

She shimmered into girl-form, a petite, lovely, naked,
semi-elven lass. "Tribute," she murmured, making a ges-
ture of innocence and helplessness.

Stile was delighted and appalled. "Thou'rt the perfect
lure," he said. "Thou Ettest the part precisely. But I dare
not risk thy getting caught by the monster."

She shimmered again and became a firefly. The insect
circled him once, then converted back to girl-form.

"That's so," Stile agreed. "I keep forgetting thy third
form. Thou canst escape, if thou art not burned."

"Fireproof," she said.

"Thy firefly form is fireproof? Wonderful!" Neysa was a
treasure of ever-new facets.

Stile reflected for a moment, then plotted their course. "I
prefer to have some space to battle the Worm, even though
I expect to banish it with a spell. One must always be
prepared for the unexpected. So do thou lure it out to the
crevice, then get thee swiftly to safety. If I destroy it not,
and suffer death, do thou fly up to Elder Pyreforge and the
Lady and tell them I have failed. I will hurl the Flute out
to the crevice if I can, that it be not lost." This sounded
bold and brave, but Stile felt somewhat weak in the knees;

he had not had much experience in this sort of thing. He
really did not expect to be in serious danger of demise,
otherwise he would have been terrified. He was just cover-
ing the extreme eventuality.

Neysa nodded, then walked to the center of the tunnel.
Stile sang a spell to make himself invisible. This was ex-
ternal magic only; he remained just as solid as always,
despite the change in appearance. He was getting accus-
tomed to the limits of his power. When he lifted himself by
magic he was changing his locale, not his body. He could
not heal his own injured knees. He could not duplicate
Neysa's shape-changing or genuine insect-flying ability,
though he could create the illusion of change in himself,
and could fly artificially by magic means. There were some

Blue Adept                    121

fine distinctions, but overall he was perhaps more vulner-
able than Neysa, though he was also more powerful.

When she saw he was unseeable, Neysa went into her
act. "Oh!" she cried. "I'm so afraid! The horrible dragon is
going to eat me!" She was really working at it, since she
didn't like to talk. Stile felt a warm glow of appreciation.
Once Neysa had given him her loyalty, she had been the
truest of companions.

Soon there was a rumbling deep in the tunnel. A hotter,
ranker wash of air passed, as if some enormous engine had
started up. Stile's imperfect confidence suffered attrition.
There were after all so many things that might go wrong ...

Neysa continued lamenting. The rumble increased. The
Worm must be afraid that the prey would flee if not
quickly nabbed—a reasonable assumption. That was one
important thing Stile wanted to know about it—how alert
it was, and how fast it moved. A big, ponderous creature
would be easier to handle than—

All too soon the Worm arrived. It was indeed a dragon.
It had a long narrow head with a conical snout, narrowing
in ringlike stages. The derivation of this monster from a
literal worm was evident. Of course there were many kinds
of worms; Stile tended to think of earthworms because
many Citizens employed them in their elegant gardens. But
he knew there were other types, some of them vicious. This
dragon was a vicious worm grown monstrous.

Neysa screamed realistically and skipped nimbly to the
mouth of the passage. The Worm exhaled a puff of smog
and slid forward. Its legs were puny compared to its bulk,
not really used for its forward motion—but it did indeed
have horrendous claws, and seemed to be fully adequate to
the task of gutting a human being efficiently. Its metallic
scales did not gleam; they were drab and dirty, more like
the mud-caked treads of a caterpillar tractor. Stile did not
doubt they were invulnerable to ordinary attack. Theoreti-
cally the point of a sword could be slid up under a layer of
scales to penetrate the flesh beneath—but that could lead
to a shallow slanting wound, only aggravating the monster.
And what would the Worm be doing while the swordsman
was making his insertion? Sitting still? Not likely!

All of this. Stile realized abruptly, was academic. He did




122                    Blue Adept

not have a sword. He had forgotten to conjure one. He had
only the Platinum Flute and his magic—which magic it
was time to use.

Stile's strategy had been to bring the monster out to the
front, then cast his spell from the rear. Now a problem
manifested; the Worm had no rear. Its giant cylindrical
torso extended back into the gloom. The shape of a worm,
naturally—long. He should have known.

Well, he should be able to enchant it anyway. Stile
played the Flute, and the perfect notes poured out again,
emerging like quicksilver to fill the tunnel with beauty. The
magic gathered swiftly, unusually intense. Of course; they
were down near the Phazite lode, so the power was near at
hand.

The dragon reacted instantly. No senile mentality herel
It had been about to lunge at the supposedly helpless
damsel—Neysa was playing it uncomfortably close—but
recognized the summoning of magic here. The tiny ar-
mored eyes oriented on Stile—and did not see him, since
he was invisible. Nevertheless the front orifice opened, its
diameter cranking wider in several stages until it was a
good yard across. From it a blast of hot fog bellied out.

In this instant it occurred to Stile that the Worm had
not tried to use heat on Neysa. Maybe it preferred its meals
raw.

Time for self-defense. "From head to feet, immune to
heati" Stile sang.

But as the fog struck him, Stile discovered it was a false
alarm. The stuff was hot but not burning. It was like being    "p"
in a polluted sauna.

The dragon heaved again. This time its breath was hotter
and smelled worse. The creature was old; it took it time to
get up full steam. The third blast was burning, and the
fourth contained pure fire. From hair-dryer to flame-
thrower, in easy stages!

Now for the attack. "0 mighty Worm, complete thy
term," Stile chanted, willing instant death on it.

Then something strange happened. There was a corusca-
tion in the air midway between them, as of a beam of light
striking a refractive barrier. The Worm did not die.

Stile tried again. "0 Worm of fire—weaken, expire!"

Blue Adept                   123

Again that dissipation enroute, and lack of effect. His
spells were potent, but were not reaching the dragoni

Now the creature's tiny eyes flashed. Stile had not re-
alized that worms had eyes, but this one certainly did. He
remembered the weapon he had been warned about. "Light
—blight!" he cried, and the lightning fizzled out before
reaching him. His backup spells were saving his hide.

The Worm paused, evidently taking stock. Stile did the
same. His magic worked—but the Worm was shielded
against it. The Worm had magic—that Stile could block.
So the Flute enabled Stile to perform his magic here, but
not to use it directly against the enemy. Like two armored
knights, they were so well protected against attack that
neither could hurt the other magically. The Elder elf had
been right.

So much for his rehearsed spells. This conflict was about
to get physical. And the Worm was a good deal more
physical than Stile.

Still, he would have to make a try. For one thing, he was
now trapped inside the tunnel; the bulk of the Worm was
between him and the exit. In fact the bulk of the Worm
surrounded him. The monster was slowly constricting,
hemming him in. Neysa was on the far side of the dragon,
unable to help.

Stile had no weapon, other than the Flute. Now he knew
that the Flute, while effective, was not enough. Not against
the magic Worm. What he needed at the moment was a
good sword. What was that spell he had prepared, to sum-
mon such a weapon?

The Worm's tube-mouth opened wider—and now a ring
of teeth showed, six-inch teeth sure enough, pointing in-
ward. No doubt useful for tunneling through rock—but
surely adequate also to grind up one small man. Why
couldn't he think of that spell!

The head nudged closer. Stile held the Flute before him
in a futile gesture of defense while he tried to cudgel his
memory into yielding up the forgotten spell—damn this
failure under pressure!—and discovered he held a sword. A
shining platinum blade, long and sharp, two-edged. But
light and balanced. Exactly the kind of sword he was well
versed in.




124 Blue Adept

"Well, nowl" Stile exclaimed, confidence surging. The
elves had not informed him of this aspect of the Flute! It
was a shape-changer.

Stile stepped briskly forward and stabbed at the Worm's
side. He expected the point to bounce off the tough scales,
but it penetrated. Aha! The enchantment of the Platinum
Sword was proof against the Worm's resistance. Maybe it
was a different kind of spell, that when buttressed by force-
ful physical action—

The Worm screamed like a siren and whipped its head
about. Stile jerked the sword out and retreated. A geyser or
dark red blood shot out of the hole, sailing in an arc
through the air to splash on the stone several feet away. A
rank chamel smell rose from the fluid.

The dragon's nose nudged up to the wound. A slimy
tongue slid out, intercepting the flow of blood. Did worms
have tongues? This one did! Was it about to drink its own
blood? A single slurp—and the flow abated.

The nose drew away. The blood remained staunched.
Maybe it was the saliva: some magical curative property.
This monster could heal itself.

The dragon's head was orienting on Stile again. This was
one tough worm! It might not be able to see him, but it
could hear him and smell him, and in the poor light that
was just about as good. Stile had foolishly delayed when he
should have been edging around to rejoin Neysa, during
the Worm's distraction. Still, maybe he could—

Stile strode for the Worm's side. Immediately the snout
snapped toward him. Stile dodged back and sprinted past
the head to reach the mouth of the tunnel.

Neysa was awaiting him in equine form. She too could
place him readily by smell and sound. Next time he fought
an animal, he would prepare spells of inaudibility and un-
smellability! He leaped to mount her. "At least we know it
can be injured by this sword," he said. "Maybe if we
charge in, slash, and charge out before it reacts, then
wound it in a second place, and a third—"

He stopped. He no longer had a sword. He supported a
long platinum lance. The magic Flute had shown another
facet!

Blue Adept                   125

Stile braced the lance in his arms and Neysa charged the
Worm as its head swung about. The point of the lance
struck the neck just behind the head; Stile did not have his
aim perfect yet. A lance was not the easiest thing to use!
He really needed some sort of supportive harness. The
shaft rammed in forcefully—and Stile was shoved off his
mount.

Of course, he realized as he picked himself up. The
instrument was enchanted so that it could not be jarred out
of his grasp—but the shock of impact had had its natural
effect on his body. He should have anticipated that.

The Worm screamed again. That puncture hurti As Stile
hauled the lance out, a larger gout of blood spurted—but
this time the Worm could not get its mouth on the spot,
because the wound was too close to the head.

Stile perceived his avenue of victory. He lifted the lance
—and it was what he needed, a hefty double-bitted battle-
axe. As the Worm's head twisted vainly to the side, trying
to reach the wound, the neck was exposed on the other side
to Stile's attack.

He chopped down at that neck, two hands on his axe.
This time he cut a deep gash. The head whipped back,
catching Stile in a sideswipe and hurling him against the
wall.

He saw a flash of light as his head struck, then slid down
the curve of the wall. His head was spinning. He retained
the Flute—but hardly had the wit to use it. He had not
been knocked out, but had been badly shaken up by the
blow.

Now the head was orienting on him. The circular array
of teeth widened to take him in, and the breath steamed up
the vicinity so that Stile could hardly see.

He scrambled away on hands and knees. He wasn't sure
he could make it to his feet, or stay on them if he did.
He had been in a boxing match once in the Game and been
tagged by a solid blow so that his knees went rubbery; he
felt similar now. Only there would be no time between
rounds to recover! The snout followed him—then paused,
grinding out a puff of smoke.

Neysa had rammed her horn into the other side of the
Worm's neck, beside the first hole. She lacked the enchant-

126 Blue Adept

ment of the Flute, but a unicorn's horn was itself magical,
and a weapon no creature could ignore.

The Worm reacted automatically, turning on this an-
noyance. It was not terrifically smart.

Stile scrambled to his feet. He swung the Platinum
machete ferociously—machete? It had changed again!—
chopping with all his strength at the Worm's body. More
blood gouted out, spilling over Stile's two hands and spat-
tering his front. He hated the burning, greasy feel of it, but
kept hacking.

The dragon whipped its head back, but Stile lashed at
the snout with his cleaver, just missing an eye. The head
recoiled—and Stile returned to work on the neck. This was
like chopping through a tree, except that it became a good
deal softer and messier as he got past the vertebrae and
into the fatty tissues. Now blood was flooding out so volum-
inously that Stile was wading in it, and every lift of his
implement splattered it further. Blood ran down the shaft
as he elevated it, and along his arms to the shoulders; it
sprayed across his face. But his grip remained firm, thanks
to the Flute's enchantment. As long as he willed his grip to
be good, it was. He was wallowing in gore—but still the
Worm lived and thrashed, not yielding.

Finally the body was severed entirely. The neck and
head fell on one side; the body writhed on the other. The
job had been done. Stile had slain the dragon.

His thought of victory was premature. Still the thing
didn't die. Instead the cut ends frothed and solidified like
sponge, and the bleeding abated. The head section crawled
slowly by itself, while the body section cast about blindly,
looking for its opponent.

This was a worm. It was possible to cut a worm in
half—and both halves would form new worms. Stile had
not really accomplished anything yet.

Well, yes—he had made some progress. The head no
longer had the leverage to strike at him, and the body
lacked sensory apparatus. In time these situations would be
remedied—but right now he had a definite advantage. He
had to go ahead and destroy the entire Worm right now,
while he could.

Blue Adept                    127

This was what Pyreforge had meant about the need for a
good swordsman with staying power. What a job!

Stile moved down the body, picking his spot, and re-
sumed hacking with his machete-axe. Again the blood
gouted; again the torso twisted in agony, trying futilely to
fight or escape. The severed end came around, thinking it
was a head; it smeared him with half-clotted blood, sicken-
ingly, but could not bite him. Stile pressed on, feeling more
like a butcher than a hero. In fantasy lore, the champion
skewered the ferocious dragon one time and the beast col-
lapsed cleanly. Here there was nothing neat or convenient
or particularly noble about it; he was wallowing in foul-
smelling gore, hacking apart a helpless mound of blubber.
Hero? He wanted to vomit!

By the time he completed the second cut, his arms were
tiring. But still each segment of the Worm remained alive.
If he quit here, they would become three new, smaller
dragons. He had to abolish the entire mess, somehow.

Then he had a dull inspiration. The dragon had coun-
tered his magic with its own magic. But now it lacked
organization. Maybe magic would finish it, at this stage. It
was certainly worth a try.

He brought the Flute to his mouth. It was festooned
with gore. Stile's gorge rose, and he decided to try his spell
without playing on the instrument. "0 monster fair," he
intoned with irony. "Convert to air."

The segment before him shivered, resisting. Whether this
was because of residual anti-magic in the dragon, or be-
cause Stile had not summoned sufficient magic, he was not
sure. Then it melted and evaporated into a truly noisome
cloud. The spell was working!

Stile devised spells to abolish the two remaining seg-
ments, then another to clean the gore from himself, Neysa,
and the tunnel. He had done the job, and earned the right
to borrow the Flute. Yet he was not especially pleased with
himself. Wasn't there some better way to settle differences
than hacking apart ancient magical creatures? How would
he feel if he were old, having some fresh young midget
chop him down to size?

Yet if he had not performed, the Lady Blue's situation
could have become quite difficult. And it could still become




128                    Blue Adept

so, if Stile did not locate and deal with the murderer of the
Blue Adept before that murderer caught up with Stile him-
self.

Meanwhile, he wondered whether the Lady was winning
her chess game with Pyreforge.

CHAPTER 5

Riddles

Sheen was pleased. "You're here for a full weeic this time?"

"Until the Unolympic," Stile agreed. "Neysa and the
Lady Blue are relaxing after the excursion among the Little
People, and I have considerable business here in Proton-
frame, as long as my enemy doesn't strike." He shrugged.
"Of course I'll be staying longer in Phaze-frame one of
these times, to run down my enemy there and look for the
Foreordained. If I wash out of the Tourney I'll spend the
rest of my life there."

"What was it like, being among the Little People?"
Sheen asked. They were in their apartment, engaging in
their usual occupation. Sheen was an extremely amorous
female, and Stile's frequent absences and uncertainty of
future increased her ardor. And, since he had a balked
romantic situation in Phaze—

"Strange," he answered. "I felt like a giant, and I wasn't
used to it. This must be the way Hulk feels. I really am
more satisfied with my size than I used to be." He changed
the subject. "Where is Hulk? Did you help him?"

"I believe so. I put him in touch with my friends. I
assumed you would not have sent him if he could not be
trusted."

"He can be trusted."

"I'm sure my friends required him to take the same oath
you took, if they revealed themselves to him at all. They

Blue Adept                    129

may simply have issued him an address. I did not inquire
after him, because that would only expose him and them to
possible Citizen attention, and we don't want that."

"True," Stile agreed. "If the Citizens knew that some
robots are self-willed—"

"You have something against self-willed robots?" she
asked archly.

"You know, at times I almost forget that you yourself
are a robot. I don't see how you could be much better in
the Sesh."

"All the same, I wish I were in the flesh," she said sadly.
"You can never truly love me. Even if you were to win the
Tourney and become a Citizen and stay here the rest of
your life, even if you didn't have the Lady Blue in the
other frame, you would never really be mine."

Stile did not like this line of conjecture. "There is very
little chance of my winning the Tourney. I barely survived
my first Game."

"I know. I watched. You were lucky."

"Luck is a fickle mistress."

She turned on him abruptly. "Promise me that if you
ever give this mistress up permanently, you'll have me
junked, put out of consciousness. I don't mean just repro-
gramming or deactivating me; destroy my computer brain.
You know how to do it. Don't let me suffer alone."

"Sheen," he protested. "I would never junk youl"

"I like Neysa, and I'm resigned to the Lady Blue. I know
you're sliding into love with her, and in time she'll love
you, and there's your true romance. But this is a different
frame; she and I can never meet. Nothing you do there
needs to affect what you do here—"

"I am of both frames now," Stile said. "What affects me
in one, affects me in the other. You know that if the Lady
ever gives her love to me, I—we'll still be friends, you and
I, but—" He halted, hating this, but not constituted to
conceal the truth.

"But not lovers," she finished. "Even that I can accept.
Neysa accepted it. But if you ever find you can dispense
with that remaining friendship—"

"Never!"

"Then you will junk me cleanly. Promise."




130 Blue Adept

Stile suffered a vision of himself hacking apart the living
Worm. That had been unclean dispatching. How much
better it would have been if he could have banished that
Worm to nonexistence with a single, painless spell. Sheen
deserved at least that much. "I promise," he said. "But that
time will never—"

"Now it's time to get you back to the Tourney," she said
briskly.

Stile had been near the head of the line for matching-up
before; this time he was near the end. That meant he could
play this time, and have another Game soon. The later
Rounds would suffer less delay, as the number of remain-
ing contestants declined. The double-elimination system
did not eliminate half the contestants each Round, but by
Round Four it would approximate fifty percent attrition,
and by Round Eight it would be down to about sixty-four
survivors, and the prizes would begin. That was his mini-
mum objective, to reach Round Eight. Because that meant
he would get another chance, even if he washed out of the
Tourney thereafter. In that sense these first few Games
were the most critical. Since they were also likely to be
against the least competent players—with certain notable
exceptions!—this was the time to avoid making any foolish
errors. There was absolutely no sense in throwing away a
Game that could be easily won by being careful.

His second Game was against an older woman, a serf.
She was unlikely to be any match for him. She would
probably go for CHANCE; it was the obvious ploy against
a superior player.

The grid gave her the opportunity; she had the num-
bered facet. Well, there were ways to reduce the pseudo-
equality of chance, and Stile played for them. He selected
TOOL.

Sure enough, it came up 3B, TOOL-assisted CHANCE.
The subgrid appeared. Stile played to avoid the pure-
chance complexes like Dice or Roulette, in favor of the
semi-chance ones like Cards. It came up Dominoes.

All right. Stile managed to steer it into the 91 piece, 12
spot domino variation, while the woman put it into the
conventional "Draw" game. Stile, familiar with all variants,

Blue Adept                    131

had wanted one unfamiliar to his opponent to confuse her;

he was halfway there.

They adjourned to a Gamesroom and played. They laid
all the dominoes facedown, shuffled, and each drew one
from the boneyard. Stile drew the 6:7; the woman the 4:5.
He had first turn. Good; that was an advantage.

Each drew seven dominoes and Stile was pleased to note
that his hand had a run of Fours: the 4:0, 4:2, 4:8 and
4:11. He played the 4:8. As he had hoped, his opponent
was unable to play, being short of Fours; she had to draw
three times before she could make a match. Stile played
one of his other Fours.

So it went. Confused by the vastly extended range of the
dominoes, and lacking the wit to eliminate the highest ones
from her hand, the woman lost and delivered a goodly
score to him. They played another hand, and a third, and
he passed 200 points and won. She had never scored at all.
Stile had made it to Round Three without even a scare.

The woman just sat there, after the Game, her face set.
Stile realized, belatedly, that she must have lost her first
match; with this second loss she would be out of the Tour-
ney, doomed to immediate and permanent exile. Some serfs
suicided rather than leave Proton. They were the lowest
class of people, here, destined only to serve the arrogant
Citizens, yet it was all they craved in life. Stile understood
this attitude, for he had until recently shared it. Only the
opening of the miraculous horizons of Phaze had given
him a better alternative.

He was sorry for the woman. Yet what could he do? She
had no chance to win the Tourney anyway. It was best that
she be put out of her misery promptly.

Like Sheen? No, of course not like thati Yet the thought
lingered, a shadow that could not quite be erased.

He left the woman there. He did not feel good.

As Stile and Sheen reentered the apartment, the com-
munication screen lighted. "Report to your Employer for
an update," a serf-functionary said crisply, showing the
identification of the Lady Citizen for whom Stile worked.
"At this time, in this place." And a card emerged from the
letter-slot.




132 Blue Adept

Sheen took the card. "Oh, no!" she complained. "We
have only half an hour to get there, and it's at an isolated
dome. I had hoped to have time to—"

"For a machine, you're certainly hung up on one thing,"
Stile teased her.

"I'm programmed to be!" she snapped.

She had been fashioned to appeal to his tastes, and evi-
dently his tastes ran to beauty, intelligence and desire for
his attention. Stile realized again, not comfortably, that he
was in this respect a typical man. His human interests
seemed unconscionably narrow when reflected so obvi-
ously. Yet Sheen was, in all respects but one, his ideal
mate. That one canceled out the rest: she was not alive.
She was a construct of metal and pseudoflesh and artiEcial
intellect.

Yet he knew now that even had Sheen been a real
person—a real live person—she would not have been able
to retain his full devotion after he encountered the Lady
Blue. Because what had been his ideal woman two months
ago was that no longer. The Lady Blue had a detailed and
fascinating past as well as a future; she was changing with
the passage of time, as Sheen could not, and so was match-
ing Stile's own development. The Lady Blue had reshaped
his ideal, conforming it to her likeness in flesh and person-
ality and history. He was becoming acclimatized to the
world of Phaze, and was losing identification with the
world of Proton.

It was not merely a matter of women; he would have
loved Phaze regardless. Magic had become a more in-
triguing challenge than the Game. But he had a commit-
ment here in Proton, and he would see it through. And he
had a gnawing need to ferret out his anonymous enemy
and bring that person to an accounting. Who had lasered
his knees? Who had sent Sheen to guard him? He could
never rest content in Phaze until he knew the answers.

But Sheen was already bustling him out. "We can't keep
a Citizen waiting; we have to get to that address in time."

"I suppose so," Stile agreed, resenting the waste of time.
In one sense, a serf's employment by a Citizen ended when
that serf entered the Tourney, since all tenure was termi-
nated by such entry. But in another sense employment

Blue Adept                   133

continued, for Citizens identified with those of their serfs
who entered, making bets on their success. Many Citizens
gave serfs time off to practice for the Tourney, so as to do
better; Stile's own Employer had done that. And if he won
an extension of tenure, he would still need an Employer
for that period. So whatever the technical status, he had
better act in a manner conducive to the Citizen's good
will.

"I didn't know she had a dome at this address," Sheen
remarked as they hurried to a subtube station. As a ma-
chine, she had little genuine curiosity, but with her pro-
gramming and under Stile's tutelage she had mastered this
most feminine quality. Hardly ever did she make errors of
characterization, now. "But of course all Citizens are ob-
scenely rich. She must be watching the Tourney from a
private retreat."

They boarded the tube shuttle. A third passenger joined
them—a middle-aged serf woman, well-formed. She was
naked, like all serfs, and carrying a sealed freezer-container.
"My Employer insists the ice cream from one particular
public foodmart tastes better than the ice cream from any-
where else," she confided, tapping the container. "So every
day I have to make the trip and bring it back by hand. She
thinks robot delivery distorts the flavor."

"It probably does," Sheen said, smiling obscurely.

"Citizens are like that," Stile said, falling into the ready
camaraderie of serfs. "I'm entered in the Tourney, but my
Employer requires a personal report instead of the official
one, so I'm making a trip every bit as foolish." He had no
worry about visual and auditory perception devices that
might report this conversation to the Citizens; of course
they existed, but Citizens had no interest in the opinions of
serfs, and expected them to grumble privately.

"That's funny," the woman said. "There are only three
Citizens at this terminus. Mine has no interest in the Tour-
ney, and another's off-planet on business, and the third—"
She broke off.

Sheen became alert. "What about the third?"

"Well, he hates the Tourney. Says it's a waste of time
and only generates new Citizens when the planet has too
many already. You couldn't be seeing him."

134                    Blue Adept

"My Employer is a woman," Stile said.

"Mine is the only woman on this annex—and she surely
is not sponsoring you."

Stile showed her the address-card.

"That's the Tourney-hater!" the woman exclaimed.
"He's no woman!" She made a small, significant gesture
near her midsection. "I know."

Stile exchanged a glance with Sheen. The woman had
signified that the Citizen borrowed her for sexual purpose,
as was his right so long as her own Employer acquiesced.
Citizens of either sex could use serfs of either sex this way,
and surely a woman knew the sex of her user.

"My Employer is female," Stile said, suffering a new
qualm. Could she have summoned him in the flesh because
she wanted to dally with a serf? He would not be able to
refuse her, but this was a complication he did not want.
"Are you sure that address hasn't changed ownership re-
cently?"

"Quite sure. I was there only two days ago." Again the
gesture. "Heaven and Hell."

"Maybe my Employer is visiting him," Stile said.

"That must be it," the woman agreed. "He has quite a
taste for women, and does prefer Citizens when he can get
them. Is she pretty?"

"Handsome," Stile said. "As you are."

She nodded knowingly. "But you," she said to Sheen.
"You had best keep that luscious body out of his sight, or
you could mess it up for your mistress."

Stile smiled. Naturally the serf assumed Sheen was also
an employee. Sheen could mess it up for any rival woman,
and not just because of her beauty.

The shuttle slowed. "This is my station," the woman
said. "Yours is next. Good luck!"

When they were alone. Stile turned to Sheen. "I don't
like this. We can't skip out on a command appearance, but
something seems wrong. Could the message be faked?"

"It's genuine," Sheen said. She was a machine; she could
tell. "But I agree. Something is funny. I'm summoning
help."

"I don't think you should involve your friends in this.

Blue Adept                    135

They don't want to call the attention of a Citizen to them-
selves."

"Only to trace the origin of that message," she said.
"And to rouse your robot double. I think we can stall a few
minutes while he travels by fast freight."

The shuttle stopped. They got out and moved to a local
food dispenser, using up the necessary time. Sheen ate a
piece of reconstituted carrot. She was a machine but could
process food through her system, though it never was di-
gested. Stile contented himself with a cup of nutro-cocoa.

In a surprisingly short time a freight hatch opened and
the Stile-robot emerged, carrying a shipment tag. "Start
breathing," Sheen told it, and the model animated. "Take
this card, report to this address. Broadcast continuously to
me."

Without a word the robot took the card, glanced at it,
and walked down the passage. The thing looked so small!
Stile was embarrassed to think that this was the way he
appeared to others: a child-man, thirty-five years old but
the size of a twelve-year-old boy.

"Move," Sheen murmured, guiding him through a serv-
ice aperture. "If there is trouble, we need to vanish."

She located a storage chamber, and they settled down to
wait. "Now," she said, putting her arms about him and
kissing him. She was fully as soft and sensual as any live
woman. But she froze in midkiss. "Oops."

"What—my lips lose their living flavor?"

"I'm getting the report from the robot." Sheen used the
term without self-consciousness. She was to an ordinary
robot as a holograph was to a child's crayon-picture. "It is
a mistake. The male Citizen has no visitor, and he sent no
message. Oooh!" She shook her head. "That hurt."

How could she feel pain? "An unkind word?"

"Destruction. He had the robot shoved in a meltbeam
disposer. The robot's gone."

Just like that! Stile's own likeness, presenting himself in
lieu of Stile, melted into waste material! Of course it was
foolish to get sentimental about machines, Sheen excepted,
but Stile had interacted briefly with the robot and felt a
certain identification. "Did he know it was a robot?"

136 Blue Adept

"I don't think so. But he knows now. People don't melt
the same way. They scorch and stink." She cocked her
head, listening. "Yes, we have to decamp. The Citizen is
casting about for other intruders."

Stile remembered his encounter with the Black Adept, in
Phaze: absolute resistance to intrusions. Enforcement by
tacit murder—it seemed that type of personality was not
unique to Adepts.

Sheen was drawing him on. Suddenly they were up and
out, on the bleak surface of Proton adjacent to the Citi-
zen's pleasure dome. She opened her front and removed a
nose-mask. "Put this on; it is supplied with oxygen. It will
tide you through for a while."

Stile obliged. When he found himself gasping, he
breathed a sniff through his nose and was recharged.

The external landscape was awful. The ground was bare
sand; no vegetation. A bare mountain range showed to the
near south, rising into the yellowish haze of pollution.

Stile made a quick mental geographical calculation and
concluded that these were the Purple Mountains of Phaze.
They were actually not too far from the region of the
Mound Folk. Except that no such Little People existed in
this frame. Or did they? Most people had parallels; how
could there be entire tribes in one frame, and none in the
other? "Sheen, do you know of any people living in those
mountains?"

"The Protonite mines are there," she reminded him.
"The serfs that work there get stunted—" She broke off,
glancing around. Something stirred. "Oh, no! He's got
perimeter mechanicals out. We'll never get through that."

Stile stood and watched, appalled. From trenches in the
ground small tanks charged, cannon mounted on their tur-
rets. They formed a circle around the domed estate, mov-
ing rapidly, their radar antennae questing for targets.

Sheen hauled him through the force-field into the dome.
The field was I'ke the curtain: merely a tingle, but it
separated one type of world from another. As they crossed
it, the rich air enclosed them, and a penetration alarm
sounded. They were certainly in trouble!

"Cin your friends defuse the robot tanks?" Stile asked as
they ran through outer storage chambers.

Blue Adept

137

"No. The tanks are on an autonomous system. Only the
Citizen can override their action. We're better off in here."

There was the sound of androids converging. "Not much
better," Stile muttered. But she was off again, and he had

to follow.
They ducked in and out of service passages. Sheen had

unerring awareness of these, being able to tune in on the
directive signals for maintenance robots. But the pursuit
was close; they could not halt to camouflage themselves or

ponder defensive measures.
Suddenly they burst into the main residential quarters.

And paused, amazed.
It was Heaven. Literal, picturebook Heaven. The floor

was made of soft white sponge contoured to resemble
clouds; smaller clouds floated above, and on them winged
babies perched, playing little harps. The front gate was
nacreous: surely genuine pearl. Lovely music played softly

in the background: angelic hymns.

An angel spied them and strode forward, his great wings
fluttering. He wore a flowing robe on which a golden letter
G was embroidered. "Ah, new guests of the Lord. Have
you renounced all worldly sins and lusts?"

Neither Stile nor Sheen could think of a suitable spot
rejoinder. They stood there—while the pursuing androids

hove into sight.

"Here now! What's this?" the angel cried. "You soulless

freaks can't come in here!"

The androids backed away, disgruntled. They reminded
Stile of the animals of his football game when a penalty

was called.

Now there was a voice from another cloudbank. "What

is the disturbance, Gabriel?" a woman called.

"We have visitors," the Angel Gabriel called back. "But

I am uncertain—"

The lady appeared. She wore a filmy gown that clung to
her lushly convex contours. Stile found the effect inde-
scribably erotic. He was accustomed to nakedness, or to
complete clothing, but the halfway states—surely this

Heaven was far from sexless!

The woman frowned. "These are serfs! They don't be-
long here!"




T

138

Blue Adept

Blue Adept

139

Stile and Sheen bolted. They plunged across the cloud-
bank toward the most obvious exit: a golden-paved path-
way. It spiraled down through a cloudwall, becoming a
stone stairway. Letters were carved in the stones, and as he
hurried over them Stile was able to read their patterns:

GOOD INTENTIONS. At the bottom the stair
terminated in a massive opaque double door. Sheen shoved
it open, and they stepped through.

Again they both stood amazed. This nether chamber was
a complete contrast to the region above. It was hot, with
open fires burning in many pits. Horrendous murals de-
picted grotesque scenes of lust and torture. Metal stakes
anchored chains with manacles at the extremities.

"This is Hell," Stile said. "Heaven above. Hell below. It
figures."

"The serf on the shuttle mentioned Heaven and Hell,"
Sheen reminded him. "She meant it literally."

A red-suited, homed, barb-tailed little devil appeared.
He brandished his pitchfork menacingly. "Fresh meat!" he
cried exultantly. "Oh, have we got fires for you! Move it,
you damned lost souls!"

Behind them, feet sounded on the stairs. The androids
had resumed the chase. It seemed the soulless ones were
not barred from Hell.

Stile and Sheen took off again. Sheen charged the little
devil, disarming him in passing. They ran across the floor
of Hell, dodging around smoking pits.

"What's this?" a fat full-sized devil cried. "You serfs
don't belong here!" It seemed Hell was after all as restric-
tive as Heaven. The devil squinted at Stile. "I just had you
melted!"

"That's how I came here," Stile said, unable to resist the
flash of wit.

"The Citizen!" Sheen said. "He's Satan!"

"Apt characterization," Stile agreed.

"I'll have you torn to ragged pieces!" the Citizen roared,
becoming truly Satanic in his ire.

"You would do better to tear up whoever faked the
message that brought us to this address," Stile said. "Sir,"

The Citizen paused. "There is that." He glanced at the
ceiling. "Detail on that summons."

A screen appeared. "The summons was from a female
Citizen, the man's Employer. The address was incorrect."

"Get me that Citizen!" Almost, it seemed that smoke
issued from Satan's nostrils.

There was a pause. Then Stile's Employer appeared in
the screen, frowning. "You sent for this serf?" the Satanic
male Citizen demanded, indicating Stile.

The female Citizen's eyes took in Satan and Hell. "Do I
know you?" she inquired coldly.

"You're a woman, aren't you? You bet you know me!"

She elected to change the subject. "I summoned this serf
to my own address. What is he doing here?"

"This was the address he was given, idiot!"

"It certainly was not!" she retorted. Then she perused
the message. "Why—the address has been changed. Who is
responsible for this?"

"Changed ..." Sheen murmured, the circuits connecting
almost visibly in her computer-head. "Authentic summons,
but one address-chip substituted for another. The handi-
work of your assassin."

The female Citizen bore on Sheen. "Serf, you know who
is responsible?"

"Sir, I know someone is trying to kill Stile," Sheen said.
"I don't know who or why."

The lady Citizen frowned again. "I have entered this serf
in the Tourney," she said to Satan. "He has won two
Rounds. I dislike such interference."

"I dislike such intrusion on my premises," the male Citi-
zen said.

"Of course. I'm sure I would not care to intrude on such
premises. I shall initiate an investigation, as should you.
But considering that the serfs are in fact blameless, will
you not release them unharmed?"

"They have intruded!" the Satan-Citizen said. "The pen-
alty is death!"

"I've already suffered it," Stile muttered.

"Not for my serfs," the female Citizen retorted, showing
more spirit. "If I lose this chance to score in the Tourney, I
shall be most upset."

"I am already upset, and I care not a fig for the Tour-
ney. The intruders must die, and good riddance."




140                   Blue Adept

The female Citizen frowned once more. "It is unseemly
for Citizens to bicker in the presence of serfs. Otherwise I
could mention a drone missile currently oriented on your
dome, capable of disrupting your power supply and irradi-
ating your personnel: a certain inconvenience, I might
suppose. I mean to have that serf."

This gave the devil pause to consider. "I agree. Citizens
do not debate before serfs. Otherwise I could mention a
couple things myself, such as an anti-missile laser oriented
on—"

"Perhaps a fair compromise," she said. "Give the serfs a
fair start, and we shall wager on the outcome."

The devil brightened. "Their lives—plus one kilogram of
Protonite."

Stile almost gasped. A single gram of Protonite was
worth the twenty-year tenure severance pay of a serf, a fee
that would set him up comfortably for life elsewhere in the
galaxy. These Citizens threw wealth around like sand.

"Only one kilo?" the female Citizen inquired. Stile could
not tell whether that was irony or disdain.
"Plus you," Satan amended. "For a week."
"Outrageous!"
He sighed. "A day, then."

"Agreed." She faced Stile. "You will have two minutes
to make your escape unfettered. Thereafter the full re-
sources of this dome will be brought to bear against you. I
suggest you make good use of the time. I do not wish to
have to spend a day with this ilk."
"Nowl" Satan cried.

"Follow me," Sheen said, and took off. Stile followed
her without question; she was programmed for exactly this
sort of thing. He remained bemused by the negotiation and
terms agreed upon by the Citizens. His Employer wasn't
concerned about the kilo of Protonite, but about a day
with Satan—yet she had made the wager. What did that
tell about the values of Citizens? He really wasn't sure. His
Employer might be upset with him if she lost the wager—
but he would already be dead. Perhaps this only indicated
the relative values of things: the life of a favored serf, one
kilo of Protonite, one day with a boor. Three things of
equivalent merit.

Blue Adept                    141

Sheen had evidently surveyed this layout and resources
of this dome, using her machine capabilities. She knew
where everything was. Stile realized that his life was on the
line, but he expected to retain it—because the Satan-Citi-
zen evidently was not aware that Sheen was a robot. Their
resources were greater, in the purely limited scope of pur-
suit, than the Citizen knew. Stile's Employer knew, of
course, and had played her game adroitly. She expected to
win her wager.

Sheen paused at a panel, opened it, and did something to
its innards. "That will give us an extra minute," she said. "I
put in a sixty-second implement-delay signal. By the time
they notice it, it will have expired—and we have a minute
more time." Then she took off again.

They came to a tank-reserve unit. Sheen opened the
hatch to one of the tiny vehicles. "Get in."

"But there's only room for one person!"

"I don't need to breathe," she reminded him. "I will ride
outside." When Stile looked doubtful, she said: "We're
already into our extra minute. Get in! You know how to
operate this device?"

"Yes." Stile had played Games with similar equipment;

he could handle a tank adroitly. This one was armed with
small explosive shells, however, instead of the colored-light
imitation-laser of a Game tank. This was a real war ma-
chine, and that made him nervous.

"I can't help you once we get outside," Sheen said
quickly. "Try to mimic the other tanks, so they don't know
you're a fugitive. Then break for the mounta'ns or another
dome. They won't pursue beyond this Citizen's demesnes."

Demesnes. Like those of the Adepts of Phaze.

"Hang on," Sl- 'Ie said. He closed the hatch, fastened it
down, and started the tank.

The motor roared into life. He ground down the exit
tunnel, then up to ground level. Immediately he saw the
ring of other tanks. He angled across to merge with their
line. Protective mimicry—an excellent device!

But they were on to him. Maybe it was Sheen, clinging
to the top, or maybe the Citizen's robot-personnel had
noted the identity of his machine. The nearest tank ori-
ented on him, its cannon swinging balefully about.

142                    Blue Adept

Very well. Stile was good at such maneuvers, though his
life had not before hung so literally on his ability. He
skewed to the side, and the enemy's first shot missed. Be-
yond him there was a detonation, and a black cloud ex-
panded and drifted in the slight breeze.

Stile spun his tank about and fired at the one who had
attacked him. Stile's aim was good; there was a burst of
flame, and a cloud of smoke enveloped the other machine.
He was a dead shot with most projectile weapons, though
he had never expected that Game-talent to pay off so hand-
somely in real life.

Before that cloud had cleared, Stile whirled on the next,
and scored on it too. However, the other tanks were con-
verging on his own. There were too many of them, and
Stile was conscious of Sheen on his top. Even a glancing
hit, or piece of shrapnel could wipe her out! There was
really no chance to escape this region unscathed.

Stile turned directly toward the Citizen's dome. This put
him between it and the pursuing tanks; they could not fire
at him because any missed shot would strike the dome.
Machines were generally stupid, but this would be pro-
grammed into them.

The problem was that he remained confined. He could
not break out of the ring of tanks without becoming a
target. Before long the speck of Protonite that powered this
vehicle would be exhausted; a heavy machine consumed a
lot of energy. Then he would be stuck, vulnerable to what-
ever Satan had in mind for him. It would surely be hellish.

Well, do the unexpected. It was all that remained. Stile
roared straight through the force-field and into the dome
itself. Let the Citizen deal with this\

In moments he plowed through the partitions of the
outer chambers, scattering stage props and supplies, and
emerged upstairs in Heaven.

Angels scattered, screaming with unetemal terror, as the
tank burst through a cloud bank, shedding puffs of clouds
and crunching the foam-floor beneath. Stile slowed, not
wanting to hurt anyone; after all, the angels were only
costumed serfs. Also, if anyone died, his tenure on Proton
would be abruptly terminated, and if the police arrested
him before he reached the sanctity of the Tourney prem-

Blue Adept                   143

ises, he would not be allowed to reach it. No one could be
arrested in the Game Annex itself. But how would he
return to Phaze? As far as he knew, no fold of the curtain
passed the Annex. So he was careful—and conscious of the
anomaly of a tank touring Heaven, carrying a lady robot.
He wanted to stop to check on Sheen, but knew he could
not afford the delay; he had to figure out a course of action
before the Citizen's forces reorganized.

Could he charge on down to the subway shuttle? The
passages were fairly broad, and the tank should fit. But
what would he do when he got there? This machine would
not fit aboard a shuttle, and would have trouble running
along the confined channel the shuttles used. But if he left
this machine, he would be lasered down. Yet where else
would he go? All his alternatives seemed futile.

Then he suffered inspiration. The curtain—of course!
He had surveyed it near here, from the other side. If he
could locate it and reach it—

It was a gamble at best. The curtain might not be close
enough, and if it was within range he might not be able to
spot it from the tank, and if he did spot it he still might not
be able to will himself through it while riding in the tank.
Yet one thing he was not going to do was stop and get out,
under the guns of the other tanks!

It was no gamble at all to remain here idle. He would
inevitably fall to Satan's forces. He had to try for the
curtain!

He crashed on out of Heaven, through the interim
chambers, and on into the barrens of Proton.

The enemy tanks were on the other side of the dome,
where he had entered. That was a break for him. Stile
headed toward the region where the curtain should be.
With just a little further luck—

The enemy tanks reacted as one, cruising around the
dome on either side and spreading out to form a broad
line. Now they were getting him into their sights—and the
dome was not going to be in the line of fire much longer.
No good luck for him here!

Stile threw his tank from side to side as the firing com-
menced, making a difficult target. Machines were accurate
shooters when the target was stationary or in steady mo-




144 Blue Adept

tion, but when velocity was erratic and non-laser weapons
were being employed, as now seemed to be the case, it was
necessary to anticipate the strategy of the prey. Otherwise
the time it took the shell to travel would put it behind the
target-tank. Since Stile was humanly unpredictable, the
shots were missing. But he could not afford to flaunt him-
self before them for long; inevitably a shell would score, at
least disabling his machine. Then he would become a sta-
tionary target: a sitting quack, as it was described in Game-
parlance.

In Phaze, he thought with fleeting humor, he had to
watch out for spells. Here it was shells.

But his meandering had another purpose: to locate the
curtain. It was here somewhere, but there were such poor
reference points on the bare sand that he could not place it
precisely. The curtain could curve about, and it shim-
mered so faintly that it was invisible from any distance,
even for those like himself who were able to perceive it at
all. He would probably come upon it so swiftly that he
would pass it before realizing; then he would have to turn
and try to cross from the other side while the enemy tanks
had full seconds to orient.

A shell exploded in the sand beside him. The concussion
shoved Stile's tank violently to the side. Something flew
from it, visible in his screen. A section of armor?

No. If was Sheen.

Then Stile saw the curtain, angling across his path just
ahead. He must have been traveling beside it, not quite
intersecting it. He could veer right and pass through it
now—

Not without Sheen! Yet he could not halt; that would be
instant, fiery death. Already his pace slackened, the enemy
tanks were closing the gap; their aim would become cor-
respondingly more accurate. He had to get across—or per-
ish.

Sheen had asked to be junked cleanly. Was this the
occasion? Should he, after all, allow her to. . . ?

Stile set the controls to automatic, opened the hatch, and
climbed out. The tank was moving at about 50 kilometers
per hour now. Stile leaped off the side, sprinting desper-
ately forward in midair. His feet touched the ground, and

Blue Adept

145

Still weren't fast enough. He made a forward roll, eyes and
mouth tightly closed, curling his body into a ball. The sand
was soft, here, though his velocity was such that it felt
hard; he rotated many times before coming out of it,
bruised but whole. Oh, that sand was hoti

The enemy tanks, for the moment, were still chasing his
empty tank. Stile charged back to find Sheen, who lay
sprawled where she had fallen. She looked intact; perhaps
the shock of the explosion had only jogged a wire loose,
interrupting her power.

Stile picked her up and carried her toward the nearest
intersection of the curtain. But she was heavy, being made
of metals and plastic; it was a considerable burden in the
shifting sand, and his bare feet were hurting from the heat.
Stile was soon panting as he staggered on.

His empty tank exploded. Chance and firepower had

brought it down.
Now the enemy tanks slowed their pursuit, turning to

return to their normal perimeter. And of course they be-
came aware of Stile, lumbering along with his burden.
Cannon swiveled to bear on him. But there was the cur-
tain, just ahead.

Stile summoned his reserves and leaped. Phazel he
thought, willing himself through. A tank fired; the shell
whistled; the sand behind Stile erupted.

Then the faint tingle of the curtain was on him. Stile fell
to the ground, and it was green turf. Sheen was wrenched
from his grasp and rolled through the grass and leaves and

landed arms and legs akimbo.

One foot was burning. Stile realized that it remained on
the other side of the curtain, where the smoke and heat of
the shell-blast touched it. Hastily he drew it through. It was
not burned, merely uncomfortable.

Now he went to Sheen. She was disheveled and battered,
her fine torso abraded. One breast had been torn off, and
about a third of her hair had been pulled out. It seemed,
too, that the right side of her body had been crushed, and
metal showed through a compound fracture of her right
arm. There was a great deal more wrong with her than a
loose wirel

146 Blue Adept

He did not love her, he reminded himself. She was only
a machine, her consciousness artificial. Without her power
pack and feedback circuitry she was no more than junk.

But his logic was overwhelmed by a surge of emotion. "I
do love you, Sheen, in my fashion!" he whispered. "I shall
have you repaired—"

Have her repaired? This was Phaze, the frame of magic.
He was the Blue Adept. He could restore her himselfl

Or could he? He was not a healing Adept, and had never
been able to affect the vital functions of a living creature.
Well, he had healed Neysa after her visit to Hell, and his
alternate self had done healing. So maybe he just needed
practice. The Lady Blue had the healing touch, while
Stile's magic was generally more physical, however. And in
no event could he restore the dead to life.

Yet Sheen had never been alive. Why couldn't he fix her
physical circuitry, repair her breaks and losses? She should
be within the ambience of his talent, after all!

Quickly he fashioned spot spells: "Robot Sheen, body
clean," he sang, wishing he had his harmonica or the Plati-
num Flute along. But he had never anticipated returning to
Phaze like this! In future he would keep those instruments
with him at all times.

Sheen's torso became unblemished. It was working!

"Bones of steel, mend and heal." And her fracture
knitted itself together while her torso sprang out to original
configuration, with even the missing breast replaced. "Face
be fair; restore the hair," and all that damage was undone.

Now for the big one. "Broken circuits mend; conscious-
ness lend." Once again he was bothered by the crudity of
the verse. But it served his purpose. Sheen was whole,
now.

Except that she still lay there, lovely as any naked
woman could be. She showed no sign of animation. How
had he failed?

Maybe the lack of a musical instrument had depleted the
force of his magic. Stile conjured a simple guitar and used
it to strum up greater power, then tried other spells. He
covered everything he could think of, but nothing worked.
At last, succumbing to reaction from his own narrow
escape and grief-stricken at her apparent demise, he threw

Blue Adept

147

himself on her body and kissed her unresponsive lips. "Oh

Sheen—I'm sorry!"
If he had expected his kiss to bring her magicaUy to life,

he was disappointed. She remained defunct.

After a moment Stile sat up. His face was wet, a signal
of his emotion. "I can't accept this," he said. "There has to

be something."

Then it came to him: Sheen was a sophisticated ma-
chine, mechanical and electronic, a creature of advanced
science and technology—and such things were not opera-
tive in the fantasy frame. Sheen could be in perfect condi-
tion—he could not say "health"—yet be inoperative here.
Only her body could cross the curtain, not her functioning.

The answer was to get her back to her own frame. He
had business there anyway. This excursion into Phaze was
merely a device to save his own life.

Stile got up, then picked up the robot. He braced himself
for the penalty of vertigo, then sang a spell to transport
him instantly to his usual curtain-crossing place. Arriving

there, he spelled them through.
Sheen woke as the passage formed about them. "Stile!"

she exclaimed. "What—where—?"

He kissed her and set her down. "I'll explain it all. But
first we have to contact my employer and advise her that
she won her bet. She doesn't have to spend time with

Satan."

"Yes," she agreed. "But how—?"

"I do love you somewhat," Stile said. "I know that now."

"But I'm a machine!"

"And I'm a concatenation of protoplasm." He spanked
her pert bare bottom. "Now move, creature!"

She reoriented swiftly. "I'd certainly like to know what
happened during my blank. The last I remember, I was
riding the tank. Now I'm here. It's like magic."

Stile laughed to see her unrobotic confusion. He was so
glad to have her animated again that he felt giddy. No, that
was the vertigo of his self-transport. "Just exactly like
magici" he agreed, taking her hand and drawing her on.

His Round Three Game was with an alien.
Stile had never played a nonhuman living creature be-

148

Blue Adept

fore. He had seen them play, since twenty-four aliens were
admitted to every Tourney, but often the majority of these
"aliens" were merely wealthy otherworld human beings, or
at least humanoids. Many people were attracted by the lure
of unmitigated wealth and power, but few who were not of
the system were permitted to compete. Stile understood
that the entry fee for offworlders was formidable, whereas
there was no fee for serfs. Oh, they had the system well
worked out! One way or another, the dues were paid.

But this one was that rarity, a genuine alien creature. It
had a ring of tentacles in lieu of arms above, and six little
caterpillar feet below, and its face was mainly an elephan-
tine proboscis. There did seem to be sensory organs, on
little stalks that hobbled about. Stile presumed the ones
with balled ends were eyes, and the ones with hollow bells
were ears; he could not account for the ones with opaque
disks.

"Salutation," he said formally. "I am Stile, a serf-human
being of this planet."

"Courtesy appreciation; you do look the part," the alien
responded. The sound emanated from somewhere about its
head, but not from its snout. "I will be Dgnh of Else-
where."

"Apology. I am unable to pronounce your name."

"Complete with vowel-sound of your choice: irrelevancy
to local vocal."

"Dogonoh?" Stile inquired.

"Noh for brief. Sufficiently."

"Noh," Stile agreed. "You are prepared for any Game?"

"Appallingly."

Then he need feel no guilt about playing hard to win.
This creature could have spent a lifetime preparing for this
single event, and have some inhuman skills. Already Stile
was trying to evaluate Noh's potential. Those tentacles
looked sturdy and supple; the creature was probably apt at
mechanical things. It was probably best to stay clear of any
physical contest. Since he did not care to gamble in
CHANCE or ART, that left MENTAL—if he had the
choice. On the other range, he had best stay clear of tools
or machines, again fearing that alien dexterity. So he
should go for NAKED or ANIMAL. Probably the latter,

Blue Adept                   149

since he understood local animals well, and the alien prob-
ably did not.

"Prior matches—compare?" Noh asked.

That would help him gain an insight into the alien's
propensities. "I played Football with a Citizen, and Domi-
noes with a female serf," Stile said.

"Not for me, your Football," Noh decided. "Foots too
small. Dominoes no either, element of chance."

Pretty savvy, this creature. "The grid leads to com-
promise."

"So I explicated. Tiddlywinks with manchild and Story-
telling with Citizen. Won Games, but nervous."

"Certainly," Stile agreed. Under the alien form, this
being was a true Gamesman. Stile had experienced such
competitive nervousness many times. In fact, every Game
brought it on. That was part of the addiction of it. He was
in the Tourney to try for Citizenship, surely; but he also
had an abiding delight in the competition of the thing, the
endless variants, the excitement of the temporarily un-
known. That was what had caused him to remain on Pro-
ton as a serf, instead of departing with his parents when
their tour of tenure had expired. The fascination and com-
pulsion of the Game had ruled him.

Now, ironically, his major involvement was with magic,
with the lovely frame of Phaze. There, he was a person of
considerable substance, a magician. He had entered the
Tourney here at a time when its signiEcance for him had
been greatly reduced. Yet new reasons had erupted to re-
store its importance. He was doing it for Sheen, and for
pride, and for the chance to discover who was trying to kill
him, and to achieve the ability to do something about it.
Just as he was participating in the quest of the Platinum
Flute in Phaze, for Neysa and pride and eventual venge-
ance. So despite the considerable flux in both frames, his
course had hardly changed.

Stile was jolted out of his reverie by the announcement
of his Game. He and the alien stepped up to the grid
unit.

The alien was even shorter than Stile; only its perception-
stalks showed above the unit. Since the grid-screens on
either side were all that counted, this did not matter. Nor-

150 Blue Adept

mally Stile preferred to study his opponent for telltale re-
actions during the stress of selection; a hint about a per-
son's nervous state could spell the key to victory. But he
could not read the alien anyway.

The primary grid showed. Good—Stile had the numbers.
Without hesitation he selected MENTAL.

Noh was just as quick—which alarmed Stile. If this
creature was as fast on its mental feet as his reaction-time
indicated, this meant trouble. The selected panel showed
2A, MENTAL/NAKED. Mind alone, no body involve-
ment.

The secondary grid appeared. Numbered across the top
were the categories SOCIAL—POWER—MATH-
HUMOR; lettered down the side were the qualities IN-
FORMATION—MEMORY—RIDDLE—MANIPULA-
TION. Stile had the numbers, and that was fine.

Suppose he chose SOCIAL? The alien could choose IN-
FORMATION, and the subgrid could put them into plane-
tary history, where Noh could be well prepared. What was
the date of the squassation of the Bohunk of Planet Tee-
total, in local zero-meridian time? He certainly didn't need
that! Should he choose POWER? Noh could choose
MEMORY, and they could rival each other in the recall of
extended sequences of letters, numbers and concepts, the
kind of thing that used to fill the tests that supposedly
indicated human intelligence. Stile was good at this, in
human terms—but how could he be sure that Noh did not
possess long-term eidetic memory, and be virtually invinci-
ble? Or the alien could select MANIPULATION, and they
could wind up playing a mental game of three-dimensional
chess. Stile could do that, too—but it was a literal head-
ache. However, MATH could lead to the identification of
obscure formulae if Noh chose INFORMATION, or the
spot rehearsal of log tables or trig functions. MATH/
RIDDLES could be just as bad; better go to MANIPU-
LATION and do complex problems in his head. But if he
chose HUMOR, and Noh chose RIDDLE, they would
wind up comparing puns. Puns with an alien?

Damn it, he was up against a completely unknown qual-
ity of opponent! Any choice could be ruinous. If only he
had had time to do his homework, researching his prospec-

Blue Adept

151

tive opponents, however scantily; then at least he would
have had some broad notion what to avoid. But this busi-
ness in Phaze had crippled his research time.

Stile sighed. He would have to go with MATH.

Noh had already selected RIDDLE. They were in 3C,
Mathematical Riddles. Well, it could have been worse. Stile
had on-days and off-days on this sort of thing; sometimes
inspiration presented him with a brilliant response, and
sometimes he felt as if his head were stuffed with sawdust,
and sometimes he cursed himself for missing the obvious.
But normally he was pretty sharp on mathematical riddles,
and he knew a great number of them.

The final grid was about as simple as they came: four
squares. The top was 1. COMPUTER-GENERATED 2.
SELF-GENERATED. The side was A. DUAL RE-
SPONSE B. INDIVIDUAL RESPONSE. Just four alter-
natives. Stile had the numbers.

Noh's antennae wavered in agitation. "Nonetheless is
this naked mental? How justified computer involvement?"

"These categories are fundamentally arbitrary," Stile ex-
plained. "Too many Games are in fact mixed types. The
Game Computer assumes for the sake of convenience that
it, itself, has no Game significance. The riddles could come
from a book or a third person, but it is most convenient
and random to draw on the computer memory banks.
There are all kinds of little anomalies like this in the
Games; I had to play Football using androids termed ani-
mals, with robots for referees."

"This is delightfully mistrustful. Expedient to avoid?"

"Well, I happen to have the numbered facet, so you
cannot control that. Myself, I'd rather avoid the dual re-
sponse; that's timed, with the first one to answer being the
winner. I'm more of a power thinker; I get there, but not
always in a hurry." This was true, but perhaps misleading;

Stile was stronger as a power thinker in proportion to his
other skills, but still by no means a slow thinker. "That

is—"

"Can we collude? Choose 2B for mutual accommodation-

ality?"

"We could—but how could we know one of us won't
cheat? Deals are permissible but not legally enforceable in

152                    Blue Adept

the Game. An expert liar makes an excellent grid-player.
The computer accepts nothing but the signal-buttons."

"Chance it must be risked," Noh said. "Some trust exists
in the galaxy, likewise on little planets."

"Agreed," Stile said, smiling at the alien's phrasing. He
touched 2, and sure enough, it came up 2B. They had each
kept faith. Game players normally did; it greatly facilitated
things on occasion.

Now they adjourned to a bare private chamber. "Select a
recipient for the first riddle," the Game Computer said
from a wall speaker. "Recipient must answer within ten
minutes, then propose a counter-riddle for the other. In the
event of failure to answer, proponent must answer his own
riddle, then answer opponent's riddle within the time limit.
The first contestant to achieve such success is the victor.
Computer will arbitrate the technical points."

"You courtesy explained situation," Noh said. "Appreci-
ation I yield initial."

It really did not make any difference who went first,
since only an unanswered or misanswered riddle followed
by a successful defense counted. But Stile was glad to get
into it, for psychological reasons. He had a number of
tricky questions stored in the back of his mind. Now he
would find out just what the alien was made of, intellec-
tually.

"Picture three equal-length sticks," Stile said carefully.
"Each quite straight, without blemish. Form them into a
triangle. This is not difficult. With two additional sticks of
the same size and kind a second triangle can be formed
against a face of the first. Now can you fashion four con-
gruent triangles from only six such sticks?"

Noh considered. "Enjoyability this example! Permissible
to employ one stick to bisect double-triangle figure formed
from segments of sticks?"

"No. Each stick must represent exactly one side of each
triangle; no projecting points." But Stile felt a tingle of
apprehension; such a device would indeed have formed
four congruent triangles, and similar overlapping could
make up to six of them. This creature was no patsy.

"Permissible to cross sticks to form pattern of star with
each point a triangle?"

Blue Adept                   153

"No crossing." So quick to explore the possibilitiesi

The head stalks hobbled thoughtfully for almost a min-
ute. Then: "Permissible to employ a third dimension?"

The alien had iti "Permissible," Stile agreed gamely.

"Then to elevate one stick from each angle of first tri-
angle, touching at apex to form four-sided pyramid, each
side triangle."

"You've got it," Stile admitted. "Your turn."

"Agreeable game. Triangles amenable to my pleasure.
Agree sum of angles is half-circle?"

"One hundred eighty degrees," Stile agreed.

"Present triangle totaling three-quarter circle."

"That's—" Stile began, but choked off the word "impos-
sible." Obviously the alien had something in mind. Yet
how could any triangle have a total of 270°? He had
understood 180° was part of the definition of any triangle.
Each angle could vary, but another angle always varied
inversely to compensate. If one angle was 179°, the other
two would total 1°. Otherwise there would be no triangle.

Unless there could be an overlay of triangles, one angle
counting as part of another triangle, adding to the total.
That didn't seem sensible, yet—

"Permissible to overlap triangles?" Stile inquired.

"Never."

So much for that. Stile paced the floor, visualizing tri-
angles of all shapes and sizes. No matter how he made
them, none had more than 180°.

Could they have differing definitions of triangles? "Per-
missible to have more than three angles in the figure?"

"Never."

Down again. Damn it, it wasn't possible! Yet somehow,
by some logic, it had to be, or the alien would not have
proposed it. Stile had encountered situations in which the
supposedly impossible had turned out to be possible, like
turning a torus inside out through a hole in its side.
Topology—there was a fertile field for intellectual riddlesi
Shapes that were infinitely distortable without sacrificing
their fundamental qualities. Bend it, twist it, stretch it, tie it
in knots, it did not really change. Now if he could do that
with a triangle, bowing out the sides so as to widen the
angles—but then its sides would be curved, no good.

154                   Blue Adept

Maybe if it were painted on a rubberite sheet, which sheet
was stretched—ahal A curved surfacel Noh had not speci-
fied a flat surface. A triangle drawn on a sphere—

"Permissible to employ a curved surface?" Stile inquired
triumphantly.

"Never. Triangle must be rigid frame, as were your
own."

Ouchi He had been so surel On the surface of a sphere
he could have made eight triangles each with three right
angles, or even four triangles with two right angles and one
180° straight angle each—a quarter section of the whole.
The curvature of the surface permitted straight lines, in
effect, to bow. He had often carved the skin of a pseudo-
orange that way. But the alien forbade it.

Still, perhaps he was getting wanner. Noh's antennae
were flexing nervously, which could be a good sign. Sup-
pose the surface were not curved, but space itself was?
That could similarly distort a rigid triangle, by changing
the laws of its environment. In theory the space of the
universe was curved; suppose the triangle were of truly
cosmic proportion, so that it reflected the very surface of
the cosmos? "Okay to make a very large triangle?"

"Nokay," Noh responded. "Standard triangle held in
tentacles readily."

Brother! Stile was getting so inventive, stretching his
imagination, to no avail. If he could not draw on the
curvature of space—

But he could! "How about taking it to another location?"

The stalks wobbled ruefully. "Permissible."

"Like maybe the vicinity of a black hole in space, where
intense gravity distorts space itself. Normal geometric fig-
ures become distorted, despite no change in themselves, as
though mounted on a curved surface. Down near the cen-
ter of that black hole, space could even be deformed into
the likeness of a sphere, just before singularity, and a tri-
angle there could have two hundred and seventy degrees,
or even more."

"The creature has resolved it," Noh agreed ruefully.
"Inquire next riddle."

. This was no easy Game! Stile felt nervous sweat cool-
ing on his body. He feared he was overmatched in spatial




Blue Adept                   155

relationships. He had invoked the third dimension, and the
alien had in turn invoked something like the fourth dimen-
sion. Better to move it into another region. "Using no other
figures, convert four eights to three ones," Stile said. Prob-
ably child's play for this creature, but worth a try.

"Permissible to add, subtract, multiply, divide, powers,
roots, tangents?" Noh asked.

"Permissible—so long as only eights are used," Stile
agreed. But of course simple addings of eights would never
doit.

"Permissible to form shapes from numbers?"

"You mean like calling three ones a triangle or four
eights a double row of circles? No. This is straight math."
Noh was on the wrong trail.

But then the alien brightened. His skin assumed a lighter
hue. "Permissible to divide 888 by 8 to achieve 111?"

"Permissible," Stile said. That really had not balked Noh
long—and now the return shot was coming. Oh, dread!

"Human entity has apparent affinity for spheres, as wit-
ness contours of she-feminine of species," Noh said. "Ap-
preciate geography on sphere?"

"I fear not," Stile said. "But out with it, alien."

"In human parlance, planetary bodies have designated
north and south poles, apex and nadir of rotation, geo-
graphical locators?"

"Correct." What was this thing leading up to?

"So happenstance one entity perambulates, slithers, or
otherwise removes from initiation of north pole, south one
unit, then east one unit, and right angle north one unit,
discover self at point of initiation."

"Back at the place he started, the north pole, yes," Stile
agreed. "That's the one place on a planet that such a walk
is possible. Walk south, east, north and be home. That's
really a variant of the triangle paradox, since two right
angle turns don't—"

"Discover another location for similar perambulation."

"To walk south a unit, east a unit, and north a unit, and
be at the starting point—without starting at the north
pole?"

"Explicitly."

156                   Blue Adept

The creature had done it again. Stile would have sworn
there was no such place. Well, he would have to find
onel

Not the north pole. Yet the only other place where polar
effects occurred was the south pole—and how could a
person travel south from that? By definition, it was the
southernmost region of a planet.

"All units are equal in length and all are straight?" Stile
inquired, just in case.

"Indelicately."

"Ah, I believe you mean indubitably?"

"Indecisively," the alien agreed.

Just so. "Can't move the planet to a black hole?"

"Correct. Cannot. Would squash out of shape."

So it had to be settled right here; no four-dimensional
stunts. Yet where in the world could it be? Not the north
pole, not the south pole—

Wait! He was assuming too much. He did not have to go
south from the south pole. He had to go south to it. Or
almost to it....

"Picture a circle around the south pole," Stile said. "A
line of latitude at such distance north of the pole that its
circuit is precisely one unit. Now commence journey one
unit north of that latitude. Walk south, then east around
the pole, and north, retracing route to starting point."

"Accursed, foiled additionally," Noh said. "This creature
is formidability."

Stile's sentiments exactly, about his opposition. He was
afraid he was going to lose this match, but he struck
gamely for new territory, seeking some intellectual weak-
ness in his opponent. "The formula X2 plus Y2 equals Z®,
when graphed represents a perfect circle with a radius of Z,
as described in what we call the Pythagorean Theorem," he
said. "Are you familiar with the mechanism?"

"Concurrently. We term it the Snakegrowltime Equa-
tion."

Stile suspected there was a bit of alien humor there, but
he had to concentrate on the job at hand instead of figur-
ing out the reference. He was glad he had not gotten into a
punning contesti "What variation of this formula repre-
sents a square?"

Blue Adept

157

"No variation!" Noh protested. "That formula generates
only a curve; a variation must remain curvaceous. No
straight lines from this."

"I will settle for an approximate square," Stile said help-
fully. "One that curves no more than the width of the lines
used to draw it."

"How thickness lines?"

"Same thickness as those used to make the circle."

"Extraordinarily unuseful," Noh grumped, pacing the
floor with the little feet tramping in threes. "Geometric
curves do not transformation so. It is a fact of math."

"Math is capable of funny things." Stile was regaining
confidence. Had he found a weakness?

Noh paced and questioned and did the alien equivalent
of sweating, and finally gave it up. "Incapability of sensi-
blizing this. Demand refutation."

"Try Xoo plus Yoo equals Zoo," Stile said.

"Party of the first part raised to the infinitive power, plus
party of the second part raised similarly? This is mean-
ingful-less!"

"Well, try it partway, to get the drift. X3 plus—"

"Partway?" Noh demanded querulously. "Cannot split
infinity!"

Stile thought of the infinities of the scientific and magi-
cal universes, split by the curtain. But that was not relevant
here. "X8 plus Y8 equals Z8 yields a distorted loop, no
longer a perfect circle. Raise the powers again. X4 plus Y4
equals Z*, and it distorts further towards the comers. By
the time it goes to the tenth or twelfth power, it is begin-
ning to resemble a square. By the time it reaches the mil-
lionth power—"

Noh did some internal calculating. "It approaches a
square! Never a perfect one, for it yet is a curve, but within
any desired tolerance—remarkable! I never realized a curve
could fashion into—amaztonishing!"

"Now I must answer yours," Stile reminded the alien.
He knew he hadn't won yet; he had only gained a tem-
porary advantage, thanks to splitting an infinity.

"Appreciably so. Where is the west pole?"

"West pc^e?"

"North pole, south pole, east pole, west pole. Where?"

158 Blue Adept

"But a planet can only have one axis of rotationi There
can't be two sets of poles!"

"There cannot be a square generated from a curve, al-
ternatively."

"Urn, yes." Stile lapsed into thought. If he could get this
one, he won the Round. But it baffled him as much as his
square had baffled Noh. Was the west pole simply a matter
of semantics, a new name for the north or south poles?
That seemed too simple. There really had to be a pole in
addition to the conventional ones, to make it make sense.
Yet unless a planet could have two axes of rotation—

In the end, Stile had to give it up. He did not know
where the west pole was. His advantage had disappeared.
They were even again. "Where?"

"Anticipation-hope you would solution it," Noh said.
"Solve has eluded me for quantity of time."

"You mean you don't know the answer yourself?" Stile
asked incredulously.

"Affirmation. I have inexplicably defaulted competition.
Negative expedience. Remorse."

So Stile had won after alll Yet he wished he could have
done it by solving the riddle. The west pole—where could
it be? He might never know, and that was an aggravation.

Stile had been late in the Round Three roster, and now
was early in the Round Four roster, as the Game Com-
puter shifted things about to ensure fairness. Hence he had
less than a day to wait. He spent much of that time sleep-
ing, recovering from his excursion with the tanks and rest-
ing for possibly grueling forthcoming Games. He had been
lucky so far; he could readily have lost the Football Game
and the Riddle Game, and there was always the spectre of
CHANCE to wash him out randomly. Most duffer players
were fascinated by CHANCE; it was the great equalizer.
So he hoped he would encounter a reasonably experienced
player, one who preferred to fight it out honestly. One who
figured he had a chance to win by skill or a fortuitous
event in a skill contest, like the referee's miscall in the
Football Game. But a true skill contest could be arduous,
exhausting both participants so that the winner was at a
disadvantage for the next Game.

Blue Adept                    159

If Stile's employer discovered anything in the course of
her investigation into the matter of the forged message-
address, she did not confide it to him. That was the way of
Citizens. They often treated serfs with superficial courtesy,
but no followthrough. The Citizen he had encountered in
Round One, the Rifleman, was an example; there had been
no further communication from him. There was no such
thing, in Proton law and custom, as a binding commitment
by Citizen to serf. Everything went the other way.

Stile remained troubled by the continuing campaign
against him by his anonymous enemy. At first he had
thought this person had sent Sheen and then lasered his
knees as a warning to get out of horseracing. But he had
gotten out—and the threat continued. There had been a
Citizen who was after him, but that had been effectively
neutralized, and Sheen's self-willed robot friends had veri-
fied that he was not the present offender. They had not
been able to trace the source of the substituted address,
because it had not been handled through any-computer
circuits; it had been a "mechanical" act. But they had
watched that particular Citizen, and knew that he was
relatively innocent.

Someone wanted Stile dead—in Proton and in Phaze.
Perhaps it was the same person—a frame-traveler. There
were a number of people who crossed the curtain regularly,
as Stile himself did. Maybe that same one had killed Stile's
other self, the Blue Adept, and tried for Stile with less
success. Probably another Adept; no lesser person could
have done it. But who? The maker of golems—or the
maker of amulets? Stile was becoming most eager to know.

If he beat the long odds and won the Tourney, he would
have at his disposal the resources of a Citizen. Then he
would be in a position to find out—and to take remedial
action. That was the real imperative of his present drive.
He could not wash out of the Tourney and simply return
to Phaze to court the Lady Blue—not when a curtain-
crossing Adept was laying constant deathtraps for him. He
had life-and-death riddles to solve first!

His Round Four opponent was a woman his own age:

Hella, first Rung on the Age 35 ladder. Stile had qualified
for the Tourney by being fifth on the male 35 ladder, but

160 Blue Adept

he was actually the top player of his age. Many top players
remained deliberately low on their Game ladders, so as to
avoid the annual Tourney draft of the top five. Hella,
however, really was the top female player, whose tenure
ended this year; she had been eager to enter the Tourney.

Nevertheless, she was not in Stile's class. He could out-
perform her in most of the physical Games and match her
in the mental ones. If he got the numbers he would have
no gallantry at all. He would choose PHYSICAL. If he
had the letters he would have to go for TOOL, to put it
into the boardgames block, where he retained the advan-
tage over her.

Hella was a fit, statuesque woman, taller and heavier
than Stile. She had half-length dark-blonde hair, slightly
curly, and lips a little too thin. She looked like what she
was: a healthy, cynical, hard-driving woman, nevertheless
possessed of a not inconsiderable sex appeal. Larger men
found her quite attractive, and she was said to be proficient
at private games, the kind that men and women played off
record. Stile had played her often, in random Games, but
had never socialized with her. Most women did not get
romantic about men who were smaller than themselves,
and she was no exception. Stile himself had always been
diffident about women, and remained so. Sheen was spe-
cial, and not really a woman. The Lady Blue was special
too—and Stile really found himself unable to forward his
suit with her. She was his other self's widow...

"I would rather not have come up against you," Hella
told him in the waiting room. "I'm already half out; a
duffer caught me in CHANCE."

"That's the way it goes," Stile said. "I have nothing
against you, but I intend to put you away."

"Of course," she said. "If you get the numbers."

"If I get the numbers," he agreed.

Their summons came. Stile did not get the numbers.
Thus they landed in 2B, Tool-Assisted MENTAL
GAMES. They played the sixteen choices of the subgrid
and came to MAZE.

They adjourned to the Maze-section of the Game prem-
ises. The Game Computer formed new mazes for each
contest by sliding walls and panels along set channels;

Blue Adept                    161

there was an extraordinary number of combinations, and it
was not possible to anticipate the correct route through.
One person started from each end, and the first to complete
the route won.

They took their places. Stile was designated blue, the
convention for males, and Hella red, the convention for
females. Had two males been competing, they would have
been blue and green, or red and yellow for females. The
Computer liked things orderly.

The starting buzzer sounded. Stile pushed through the
blue door into the labyrinth. Inside the walls and floor
were restful light gray, the ceiling a translucent illumina-
tion panel. As Stile's weight came on the floor, it turned
blue, panel by panel, and remained that way to show where
he had been. Spectators could view this Game on vision
screens in mockup form, the patterns developing in red and
blue to show the progress of both competitors, appreciating
the ironies of wrong turnings and near-approaches to each
other.

Stile moved quickly down the hall, his blue trail keeping
pace, until he came to the first division. He didn't hesitate;

he took the left passage. Further along, it divided again;

this time he took the right passage. The general law of
chance would make the right and left splits along the
proper way come out about even; this was unreliable for
short-term efforts, but still as good a rule to follow as
any.

This passage convoluted, turned back on itself, and
abruptly dead-ended. So much for general laws! Stile
quickly reversed course, following his own blue trail, and
took what had been the left passage. This twisted about
and finally intersected his original blue trail—the first right
turn he had ignored.

Oops—there had to be an odd number of passages avail-
able, for at least one led to the red door on the other side
of the maze. If two led there, then there would be an even
number—with two passages as yet untried. But that was
unusual; spectators liked to have the two contestants meet
somewhere in the center, and start frantically following
each other's trails, and the Game Computer usually obliged
with such a design. He must have missed a passage in his

162 Blue Adept

hurry. First mistake, and he hoped it would not prove to be
too expensive.

He checked the passage back to the blue door. Nothing
there. Then he took off on the right-hand passage he had
used to complete the loop. Sure enough, it divided; he had
overlooked the other passage because it angled back the
way he had come. He should have checked behind him as
well as ahead; an elementary precaution. He was not play-
ing well.

However, this was not necessarily time wasted. Hella
would be working her way through from the other side,
trying to intersect his blue trail that would lead her to the
blue door. If he had a single path there, she would have no
trouble. As it was, he had turned all paths blue, so she
would have no hint; she might get lost, just as he had.
Sometimes, in these mazes, one person got nine-tenths of
the way through, while the other floundered—and then the
flounderer followed the other trail to victory while the nine-
tenths person floundered. One could never tell.

He moved on down the new passage. It, too, divided; he
moved left and followed new convolutions. This one did
not seem to be dead-ending or intersecting itself; good.
Now he needed to intersect Hella's trail before she inter-
sected his.

Stile paused, listening. Yes—he heard her walking in the
adjacent passage. That did not necessarily mean she was
close; that passage could be a dead-end without connection
to this one. Nevertheless, if he knew her location while she
did not know his, that could be an advantage. He might
sneak in and find her trail while she was still exploring a
false lead, and hurry on to victory.

Then he heard her make a small, pleased exclamation.
Ouch—that could mean only one thing: she had inter-
sected his trail. Which meant that he was probably the one
on the dead-end.

Stile backtracked hastily and silently. Sure enough, her
red path intersected his, where he had bypassed the last
right passage, and ended there. She was hot on his blue
trail, and going the right direction. He was in trouble!

Stile took off down the red trail. He had only two hopes:

first that she had a fairly direct trail he could follow with-

Blue Adept                   163

out confusion; second that she would get lost on his loops
and dead-end.

His first hope was soon dashed; the red trail divided, and
he did not know which one was good. He had to guess. He
bore right, looped about, came close to the exit-region—
and dead-ended. All the breaks were going against himi

He hurried back, no longer bothering to be silent, and
took the other trail. It wound about interminably, while at
every moment he feared he would hear the clang of her
exit and victory. It divided again; he bore right, sweating.
If he lost this simple Game to this woman, who really was
not the player he was...

Then, abruptly, it was before him: the red door. Stile
sprinted for it, suddenly convinced that Hella's foot was on
the sill of the blue door, that even half a second would
wipe him out. In his mind's ear he heard the toll of his
loss.

He plunged through. The bell sounded. He had woni

"Damn!" Hella exclaimed from the interior. She had
after all gotten lost in his loop, and was nowhere close to
the blue door. His alarm had been false.

Sheen was waiting as he emerged. "Take me away from
here," he told her, putting his arm about her slender waist.
He suffered another untoward image: Sheen lying torn
apart after the tank chase. Yet there was no present evi-
dence of that injury; she was all woman. "I've had enough
of the Tourney for now!"

"There'll be more than a day before your next match,"
she said. "Time for you to catch your duel with the Herd
Stallion in Phaze."

"I might as well be right here in the Tourneyl" he com-
plained. "One contest after another."

Blue Adept                   165

CHAPTER 6

Unolympic

Neysa had taken off early to rehearse with her brother for
the incipient exhibitions, at the Lady Blue's behest. Stile
was bothered about the hiatus in protection for the Lady,
but was unable to object. She had remained within the
castle, reasonably safe.

At the appropriate hour. Stile put his arm about the
Lady's supple waist and uttered a spell that jumped them
both to the event. He was getting better at this sort of spell,
but still would rather have traveled by conventional means,
had there been time.

It was impressive. Eight or ten herds of unicorns had
assembled for their competition; each Herd Stallion had his
banner mounted at his camp and his subjects ranged about
it. There was a tremendous open pasture upon which many
hundreds of unicorns grazed. They sported all the colors of
moons and rainbow, and were handsome specimens of
equine flesh.

Yet there were many other creatures too. Werewolves
ranged in small packs, carefully neutral in the sight of so
much potential prey. No false growls here! Bats swooped
from perch to perch and sailed high in the air in pursuit of
insects. Humanoid figures of all types abounded.

A unicorn male trotted up to Stile and the Lady. In a
moment he shifted to man-form, neatly attired in a khaki
uniform. "Please identify thyself and party and accept an
admittance tag."

"The Blue Adept and Lady Blue," Stile said.

"Adept! Right this way!" The unicorn's reaction resem-
bled that of a serf of Proton confronted by a Citizen.

They followed the unicorn to a small pavilion set up
beside the exhibition field. Several people reclined on

164

thronelike chairs or couches. They did not rise or make
any acknowledgment of Stile's or the Lady's arrival. Stile
was now well-enough accustomed to the ways of Phaze to
know that this nonreaction represented a studied dis-
courtesy to either an Adept or a Lady. But he showed no
overt reaction; he wanted first to understand why.

Then a comely young woman stood and approached
them. She seemed vaguely familiar. "Thou comest undis-
guised, my handsome?" she inquired, proffering her hand.
There was the hint of a cronish cackle in her voice.

"Yellow!" he exclaimed. "What brings thee here? I
thought—"

"Thou didst suppose I had no more youth potions?" she
inquired archly. "None that would stand up to a day's hard
use?"

"I recalled thee with fair hair, fairer than those of the
Lady Blue, light yellow tresses." Said tresses were now
short, brown and curly. But of course she could make her
appearance whatever she chose, for the duration of her
potion. This was, as she put it, her costume. Her dress, at
least, was yellow; that was the real key. "I thought the
unicorns—" He shrugged.

"It is truce between all attendees of the Unolympics,"
she explained. "Well the animals know my nature, but here
I exert my powers not, neither do the animals chide me for
old affronts. We Adepts have few such social opportunities,
and few occasions to socialize with others of our ilk in
peace. We take them greedily."

He remembered that Yellow had been lonely in her own
Demesnes, especially for male company. Naturally she
would socialize when she safely could. "Ah, like the temple
of the Oracle," Stile said. "No quarrels here." He looked
about. "These be Adepts?"

"And consorts. I forgot that thou rememberest not." She
smiled brilliantly and bobbed her cleavage about, enjoying
her youthful form as only an old hag could. What height
was to men, he thought, breasts were to women. "Come,
my charming; I will introduce thee around."

A chance to meet other Adepts—one of whom might be
his murderer! This was serendipitous, an unexpected wind-
fall.




166

Blue Adept

Blue Adept

167

Yellow conducted them to a woman reclining on a white
couch, and garbed in a sparkling white gown. She was of
indeterminate middle age, and somewhat stout. "This be
White," Yellow said, indicating her with a half-contemptu-
ous twist of a thumb. Then she jerked the thumb at Stile.
"This be Blue, and Lady."

The White Adept lifted snowy lashes. Her eyes were
ageless, like swirls of falling snow. "Reports of thy demise
seem to have been exaggerated."

"No exaggeration," Stile said. "I seek my murderer."

"May I be far from the scene of thine encounter," White
said, unalarmed, and turned her wintry orbs back to the
field where several unicorns were practicing their acts. Stile
remembered that the White Adept had been in the market
for a white unicorn; Yellow had mentioned that, at their
first encounter. He hoped no such creature had been cap-
tured.

Yellow led them on. "Methinks thy appearance here
stirs greater commotion than shows," she murmured with
grim satisfaction. "It is well known that thou'rt possibly
the strongest current Adept, and that thou hast cause for
vengeance. Blue was ne'er wont to attend these functions
before. Only be certain thou hast the right party, before
thou makest thy move."

"I shall," Stile said through his teeth.

Now they approached a man in black. He glanced in-
curiously at Stile as Yellow made the introduction. "Black
... Blue."

"We have met before," Stile said evenly.

Black peered at him. "I recall it not."

"In thy Demesnes, a month ago." Had it been so short a
time? Stile felt as if an age had passed since he had first
entered the frame of Phaze and assumed the mantle of the
Blue Adept. Subjective experiences had made the days
seem like months. Even his encounter with Black seemed
impossibly distant. Yet Black was the same, with his line
tapering off into the ground, no doubt attaching him to his
castle. Black was made of lines.

Black's linear brow furrowed. "No one intrudes on my
Demesnes."

"With my companions, a unicorn and a werewolf."

Slowly recognition flickered. "Ah—the man of the Little
Folk. I recall it now. I thought thee dead ere now." He
squinted. "Why didst thou not show thy power then?"

"I came in peace—then." Stile frowned. He did not like
the Black Adept, who had imprisoned him and left him to
starve. Yet he could not assume this was the murderer he
sought. Black really had no interest in the things of other
Adepts; he was a recluse. It was surprising that he had
bothered to attend the Unolympics. And if he had mur-
dered the Blue Adept, he certainly would have recognized
him more readily than this! Finally, Stile knew the nature
of Black's magic: he conjured with lines, not golems or
amulets. "If thou intrudest similarly on my Demesnes, I
may treat thee with similar courtesy."

"I can conceive of no circumstances in which I would
intrude on thy Demesnes, or associate with the likes of
Yellow," Black said coldly.

"Until thou hast need of a potion or an animal, my
arrogant," Yellow said. "Then thou dost bespeak the crone
fair enough." She led Stile on.

"These people make me nervous," the Lady Blue mur-
mured. "Never did my Lord take me among them."

"Thy Lord had excellent tastel" Black muttered from
behind.

"So Blue is not thy Lord?" Yellow inquired with a touch
of malice. "What fools these peasants bel"

"Call not the Lady Blue a peasant!" Stile snapped, in-
stantly angry. He felt as if he walked among a nest of
scorpions.

Yellow's potion-pretty face twisted into something no
girl her apparent age could manage. "I call her—"

"What she is," the Lady Blue interjected quickly. "Ever
have my folk been villagers, farming the land and raising
animals, and no shame in it."

Yellow mellowed. "Aye, no shame in the management
of animals. Methinks thy peasant status ceased when thou
didst marry Blue. I withdraw that portion of my remark."

Adepts evidently weren't accustomed to giving away
anything voluntarily! "That portion?" Stile demanded, un-
appeased. He realized he was behaving exactly like an




168

Blue Adept

Adept, but was not in the mood to back off. "Thou leavest
her a fool?"

"That were readily abated," Yellow said. "I have love-
potions that—"

"Enough!" Stile said. "The Lady is a widow; I merely
assume a role that the Blue Demesnes be not demeaned,
and that the great wrong done the Lady may be avenged. I
am not her Lord."

"Passing strange," Yellow murmured. "With power to
enchant an entire unicorn herd, he exercises it not on the
Lady who is as lovely as any mortal can be and as spirited
as a fine animal and who is legitimately his by right of
inheritance. Methinks it is the man who is the fool."
"Mayhap by thy definition," the Lady Blue said.
"Even so," Yellow agreed, shrugging.
They came to a man in a red cloak. He was tall, almost
six feet, with red hair and red mustache. "Red . . . Blue,"
Yellow introduced.

Red extended a firm hand. "Glad am I to meet thee," he
said, smiling. He had a handsome face and seemed to be
about Stile's age, though of course the "costume" made all
but his basic identity suspect.

Yellow took them to the final couple at the pavilion.
"Green and consort," she said. The Green Adept was an-
other man, short and fat, and his Lady was the same. Both
wore green suits and sparkling green jewelry, probably
emeralds. "Blue and Lady."

"Uh-huh," the Green Adept said curtly. "Now let's
watch the show." But the Lady Green made a small mo-
tion of greeting to the Lady Blue.

"These are all that attend this season," Yellow said. "On
other occasions I have met Orange, Purple and Gray. But
they be from afar. There may be other Adepts we know
not of; we are a secretive bunch. I make many contacts at
the several Olympics."

"Other Olympics?" Stile asked, remembering something
the Herd Stallion had said.

"Every major species has them," Yellow assured him.
"Canolympics, Vampolympics, Snowlympics, Dragolym-
pics—some be better than others. Methinks the Elfolym-

Blue Adept

169

pies are best, with their displays of rare weaponry and
dancing little men. Hast thou seen the like, my precious?"

"I noticed only the dancing little damsels," Stile said.
The Lady Blue frowned, but did not comment.

Now the formal program was beginning. Stile and the
Lady Blue took seats and watched. First the several uni-
corn Herds got settled as spectators, each at its assigned
location; then the competitive contingents marched onto
the field to the sound of their own horns and hooves.

It was an impressive entry. Each contingent marched in
step, led by its Herd Stallion. Every horn was elevated at a
45-degree angle; every tail flung out proudly. The surface
of the hooves gleamed in the slanting sunlight, iridescent,
and the spirals of the homs shot out splays of mirror-light.
The animals were all colors and shades: red, orange,
gold, yellow, white, gray, blue, black, brown, striped,
dotted and checkered. Some were single-colored, except for
those colors typical of horses; others were multicolored.

All were beautiful.

The Lady Blue nudged him, making a gesture toward
one section of the march. In a moment he found the place
—the local Stallion's complement, with sixteen picked in-
dividuals. There was Neysa, marching in the last line, on
the side nearest the pavilion. "He didn't try to hide her!"
Stile murmured appreciatively.

Neysa was smaller than the other unicorns, being barely
fourteen hands tall, and she was the only one in the display
whose colors were horse-normal—her mark of shame. But
now she was the steed and oath-friend of an Adept, and
though there was general fear and distrust of Adepts in the
animal kingdoms of Phaze, the clear onus of an Adept's
favor was so potent that Neysa now had a place of com-
parative honor. This was the first time she had been per-
mitted to join the Herd and to participate in its ceremonies,
and obviously she reveled in it. The hurt of years was being
mended. This much Stile had done for Neysa by taming
her; this much she had done for herself by allowing him to

practice the magic of his station.

The music swelled in a mighty chorus. Eight Herd
Stallions blew the leadoff blasts; eight disciplined display-
herds responded with the melody. The ground shook with

170 Blue Adept

the measured cadence of their prancing hooves; the air
shook with the power of their melody. No human orches-
tra could match the passion and splendor of this perfor-
mance. Stile could not remember ever having been spec-
tator to anything as grand as this.

They paraded close by the Adepts' pavilion, and at the
closest point every hom angled abruptly to the left in a
salute. There was an abrupt silence, breathtaking in its
precision; that sudden cessation of sound was more impres-
sive than a fortissimo blast would have been. Then they
marched on, the music resuming, to pass by the other

pavilions.

Stile examined those other pavilions now. One was Elled
with wolves. Another swarmed with bats. Another seated
elves, and yet another was stuffed with glowering, homed
demons. "Everybody comes to the Unolympics!" Stile
breathed, amazed.

"Everybody who is anybody," Yellow responded. "Few
Human Folk, however." Stile was not certain of the sig-
nificance of that; did it mean that humans were among the
least important of the creatures of Phaze? Or that the
higher animals simply didn't like them?

In due course the opening parade finished. Now the
individual competitions commenced. Wolves ran, bats flew,
demons charged and elves scurried from one pavilion to
.another. "What's going on?" Stile asked.

"The judges," Yellow said, standing.

"Judges?"

"They can not use unicorns for the Unolympics; they're
not objective. Too much rivalry between the Herds. It's the
same with the other species; they all have to use outside
judges. Now if thou wilst excuse me, I must to my station."

"Station?"

"I am a judge too. Didn't I tell thee?"

"Now I've seen everything!" Stile muttered.

"Not quite. But when thou spyest Black judging, two
pavilions down, then mayhap thou canst consider it close
enough to everything." She moved off.

A demon arrived—and also a young man with the head
of a hawk. They joined the Yellow Adept at the front of

Blue Adept                    171

the pavilion. This was the team of judges for one section of
the Unolympics.

The contestant-unicoms were now trotting to their
places. There was a brief period of confusion as they criss-
crossed the field. Then columns formed before the several
judging stations. Sixteen unicorns formed a line before the
Adept pavilion, standing at equine attention.

This station, it developed, was judging the acrobatics.
Others judged speed-trials, high- and long-jumps, horn-
fencing, melody-playing, dancing and precision gaits.
Neysa and her brother Clip had entered the category of
couples-dancing, and that was at a far corner of the field;

Stile could not make out what was going on there, to his
frustration. So he turned reluctantly to the local display.

Twelve of the entrants were males—not herd leaders,
just lesser stallions. The Herd system had no regard for the
needs of un-dominant males; they were not allowed to
breed with the mares, and were tolerated in the herds only
so long as they kept their places. In time of war. Stile was
sure, their place was at the forefront, as expendable troops.
Naturally they participated in the Unolympics; it was a
major peacetime opportunity to achieve recognition.

In fact, Stile realized, these various Olympics represented
to the animal kingdoms the same sort of entertainment,
excitement and chance for individual notoriety that the
Game and Tourney did for serfs in Proton. It was a paral-
lel system, used as a relief-valve for the frustrations of the
undertrodden.

Yellow, as an Adept, assumed direction of tlie proceed-
ings at this station. "Equine, thou'rt designated number
One," she said to the unicorn on the far left. "When that
number is called henceforth in this judgment, do thou
answer promptly or forfeit whatever honor may be due
thee. Understand?"

The designated unicorn dipped his horn submissively.
Yellow then counted off the others, up to the last, number
Sixteen. "We are the preliminary panel of judges," she
continued. "The Demon Horrawful, who is an Elder of his
den and has served with fiendish distinction at other
Olympics; in his youth he was a winner at this same event
at the Demolympics." There was a smattering of polite




172 Blue Adept

applause, mostly from the spectators now crowding close
to the edge of the pavilion, a number of whom were
demons.

"And this is Glynteye the Hawkman, winner of the
Avolympic rabbit-spotting meet last year. He is compe-
tently versed to spot the antics of unicorns." There was
more applause, especially from the animalheads present.

"And I am the Yellow Adept," she concluded. "In life I
am an old human crone whose business is known to most
animals. Were it not for the sufferance granted visitors at
this event, I would be mobbed. However, I believe I am
qualified as a judge of fine animals, and I am in this respect
objective."

There was a pause, and then some extremely tentative
applause. The Lady Blue looked about, frowned, then set
her jaw and clapped her hands. The consort of Green joined
her. Then Stile and the Green Adept had to join in, and the
outside animals, shamed into a better sense of the occa-
sion, finally made a more substantial showing. All had a
horror of Yellow's business of trapping and selling animals,
but all antagonisms were theoretically suspended here. Yel-
low did indeed appear to be competent and objective.

Stile was reminded yet again of the parallel of Proton.
The Rifleman had shown him favor, causing the other
Citizens to react with similar courtesy despite the gulf be-
tween Citizen and serf. The Lady Blue had been the cata-
lyst this time, but the spirit was the same.

"Now withdraw to the sides and rear," Yellow directed,
betraying her surprised pleasure at the applause by only a
slight flush at her neck. "Form an arena, open only at the
spectator's side. No alien magic can function here." And
the unicorns did as she b'd, so efficiently that Stile realized
this was a standard procedure. Indeed, all the stations were
forming similar formations.

"Number One 'corn stand forward," Yellow said, and
the first stallion moved to the center of the arena, facing
the pavilion. "Thou and each other entry will have two
minutes to make thy presentation. Each act will be fol-
lowed by a one-minute consultation of judges and an-
nouncement of aggregate score. Applause of up to thirty

Blue Adept                   173

seconds will be permitted only at that time. If there are any
questions at this point, stifle them."

There were no questions. "One, perform," Yellow said.

The unicorn went into his act. He was a fine purple and
green animal, with white ears. He pranced and wheeled
and leaped in assorted patterns. Gradually he worked up to
the more difficult exercises—forward and backward flips,
hoof-clicking jumps, and an impressive bucking-bronco
finale.

Time," the demon-judge grated. Apparently he had the
timing ability. The stallion stood, his barrel heaving from
the exertion, nostrils flared, just a hint of fire in his breath,
awaiting the score.

The three judges consulted. Stile could not hear what
they said, and did not know the scoring system. Again he
tried to spot the activity of the couples-dance unit, and
could not.

"Number One scores fifteen," Yellow announced. Now
there was applause, the unicorns honking brief notes and
tapping their hooves on the ground in lieu of the clapping
of hands. It did not seem overwhelming to Stile, and he
decided the performance had been no more than average
for this type of competition. Certainly Neysa could have
matched it, and she had not even entered this event.

"Number Two, stand forth," Yellow said, and another
stallion came to the fore. He was larger and better muscled
than the first, and his color was brighter: bands of blue
alternating with intense yellow. His neck was especially
powerful. "Perform." And he launched into his act.

This one was sharper fhan the first. He did the front and
back flips, then went into a series of midair barrelrolls that
brought musical gasps from some spectators. He stood on
his two forehooves and clicked his rear hooves together so
that sparks flew. In the finale he leaped straight up, turned
in ait, and landed squarely on his horn, which plunged
three quarters of its length into the turf. He remained
frozen on that one-point support until time was called.
Then he allowed his body to drop to the ground so that
he could withdraw his horn.

"That is the likely winner," the Lady Blue murmured.
"Neysa could not have done that."




174 Blue Adept

"True." Stile had never imagined a unicorn supporting
itself in that manner.

The judges consulted. "Twenty-six," Yellow announced,
and strong applause burst forth instantly, cutting off only
at the expiration of the thirty seconds. A popular decision,
certainly.

The other acts followed, but they did not match the
second. Stile concluded that each judge graded on the basis
of one to ten, with an aggregate of thirty points being the
maximum. His attention wandered to the units on either
side. To the right were the speed trials, with unicorns gal-
loping around a marked pattern so fast that flame shot
from their nostrils, dissipating their developing body heat.
Unicorns did not sweat, they blew out fire. On the left side
were the gait trials, with unicorns prancing in perfect one,
two, three, four and five-beat combinations, manes and
tails flying high. But still Stile could not see what Neysa's
unit was doing. He was becoming covertly bored with the
proceedings, though the Lady Blue evinced continuing in-
terest.

In the course of a little over an hour the preliminary
trials were done. Four contestants had been selected from
the local group, to advance to the next round.

The contestants moved to new stations. Now four musi-
cians came to stand before the Adept pavilion. Each played
a melody on his or her horn, and these were marvelously
pleasant. One unicorn sounded like an oboe, another like a
trumpet, a third like a violin, and the fourth like a flute.
The violin made the highest score, but the flute and oboe
were tied at twenty-two.

"I mislike this," Yellow said. "They are so close, I can
not select between them. Have you other judges more
firmly entrenched opinions?"

Demon and Hawkman shook their heads. They agreed
the two contestants were even. "I mislike being arbitrary,"
Yellow said. "Yet it has been long since I heard the flute,
and I know not which sound is the more perfect represen-
tation. If we but had an instrument for comparison—"

The Lady Blue stood with an air of minor mischief. "If
it please the judges—"

Blue Adept                   175

Yellow glanced back at her. "Speak, Lady, if it be rele-
vant."

"My Lord the Blue Adept is skilled in music, and has
with him an excellent flute—"

"Hey, I'm not in thisi" Stile protested.

But Yellow was smiling with a certain friendly malice.
"Methinks Blue owes me a favor."

Stile spread his hands. He was caught. "What dost thou
wish. Yellow?"

"Didst hear the theme played by the flute-'com? If thou
wouldst play the same as it should be played, that we may
compare—"

Stile sighed inwardly and walked to the front of the
pavilion. He did not object to playing; his concern was that
the larger nature of the borrowed Platinum Flute would
manifest as his magic power gathered. But if he willed no
magic, maybe it would be all right. He did owe Yellow a
favor, and this was a modest one.

He assembled the Flute, brought it to his mouth, and
played the theme. The magic instrument gave him perfect
control, making him a better flutist than he otherwise could
be. The notes issued like ethereal honey. The magic gath-
ered, but subtly.

As he played, the routine noises of the Unolympics
abated, in a widening circle. Unicorn spectators down the
line rotated their ears, orienting on him. When the last
note faded, the entire arena was silent.

The three judges remained seated, quiet for a moment.
The other Adepts seemed frozen in their places. Then
Yellow shook her head. "There be flutes and there be
Flutes," she said. "That is the Platinum Flute, of Elven
craft, the Emperor of flutes. There is none like it. Favored
indeed is the one, whether common or Adept, who gains its
loan from the Little Folk. I fear the crisis of Phaze draws
nigh. After that sound, I have no further doubt; the uni-
corn does not compare."

But the two other judges demurred. "Play oboe," the
demon grunted.

"Ah, yes," Yellow agreed. "Thank thee, Horrawful,
thou'rt correct. We must compare that sound too." She
focused on Stile. "Play the oboe. Blue."







176 Blue Adept

"But I have no oboe," he protested.

"Pretend not to be ignorant of the nature of the instru-
ment thou boldest," she said sharply. "Play the oboe, that
we may get on with this matter."

Baffled, Stile looked at the Flute he held—and it had
become a fine platinum oboe. So the magic shifts were not
merely with weaponsi He brought it to his mouth and
played the oboe-'com's theme. The notes rolled out like
elixir, impossibly mellow, the most perfect oboe-sound he
had ever heard. Again the Unolympics halted to listen.
Even the jaded Adepts sat riveted until it finished.

"Now we can judge," Yellow said. She consulted again
with her associate-judges, and rendered the decision: "The
oboe is closer to true. The oboe-'corn qualifies."

Now there was applause—but somehow it seemed to
orient more on Stile than the qualifying unicorn. "Only my
Love played like that," the Lady Blue murmured as Stile
resumed his seat beside her. "I never thought to hear such
sound again."

"The instrument is magic," he replied shortly. "It lends
skill to the player."

"Mayhap," she agreed, and said no more.

Soon it was time for the finals. Now the entire field
became a single arena, and the separate panels of judges
merged to become a single large panel. Everyone would
witness the category victories.

Stile was gratified. At last he would get to see Neysa
perform—if she had made it this far. He had been confi-
dent of her prowess before this ever started, but now he
was aware of the strength of the competition. She could
have been eliminated.

But she had made it! She and Clip were finalists, and in
due course their event came up. One werewolf judge dis-
qualified himself at that point, explaining that he was an
oath-friend to a contestant and could not judge her objec-
tively. A substitute was found, and the show went on.

Neysa and Clip trotted out in perfect step, playing their
own music for the dance, she with her harmonica-horn, he
with his saxophone. It was a beautiful duet, harmonizing
precisely with the beat of their hooves. Neysa's colors now
complemented Clip's, and she was beautiful even in uni-

Blue Adept

177

corn terms. Both animals were small for their species, but
as a pair, alone in the arena, they were perfectly matched
and did not seem small at all.

They plunged forward, horns lunging at an invisible foe,
then whipped back together with a dissonant note, as of a
foe dying. Stile could almost see the implied monster. So
could some of the judges, who happened to be monsters;

they scowled. The two went on through different gaits,
then got fancy. Neysa leaped, and Clip trotted beneath her.
As she landed, he leaped over her. They continued in a
fantastic leapfrog sequence, their music playing without a
break. Then they came together, bucked in unison, and
leaped together in a backward somersault. In midair they
changed shape, landing neatly in human-form, he garbed
in bright trousers and cloak, she in white-fringed black
dress. They swung, now humming the music their horns
could no longer play. Faster they swung, becoming almost
a blur—and suddenly they were hawk and firefly, whirling
about in air about a common center, then back to equine-
form with a final, lovely bar of music, in time for the
expiration of time.

The judges held out printed cards: 9,9, 8, 9, 7, 8 ... an
excellent rating from all except the monsters. Then the
applause began, loudest from Neysa's own Herd; but there
was an appreciative baying from several wolves of the pack
who had also taken the oath of friendship with her. Stile
saw now that his friend Kurrelgyre was among them.

Then the other unicorn couple went into its act. Both
were handsome specimens, and both had remarkable tones.
He sounded like a bassoon, with all its deep beauty and
trick effects, while she rang like bells. Stile was amazed at
what the unicorn horn could do; it was not confined to
wind instruments, perhaps because of its magic. This com-
bination was unusual and effective, and they made the
most of it.

These unicorns, too, changed shapes in the middle of the
dance, manifesting as great cats and then as white and blue
herons. Their equine states were special, too; he had a
mane like rippling fire, and her mane was iridescent; it
shone as it flexed, with precious luster. She was a truly
lovely creature. But it was the artistry of their dance that

178 Blue Adept

made it outstanding, and in the end they were judged the
winners. Stile could not contest the decision; it was fair.
Yet Neysa and Clip had made a formidable showing. He
was proud of them.

The finals continued with marvelous exhibits, but Stile's
attention wandered again. When all this was done, he
would have to meet the local Herd Stallion. He had the
Platinum Flute, so could employ his magic; he was not in
danger. Yet it bothered him, for he did not wish to humili-
ate the Stallion. He just wanted the postponement of Ney-
sa's breeding. Should he try to talk to the Stallion again?
He doubted that would be effective. Unicorns were extremely
stubborn animals. Yet if he fought the unicorn and used
his magic to prevail, it would be unfair; if he did not use
magic, he could lose. Was there no satisfactory alternative?

Stile mulled it over while the Unolympics progressed to
the close. In the present excitement and distraction, he
found himself unable to work out a strategy that would
satisfy all needs. Since he was not about to let himself be
wounded by the hom of a unicorn, he would just have to
use his magic and damn the social consequence. He hated
to do it, though; he knew how important pride was for the
dominant creatures of Phaze. Pride, really, had motivated
the Herd Stallion to challenge him; the animal hoped to
force Stile to capitulate ignominiously, and yield Neysa to
the scheduled breeding.

Were the circumstances otherwise. Stile would have
done just that. Neysa had waited years for just this oppor-
tunity, and Stile wanted no avoidable quarrel with anyone.
But Neysa believed—and now Stile agreed—that he needed
her on his quest for his murderer. Not merely to ride, for
he could now move himself, but as an essential back-up.
Surely his enemy would prove far more formidable than
the Worm of the Purple Mountains cavity, and Stile had
barely prevailed against the Worm even with the Platinum
Flute. Neysa's presence could have made the difference,
there. He could not free her by giving up his quest, because
it was his own murderer he sought. That person had to be
brought to justice—and no one else would do it if Stile did
not. So for the sake of Neysa's desire as an oath-friend,

Blue Adept                   179

and his own intermediate-term security, he had to keep her
with him, and that meant putting down the Herd Stallion.

Put more succinctly: he had to crush the pride of an
honorable creature, to win the right of another creature
to sacrifice her ambition of dam-hood and risk her life for
him. Some pridel

A bat fluttered up and landed before him. It shifted to
man-form. No long canine teeth, no horrific eyes; this was
an ordinary, slightly pudgy brown-haired man of middle
age. 'Thou art Blue?" the vampire inquired diffidently.

"I am he," Stile responded guardedly. "I seek no quarrel
with thy kind."

"I am Vodlevile. I encountered thine ogre-friend. Hulk,
and thereafter through thine intercession the Yellow Adept
did forward to me a potion that cured my son. I owe
thee—"

Stile put up a disclaiming palm. "It was in abatement of
Hulk's debt to thee for the help thou didst give him in the
course of his mission for me. Thou hast no debt to me. I
am glad to hear of thy good fortune, and I wish thee and
thy son well."

"I helped Hulk from mere camaraderie," Vodlevile pro-
tested. "Repayment for that were an insult." He paused.
"No offense. Adept; a figure of speech."

"Understood," Stile said, liking this creature. "Yet
would I have helped thy son regardless, had I known of his
condition. The Lady Blue is a healer, and it is ever her
pleasure to help the creatures of Phaze. Can I do less?"

"Apology," Vodlevile said. "I spied thy Lady not. I rec-
ognized thee from thy music on the Flute, forgetting her.
A greeting to thee, fair one."

"And to thee, sociable one," the Lady Blue replied. She
turned to Stile. "We ask no recompense for the work we
do, yet neither do we deny the proffered gratitude of those
we help."

Stile smiled. "Methinks I have been directed to accept
what thou mayst proffer, though I feel thou hast no obliga-
tion."

"I bring naught tangible," the vampire said. "If there is
anything I may do for thee—"




180 Blue Adept

"What I must do, no one can do for me," Stile said
gravely.

"What is that?"

"I must match the Herd Stallion in fair combat." Stile
quickly outlined the situation.

"Why, sir, that is merely a matter of face. We vampires,
being naturally stealthy, have ready means to handle such
questions."

"You vampires must be smarter than I am," Stile said
ruefully.

Then Vodlevile explained the recommended strategy.
Stile clapped the heel of one hand to his forehead. "Of
course!" he exclaimed. "There is no better service thou
couldst have done me than this simple advice."

The vampire made a gesture of satisfaction. "Every time
I see my son change form and fly, I think of Blue." He
shifted back to bat-form and flew away.

"Thou art very like my Lord," the Lady Blue murmured.
"His friendships were many, his enmities few."

Except for the enemy who killed him. Stile thought
bleakly. That one had undone all the rest.

The final match was decided and the victorious unicorn
paraded off the field. Now it was time for the special event
—Herd Stallion vs. Blue Adept—in a combat supposedly
immune to magic.

The Herd Stallion strutted out, resplendent in his natural
color and musculature. Stile started forward, but found
himself restrained by the Lady Blue's hand. He turned to
her, uncertain what she wanted.

She was always beautiful, but at the moment she seemed
to him to be transcendentally lovely. "Go with care, my
Lord," she said, and somehow it was the greatest compli-
ment he could have imagined.

"I thank thee. Lady," he said. Then he proceeded on out
to meet the Stallion, carrying the Platinum Flute.

The unicorns formed a great ring around the two, seal-
ing off external magic. They thought Stile would be unable
to draw on the background power, and ordinarily this
would be true. But the Oracle had enabled him to nullify
that nullification. This was the real debt he owed Hulk, for
Hulk had donated his one lifetime question to the Oracle

Blue Adept                   181

for Stile's benefit; that was why Stile had taken Hulk's debt
of a favor on himself. Now the vampire had repaid it, and
by Stile's logic he owed a major favor to Hulk.

Perhaps his gift of the pursuit of the Proton-self of the
Lady Blue had abated that; perhaps not. He remembered
that he had agreed to Hulk's visit to the Oracle at the
subtle behest of the Lady Blue, who had been aware of
what was developing. She had acted to defuse the issue
before it came to Stile's attention. So where was the right
of it? Stile knew he would have to think about the matter
some more; right was not always simple to ascertain. Yet
such deliberations were always worthwhile.

Now he stood in the center of the huge arena, before the
Stallion. The contrast in their sizes was striking; a large
equine, a very small man. But there was no snicker from
the audience, for Stile was the Blue Adept.

First he had to establish his power, making it instantly
and compellingly evident to the entire assembly. That was
the first stage of the vampire's excellent advice. He had to
prove that the ring of unicorns could not impinge upon the
Blue Adept's practice of magic. At the moment, only a few
understood the full properties of the Platinum Flute, like
the Yellow Adept; after the demonstration, everyone would
know.

Stile brought out the Flute. The Herd Stallion waited, as
if curious to see what his opponent was up to.

Stile played. Again the enchanting melody poured forth,
the finest sound a flute could make. The unicorns listened
raptly, yet perplexed. How could mere music stop the great
Stallion?

When the magic had gathered. Stile halted and went into
a singsong spell: "Show us the story of the Dragon's
Tooth, from death to bloom, from birth to youth." But the
real shaping of it was in his mind; the words only initiated
the sequence.

In the sky a dot appeared. It expanded rapidly into the
shape of a dragon, with six legs, six wings, and a tremen-
dously toothed mouth. A shadow almost the size of the
entire arena fell as the monster crossed the sun. The uni-
corns looked up, alarmed; seldom did any dragon approach




182                    Blue Adept

a unicorn herd, and this one was the largest ever seen

locally.

Stile raised his right hand to point at the dragon. Then

he put the Flute to his mouth again, to intensify the magic
and keep his complex spell operating at full strength.

The dragon folded its wings and dived at the Eeld.
Folded, it was much smaller. It crashed headfirst into the
chewed turf and exploded. This was the "death" of his
spell. Teeth flew out in a splash, to land all across the field;

the rest of the dragon puffed away in smoke.

Where each tooth fell, something sprouted. This was the
"bloom." As Stile continued to play the Flute, the teeth
grew into leafy vines. Each vine fruited in a gourd, and
each gourd hatched into a human baby, and each baby
grew rapidly into an armed soldier. This was the "birth to
youth" sequence. The soldiers formed into a phalanx,
marched once around the field, shifted into a sinuous for-
mation that suddenly sprouted wings and flew as a mass
into the sky. It was the original dragon, departing as it had
come. In moments it was a mere speck in the sky, and then

it was gone.

The unicorns stood in silence. They had just been shown

that they could no longer restrict the magic of the Blue
Adept, even when their force was greatest. The Adepts,
too, were riveted; not one of them could match this per-
formance. Was one of them the murderer he sought? Stile
hoped that one was quaking, now, for fear of the venge-
ance of Blue. Most magic was fun to Stile, but in this

regard it was deadly serious.

The Herd Stallion, however, had not budged. Stile had

feared this would be the case. He had fashioned a demon-
stration of magic that was spectacular enough to enable the
Stallion to withdraw without shame; obviously no ordinary
creature could prevail against power like this. But the Stal-
lion was stubborn; he would not back off regardless. He
might face impossible odds but he would not yield to op-
position. Stile respected that; he was that way himself. It
was another reason why he was going to so much trouble
to avoid humiliating the fine animal. How fortunate that
the vampire had been available for advice!

Stile sang another spell: "Flute of class, grant equal

r

Blue Adept                   183

mass." Suddenly a giant appeared, in Stile's own image,
standing in his footprints, towering above him. The giant's
mass was equal to that of the Herd Stallion; anyone could
see that. Then the giant shrank in on Stile until at last it
disappeared in Stile. He now had the mass of the unicorn,
though he remained his own size and felt no different. He
held the Flute—which was now the broadsword.

The Herd Stallion stepped forward. He certainly under-
stood; Stile was using his magic only to make the contest
even. It depended only on their skills. If the Stallion was
good with his natural weapon, he might outfence Stile and
win. If not. Stile would prevail. The nullification of shame
could go no further than this. Vampire Vodlevile's advice
had taken them to this stage; what followed would follow.

The Stallion seemed to be proceeding with guarded con-
fidence. Stile could guess why; Stile was known to be in-
expert with the rapier. Neysa had had to drill him in its
use, and he had been an apt student, but a few lessons
could not bring him to the level of the Herd Stallion.

Stile, however, was not now holding a rapier. He was
holding an excellent broadsword, perfect in weight and
length and temper and balance and all the subtleties of
general feel, and with this weapon he was proficient. He
had trained with this type of sword for a dozen years, and
won many Proton-frame Games with it. While he could
not match the Stallion's protection against being disarmed,
he could, if he had to, throw his blade at his opponent. So
it was reasonably even. That was the way he wanted it.
Vodlevile had shown him how to ease his crisis of con-
science.

They met in the center of the arena and ceremoniously
crossed weapons. Then each took a step back. Now it
began.

The Stallion lunged. The horn shot forward. Stile
jumped aside, his point jabbing to tag the unicorn's
shoulder—but the animal was not to be caught that way,
and was out of range.

Now Stile lunged. The Stallion's horn parried his thrust
powerfully. Had Stile not possessed equal mass, he could
have been disarmed then; as it was, sparks flew from the
colliding weapons and both parties felt the impact.

184                   Blue Adept

So much for the feeling-out. Stile valued surprise, with-
out sacrificing good technique. He fenced with the Stal-
lion's horn, setting himself up for disarming, and when the
Stallion made the move. Stile slipped by his guard and
sliced at his neck. The unicorn, suckered, shifted instantly
to man-form so as to duck under it, then back to equine
form. He had a sword in man-form, but lacked Stile's
mass; there was no conservation of mass, in magic.

Stile wheeled to engage the Stallion again. He knew now
that he was the superior swordsman, but he guarded
against overconfidence. This shape-changing—that could
be tricky.

Indeed it was. Suddenly he faced a small flying dragon.
The creature spread batlike wings and flew over Stile's
head, out of reach of his sword.

Well, Stile was also out of reach of the dragon's talons.
It was a standoff, for the moment. Since he didn't really
want to hurt the Herd Stallion, that was all right.

Then the dragon shot fire from its mouth. Stile dived out
of the way. This was more complicated than he had
thought! Evidently the unicorn had built up some heat in
the course of the match, and was able to use that to fuel
his dragon-form.

The dragon oriented for another shot. Stile raised his
sword—and it was a shiny, mirror-surfaced shield. It
caught the jet of fire and bounced it back at the dragon.
The creature took evasive action.

Stile could bring the dragon down by magic—but he
remained unwilling to do that. He wanted to win as he
was. His weapon could change according to his need; the
Stallion could change his shape. They remained even. Ex-
cept that Stile could not reach the dragon.

Or could he? Suddenly his weapon became an eighteen-
foot pike. Stile heaved it upward at a sharp angle, poking
at the dragon. The creature squawked with a sound like an
accordion—which was the tone of the Stallion's hom—and
flapped higher. Another jet of fire came down, but petered
out short of the mark. Stile's pike was keeping the dragon
beyond flame-range.

Standoff. Neither could hurt the other. Unless—

Blue Adept                   185

Stile's spike became a powerful platinum bow, with a
long, sharp arrow. He aimed it at the dragon—but already
the creature was diving to earth, changing back to the
unicorn, who formed in midcharge toward Stile.

Stile's weapon shifted back to broadsword, and the fenc-
ing resumed. Stile was the better swordsman, but every
time he pressed his advantage the Stallion changed shape
and they went through a quick series of animal and
weapon forms before returning to the more conventional
fray.

It became apparent to the audience that there was un-
likely to be a winner here; neither party could hurt the
other. Stile was satisfied with that; they could negotiate a
reasonable extension of Neysa's time.

Stile outfenced the Stallion again, the Stallion shifted to
dragon-form. Stile's sword became the bow ...

And the dragon became the man-form, who plummeted
toward Stile. Stile flung himself aside, his grip on his
weapon slackening, and the man-form snatched it from
Stile's grasp. He hurled it far across the arena. In air, the
bow reverted to its natural state, the Flute, and bounced on
the grass. Stile had been careless, and abruptly disarmed.

His first impulse was to run for the Flute, for he had no
chance without it. His mass had reverted to normal the
moment he was separated from the Flute. The ring of
unicorns now deprived him of his magic. How foolish he
had been not to retain his grip; he could never have been
disarmed had he willed himself not to be.

A large hand caught his shoulder. The man-form was
preventing him from going after the weapon.

Stile reacted instantly. He caught the hand on his shoul-
der, whirled about, and applied pressure to the man-form's
elbow joint. It would have been a submission hold, ordi-
narily—but the form shifted back to equine and the hold
was negated.

Freed, Stile sprinted for the Flute. But the Stallion gal-
loped after him. No chance to outrun that! Stile had to
turn and dodge, staying clear of that hom.

But he would not be able to dodge it long! Stile made a
phenomenal, acrobatic leap, feeling his weakened knees




r

186                    Blue Adept

giving way in the effort, and flipped through the air toward
the Stallion's back. If he could ride the animal long enough

to get near the Flute—

Then, in the moment he was in the air, he saw that
terrible unicorn horn swinging about to bear on him. The
Stallion had reacted too quickly. Stile would land—directly

on the point.
He landed—in the arms of the man-form. The creature

set him down carefully. "I seek not to injure thee. Adept,
for thou hast been kind to my kind. I merely deflect thee.
Thou'rt disarmed of thy weapon and thy magic. Dost

thou yield?"
It had been a fair fight. The unicorn had outmaneuvered

him. Stile might be able to hold his own against the man-
form, but not against the equine-form or dragon-form, and
he refused to stoop to any subterfuge. He had lost. "I

yield," he said.

"Fetch thy weapon ere hostile magic comes," the man-
form said, and shifted back to unicorn-form.

Stile walked across the arena and picked up the Flute,
then rejoined the Stallion before the main judging stand.
The Stallion did not speak, so Stile did. "We have met in
fair encounter, and the Stallion defeated me. The Blue

Adept yields the issue."

Now the Herd Stallion blew an accordion medley on his
horn. Neysa's brother Clip trotted up. "The Stallion says
the Adept is more of a creature than he took him for. The
Adept had magic to win, and eschewed it in favor of equal-
ity, and fought fairly and well, and lost well. The Stallion
accepts the pride of that victory—and yields back the issue."

Then the applause began. Unicorns charged into the
field, forming into their discrete herds. Neysa found Stile
and carried him away separately to rejoin the Lady Blue.

The Unolympics were over.

So all the Herd Stallion had really wanted was the no-
toriety of defeating the Blue Adept and redeeming the
pride he had lost during their prior encounter at the Blue
Demesnes. Granted that, the Stallion had been generous,
and had granted Neysa the extension she wanted. All Stile
had lost was a little pride of his own—and that had never
been his prime consideration.

Blue Adept                   187

In future, he would pay better attention to the hidden
motives of the creatures of Phaze—and to the pitfalls of
battling a shape-changing creature. These were useful les-

f/^l-IO

sons.

CHAPTER 7

Hulk

Sheen took Stile to a private chamber deep in the main-
tenance section of the dome they lived in. He carried his
harmonica and the Platinum Flute with him in a small bag,
not being willing to leave them elsewhere lest he have
sudden need for them, or risk their theft.

He spoke with an anonymous machine through a
speaker. This reminded him of the mode of the Oracle—
but of course the Oracle could not be a machine. It was
evident that Sheen had not brought him here without rea-
son. "What is your interest?" he inquired.

"We have a partial report for you concerning the recent
attempt made on your life."

"Partial," Stile repeated, excited and disappointed. Any
progress was good, but he needed the whole story.

"The message from your Citizen Employer was legiti-
mate, but the address was changed. A chip had been modi-
fied in the message annex to substitute that address for the
proper one in any message directed to you from a Citizen,
one time. It was a one-shot trap."

"Sending me to intrude on a Citizen who didn't like the
Tourney and was apt to exterminate intruders," Stile said,
thinking of the Black Adept in Phaze, who acted similarly.

"Correct. We conclude this was the work of other than a
Citizen."

"Because a Citizen would not have had to bother with




r

188 Blue Adept

a hidden trap," Stile said, realizing that he should not so
blithely have assumed his enemy was a Citizen.

"Correct. We were unable to trace the instigator. We
remain alert for more direct devices, but your enemy is
evidently no machine."

He hadn't even thought of having a machine-enemyi
"Because my enemy has more imagination than a machine
does."

"Correct. Like you, that person is a quick and original
thinker."

"This helps," Stile said. "A serf is considerably more
limited than a Citizen. A serf's motives should differ from
those of a Citizen. But could a serf have lasered my knees
or sent Sheen to me?"

"The knees affirmative. Sheen negative. She had to come
from a Citizen. That Citizen covered his traces carefully;

we can trace her manufacture but not the identity of the
one issuing the directive that sent her to you."

"So already we have a seeming divergence of elements.
A Citizen sent Sheen to protect me from a serf."

"Correct."

"Why didn't the Citizen simply eliminate the enemy
serf?"

"We have no information."

"And why are you self-willed machines helping me? This
increases the risk of your discovery by the Citizens, so is
dangerous for you."

To his surprise, the anonymous machine answered. "At
Erst we helped you because one of our number, the robot
Sheen, wished it, and you took the oath not to betray our
interests. There was also an anonymous imperative favor-
ing you. This also we have been unable to trace, but we
have ascertained that it originates from other than Citizen
or serf. We were aware that a chance existed that you
would eventually be useful to us. Now that chance has
expanded. Perhaps this is what the anonymous imperative
intended. Should you win the Tourney, as we deem a one
in ten chance at this moment, you will become a Citizen.
As such you could help our cause enormously."

"As such, I could," Stile agreed, intrigued by their es-
timate of his chances in the Tourney, and by the notion of

Blue Adept                   189

the "anonymous imperative" that favored him. Strange
elements operating here! "But you know I would betray
neither my own kind nor the system. I do not support
revolution, or even significant change. I merely seek to deal
with my enemy and improve my personal, private situa-
tion. I'm just no crusader."

"We seek recognition for our kind within the system,"
the machine said. "No revolution is desired, only modifica-
tion. We wish to have the status of serfs. A Citizen could
prepare the way."

"I could support that," Stile agreed. "But that would
necessitate revealing the secret of your nature."

"We are not ready for that. We would be destroyed,
were our nature known prematurely."

"But to prepare the way without the revelation—that
would be very slow."

"We estimate the process will take approximately sev-
enty-five years. To move faster would be to increase the
risk unacceptably."

"You have patience," Stile said.

"We are machines."

That, of course, was their ultimate limitation. They had
intelligence, consciousness and self-will, but lacked the
impatience of life. Though Sheen was coming close! "I
thank you for your help, for whatever motive, machines,"
Stile said. "I will help you in return—when the occasion
offers."

He returned with Sheen to their apartment, not speaking
further of this matter. He never spoke directly of the self-
willed machines where his words could be recorded, lest
that betray their nature to the Citizens of Proton. Most
places were bugged, and often continuous recordings of
serf activities were made at the behest of individual Citi-
zens. Thus only a place cleared by the machines themselves
was safe for such dialogue. Elsewhere, he simply called
them "Sheen's friends."

Stile did appreciate their help, and he wondered whether
they were really as machinelike as they claimed. Why
should they care about their status in the society of Pro-
ton? To become serfs only meant to serve Citizens—as
they already did—to be allowed to play the Game, and to




r

190                    Blue Adept

be limited to twenty years or so of tenure on the planet. If
they left the planet, they might lose whatever status they
gained on it, since the galactic society was just as human-
oriented as was Proton's. Yet obviously they did have de-
sires. Sheen was certainly an emotional, personlike being;

why not others like her? But the machines would let him
know what they wanted him to know, when they deemed
appropriate.

It was time for his next Game. Round Five—the number
of entrants was shrinking now, as more players lost their
second match and were washed out, so things would move
along faster. But there remained a long way to go.

This time he was paired with a child, an eleven-year-old
boy, not one of the good ones. "Your tenure can't be upl"
Stile said.

"My folks' tenure is up," the boy explained. "I'm leaving
with them anyway, so why not go out in style?"

So he had nothing to lose. Just in it for fun, to see how
far he could go. And he had gotten to Round Five, perhaps
helping to eliminate three or four entrants to whom this
was a matter verging on life and death. It was the irony of
the Tourney that many of those who had no need should
win, while those who had to win—lost.

Their turn came, and they went to the grid. Stile got the
letters, and was afraid the boy would go for CHANCE—
and was correct. It came up 3C, Machine-Assisted
CHANCE. Any CHANCE was bad; Stile had tried to
mitigate it, but ultimately it remained potential disaster.

If he could steer it into one of the more complex me-
chanical variants, a pinball machine—for a person like
him, with experience and a Ene touch, one of those became
a game of skill.

But it came out wrong, again. The lad played with luck
and the uncanny insight of the young, making mischief. It
settled on an ancient-type slot machine, a one-armed ban-
dit. One hundred percent chance. Each player pulled the
handle, and the kid came up with the higher configuration.

"I won! I won! I won!" he shrieked. "Hee-hee-heel"

Stile had lost. Just like that. A nothing-Game, against
a dilettante child who had nothing to gain—and Stile was
suddenly half washed out. His nightmare had happened.

Blue Adept                    191

Sheen found him and got him home. Stile was numbed
with the unfairness of it. It was a demeaning loss, so point-
less, so random. All his considerable Game-skills had been
useless. Where did his chances of winning the Tourney
stand now? One in a hundred?

"I know it hurts you," Sheen said solicitously. "I would
suffer for you if I could, but I am not programmed for
that. I am programmed only for you, yourself, your person
and your physical welfare."

"It's foolish," Stile said, forcing himself to snap out of it.
"I comprehend the luck of the Game. I have won ran-
domly many times. This is why the Tourney is double-
elimination—so that a top contender shall not be elimi-
nated by a single encounter with a duffer in CHANCE. I
simply have to take my loss and go on."

"Yes."

"Butdammit.ithurtsl"

"Of course."

"How can you understand?" he snapped.

"I love you."

Which was about as effective a rebuttal as she could
have made. "Your whole existence is like a lost Game, isn't
it," he said, squeezing her hand.

"Yes."

"It seems as though luck is turning against me. My
Games have been running too close, and in Phaze I lost a
contest to a unicorn, and now this—"

They were home. "There is a message," Sheen said as
they entered. She went to the receptacle and drew it out.
"A holo-tape."

"Who would send me a tape?" Stile asked, perplexed.
"Another trap?"

"Not with my friends watching." She set it in the play-
slot.

The holograph formed. The Rifleman stood before them.
"I pondered before relaying this edited report to you, Stile,"
the Citizen said. "But a wager is a wager, and I felt this
was relevant. I suspect this tape reveals the general nature
of the information you would have given me, had you lost
our ballgame, so I hardly feel cheated. I was not able to
ascertain who has tried to hurt you, but it seems likely that




192                   Blue Adept

you were the intended victim of this sequence, and there-
fore this does provide a hint." He frowned. "I apologize for
acquitting my debt in this manner. Yet it is best you have
the detail. I hope that this at least forwards your quest.
Adieu." The Citizen faded out with a little wave.

"Why is he so diffident?" Stile asked. "That's not the
way of a Citizen."

"He uses the term 'victim,'" Sheen pointed out. This
will not be pretty."

"Hulk! Something's happened—"

The holograph formed a new image: Hulk, talking to
Sheen herself. The man seemed even larger than normal, in
the confines of the apartment. His head barely cleared the
doorway. "Thank you, Sheen," Hulk said, smiling down at
her. Sheen was lovely, looking absolutely human, but of
course Hulk knew the truth.

"I never knew this was being recorded!" the actual
Sheen exclaimed, looking at her holo-image.

"Citizens can have anything recorded," Stile reminded
her. "All the holo-pickups spread throughout the domes of
Proton are at their service."

"I know that. I just didn't realize I was the subject, in
your absence."

"You may be the subject right now."

"Oh, shut up and watch the show."

They watched the holo-Hulk depart, the image sliding in
and out of the scene to simulate his motion. He stopped at
a communication screen, called Information, and received
a slip of paper, evidently an address. The self-willed ma-
chines had provided it, of course; Stile hoped the Rifleman
had not pursued that ramification.

Hulk read the address and started walking again. Sud-
denly he was entering a jetporter—and as suddenly emerg-
ing at a far dome. The edited tape, of course, skipping
across the nonessentials. It was easy to follow, since stand-
ard entertainment-holos were done the same way.

Hulk arrived at an isolated dome, similar to so many
favored by Citizens. This one was accessible by monorail
across the sand, so that any visitors were visible well before
arrival. Hulk stepped down as the carriage halted, and
stood on the lawn, looking at the main building.

Blue Adept                   193

It was an almost perfect replica of the Blue Demesnes.
Stile could well understand the amazement of the big man.
Who would have thought that such a castle existed in the
frame of Proton? It was probably on the same geographic
site, too, conforming perfectly to the alternate frame. The
frames did tend to align, as Stile had discovered the hard
way; when a person died in one, he was likely to die in the
other too. Stile had narrowly escaped death in Proton at
the time the Blue Adept was murdered in Phaze. Then, in
what was apparently another way for the frames to
equalize, he had discovered the curtain and crossed over.
Thus each frame had Stile, again—in turn. This suggested
that the use of the curtain was not coincidental, but in-
evitable—when an imbalance existed between the frames.

But now here was Hulk—seemingly back where he had
started from. And surely the Lady Blue was here, for this
was where Sheen had sent him to find her, based on the
information her machine friends had provided. But the
Lady could not hold the position here that she did in
Phaze...

Hulk, evidently having completed a similar mental se-
quence, strode forward toward the castle. There was one
way to find out!

There was a guard at the gate. He stood up straight as
Hulk approached, but there was no way he could match
Hulk's height. "What is your business here, serf?"

"I am Hulk, on leave from employment pending the
expiration of my tenure. I wish to meet Bluette."

The guard turned to a communication pickup. "Serf
with message for Bluette."

"Thank you; I will be down." It was the Lady Blue's
voice. Stile felt a prickle at his spine, though he knew this
was merely the Lady's alternate self. Of course she sounded
the same; she was the same, in everything except situation.

"I'm not sure I should watch this," Stile muttered. "It
doesn't relate to my situation."

"The Rifleman thinks otherwise," Sheen reminded him.
"You can just sit there and watch someone else making
time with someone you love. The experience will do you
good."

How bitter could a robot get? But probably she was

194                    Blue Adept

right; he was doing it to her, and he needed to know how it
felt to have it done to him.

Hulk waited, and in a moment she appeared. She was
indeed the Lady Blue. The Phaze clothing was gone; she
was a naked serf. But she was the same.

"She's lovely," Sheen said. "I can see how you would
like her."

"This one is for Hulk," Stile said. But it was hard to
believe that. He was glad the scene was only in holo.
Bluette—the Lady Blue—he understood why they were so
exactly like each other. Yet to see it so directly—this
stirred him fundamentally.

"What is your message?" Bluette inquired. She did not
use the archaic tongue, of course; Stile found this slightly
jarring, but it did help distinguish her from the woman he
loved.

"Lady, it is Complicated," Hulk said. "I would like to
talk with thee at some length."

"Thee?"

"My error," Hulk said quickly. "A misplaced usage." He
had had so much trouble getting used to the forms of
Phaze, and this situation was conducive to the error. Stile
would have had the same problem.

Bluette shrugged. "Until my Employer comes, I am not
hard-pressed. Yet I am disinclined to heed a complicated
message from a stranger."

"This I understand. Lady," Hulk said. "I know it is an
imposition. Yet perhaps I can tell you things that will
interest you. I have known one very like you, a great and
gracious woman, a star among planets—"

"Enough of this!" she exclaimed angrily. "I am a serf,
like you. Do you seek to get me in trouble with my Em-
ployer?"

Hulk's response was cut off by the sudden descent of a
rocket. The thing veered out of its trajectory, dropping
rapidly toward the dome. Both man and woman paused to
stare at it.

"Lady, it will crash!" Hulk cried. He leaped forward,
swept up the woman, and carried her from the projected
site of collision.

He was not mistaken. The rocket plunged through the

Blue Adept                   195

dome's force-field and landed with an explosive flare of
heat against the castle wall. A yellowish cloud of vapor
enveloped it, spreading rapidly outward. "Gas attack!"
Hulk cried. "Get into the monoshuttle!"

"This is outrageous!" Bluette exclaimed as he set her
down. But she ran fleetly enough toward the mono.

It was no good. The crash had disrupted the mono's
power; the shuttle was inoperative. "Go outside the dome!"
Hulk cried. "The gas can't follow there!"

But the gas had already diffused throughout the dome.
Both Hulk and the Lady held their breaths as they ran for
the rim, but collapsed as the gas touched their skin.

"Nerve gas," Stile muttered. "Almost instant. Not neces-
sary to breathe it. Used as an anesthetic for animals." He
frowned. "But strange that a shipment of that should crash
right there and then. Freight rockets hardly ever go astray."

"That was no coincidence," Sheen said. "That was a
trap."

Stile nodded. "A trap set for me, I think. Because it was
expected that I would be the one to come for the Lady
Blue."

"Which means that your enemy knows of your life in
both frames. And that you would hardly be likely to bring
the one person who could help you escape that situation—
me."

Another half-bitter reference to Sheen's own feelings.
She was right; had he gone to see Bluette, Stile would not
have brought Sheen along. That would have been unneces-
sarily cruel. So he would have had no invulnerable guard-
ian to bail him or the Lady out. "Yes, the enemy must be
an Adept, who can cross the curtain. But not a Citizen. So
the trap is made to seem like an accident, to foil any
Citizen curiosity."

Now he was feeling the reaction. Stile did not like being
the object of a murder campaign; that frightened him and
generated in him a festering uncertainty and rage. But now
the attack had spread to the Lady Blue/Bluette. That ag-
gravated him far more specifically. How dare they touch
her!

And Hulk—innocently walking into the trap set for
Stile. Hulk's blood, if it came to that, would be on Stile's

196                    Blue Adept

hands. What mischief had Stile done his friend, in the

name of a favor?

The holo continued. Robots emerged from the crashed
rocket—humanoid, flesh-toned, but probably far simpler
machines than was Sheen. They came to Hulk and the
Lady, and fitted breathing masks over their faces. Then
the robots picked up the two effortlessly and carried them
through the force-field and out onto the barren surface of
Proton. There the holo-pickup lost them—but the orbiting
satellite spotters followed their progress. What a job of
tracing the devices of Proton could do, when so directed!

The robots trekked tirelessly south across the sand with
their burdens. At length they entered the shaft of a worked-
out mine at the margin of the Purple Mountains—which
were not purple here. The full image returned; it seemed
that even a place like this had operable pickups.

At last the two were deposited in a pressurized chamber
deep within the mine. It was a miniature force-field dome.
There was a defunct food-dispensing machine and a holo-
transceiver. This could be considered a pleasant private

retreat—or a prison.
The robots sprayed more gas, evidently a neutralizer,

removed the breathing masks, filed them in their chest
compartments, and set a chamber oxygen generator in
operation. Then they walked through the force-field and
disappeared from the range of the holo-pickup. Hulk was
the one this report was on, not stray robots. The imper-
sonal touch of the machine, literally; machines did not care
about irrelevancies such as the welfare of serfs or the

commission of criminal acts.

Hulk was of rugged constitution, and first to regain con-
sciousness, His eye cracked open in time to see the robots
departing. He made a huge visible effort and hauled him-
self to his feet. He staggered across to Bluette. "Lady—art
thou well?" he asked, lifting her with infinite gentleness.

Bluette was at the moment weak physically, but not
mentally. She shook off the lingering effects of the gas.
"Again you use the archaic form. What is this?"

"I will answer you gladly, Lady. But first we should
ascertain our situation. We seem to have been taken pris-
oner."




Blue Adept

197

"Why should anyone wish to do that? My Employer is a
peaceful man, a scholar of the arcane, who hardly ever
comes to his castle retreat. I merely maintain it so that it is
never ill-kept should he appear. For months at a time, it is
as if it belongs to me—but I am only a serf, destined never

to be more."

"You are more. Lady. Much more. I fear my arrival
precipitated this action." Hulk was already inspecting the
perimeter. He took a breath, held it, and stepped through
the force-field at one end of their confine. There was only
one more tunnel, proceeding interminably. This was an
access passage, carved by laser drills long ago, leaving
smooth, partially polished walls. It reminded Stile of the
bore of the Worm of Phaze. Perhaps that was not coinci-
dence, but another parallel between frames. Operating
mines were pressurized throughout, for convenience; since
many of the rock formations were porous or semiporous,
the passage had to have melt-sealed walls. This was a dead
mine, since there was no pressure beyond the Proton-exter-
nal norm. Hulk passed back through the force-field and
moved to the other end. It was the same story.

"These passages can extend for kilometers," Hulk told
the Lady. "Without masks, we can not expect to reach a
dome on foot."

"Of course not," she agreed. "Yet if it were our captor's
purpose to kill us, he could have done this at the outset."

"I see there is a holo-unit. No doubt our captor wiU
communicate with us at his convenience."

"Surely he will," she agreed. "But I still don't understand
why we are here."

Hulk inspected the holo-communicator. "I could put this
out of commission, but that seems pointless. We shall sim-
ply have to wait. I deeply regret bringing this upon you; I
had no idea this would happen. Yet perhaps it is for the
best."

She frowned, exactly as the Lady whom Stile knew
would have, then flung her golden hair back in a kind of
acquiescent defiance. She was absolutely lovely. "I was not
unduly interested, before, in what you had to say. My
interest has grown. Tell me your estimate of this situation."
Hulk settled down against the curving wall opposite her.

198 Blue Adept

"Gladly, Lady. I believe this is a trap set for another per-
son, a friend of mine. It was assumed that he would come
for you, and the robots were not astute enough to perceive
the substitution. When the Citizen who has organized this
checks in, he will discover the mistake. He will not be
pleased."

"When my Employer checks his retreat-estate, he will
not be pleased," Bluette said. "Yet I fear that will not be
soon." She looked directly at him. "Give me the rest of
it."

"Lady, I am a master in the Game. Since my tenure
expires this year I had hoped to enter the Tourney. I was
balked in that effort by a better player. But he showed me
an alternate world—Lady, you may find this extremely
difficult to believe, so I shall simplify it—"

"Do not expurgate it," she said.

"You do not appreciate just how remarkable the story is.
I do not wish to have you question my sanity."

"Risk my incredulity. Tell the truth and take your medi-
cine," she said, smiling.

"I cannot deny you," he said, wanned as anyone would
be. The smile of the Lady was a precious thing. "I should
warn you that I came to court you. I do not mean to give
offense, and I would have preferred a more esthetic ap-
proach—"

"I have not been courted in years," she said. "You are a
handsome man."

"Reserve your judgment; I may have brought great mis-
chief upon you."

"I reserve it," she said. But she studied him with only
slightly muted interest, for Hulk was about as impressive a
figure of a man as existed, and the compliment of his
attention was considerable. Women were less impressed by
physical attributes than men were, but they were not im-
mune to them.

"This alternate world, where I met the woman like you,"
he said. "It resembles Proton in geography, but it has good
air and water and vegetation, and a population of living
creatures. An ideal world, except—" He paused. "Remem-
ber, I warned you. In that world, called Phaze, science is
inoperative and magic is operative."

Blue Adept                   199

"Magic is operative," she replied, humoring him.

"Yes. He took me to that world, where unicorns and
werewolves and vampires roam, and he made some spells
and became the Blue Adept, one of the leading magicians
of that frame. But he had been killed by another Adept. So
I served as his bodyguard, and I guarded his wife—who is
you."

"You're right," Bluette said seriously. "This is beyond
belief. I do appreciate your imagination, and am sure you
do excellently in the Lying Game in competition, and con-
sider myself honored to be the subject of your present
fantasy. How does this relate to our kidnapping?"

"The enemy Adept is evidently another curtain-crosser,"
Hulk continued gamely, "operating in both frames. Un-
able to destroy the Blue Adept permanently in Phaze, he
has been setting traps for him here in Proton. The enemy
evidently thought the Blue Adept would come for you, so
he arranged to abduct whoever approached you, apart
from your Employer and routine serfs. But this trap got
the wrong man."

"How can you court the wife of your friend?" she asked
alertly. In no way was Bluette slow of wit; Stile had dis-
covered that early, when dealing with her alternate.

"Most people exist in both frames. When the self of one
frame dies, the self of the other can cross over, filling his
place. When the Blue Adept died, his Proton-self crossed
over—and courted the widow, the Lady Blue. But he felt it
would be improper also to court her Proton-self, who is
you, Bluette."

"And he allows you to approach me instead, since I am
surplus?"

"There are no surplus diamonds," Hulk said. "Every
precious thing has a taker. He is a generous man. Lady. He
loves you, but will take only the one he first came to know.
There is something more to his interest than your likeness,
I suspect."

"I should hope so. And you accede to this? You seem to
be man enough to have your pick of women. Why accept
the castoff of your friend? Is he even more powerful than
you appear to be?"

"In a manner of speaking. Lady. It seems we are similar

200

Blue Adept

in many respects, including our taste in women. I cannot

explain it better."
"I think you can. You were with his wife?"
"I guarded his wife from the possible threat by his
enemy, during his absences. I came to know her, the deep
and unique qualities of her. I am an honorable man; when

I realized what was happening, I left."

"What do you mean, what was happening?" she de-
manded. "Were I the wife of one, I would not be leading

on another."

"No, never!" Hulk agreed hastily. "You—I mean the

Lady Blue—never in any way—it was wholly in my mind,
a one-sided thing. But in this frame she is not his wife, and
will never be; he intends never to meet her. Meet thee.
You. Thus I came for you, her perfect double."

"Less swift, man. I have not quite made the transition
from your dream fancy to your reality." She cocked her

head. "What is your name?"

"Hulk. From an ancient comic."

She smiled. "I was named after a fine horse."

They laughed, warming to each other.

"Well, Hulk," she said after a moment. "Whatever gave
you the notion that any self of mine would be amenable to
any suit of yours? Why should I flirt with a bodyguard, in

either, ah, frame?"
Hulk spread his hands. "How you receive it is your

business. I had to try. You can but decline."

"Still, there must have been a point of decision."
Hulk nodded. "I suppose there was. In Phaze-frame life
abounds, including bacterial and viral. I had little natural
defense against environmental disease agents, since Proton
is nearly sterile." He paused, reflecting. "In more ways
than one, I suspect." He made a gesture to indicate that it
didn't matter. "I fell sick. The Lady Blue recognized the
problem; she bade me lie down, and she laid her hands on
me, and they were healing hands, that warmed me through-
out."

"Ah, yes," Stile said, momentarily breaking out of the
spell of the holograph narrative. "I have felt the touch of
those hands."

Blue Adept

201

"You are not jealous?" Sheen asked. "I inquire merely as
a point of robotic interest."

"Meaning you're jealous," he said. "You think the Lady
Blue is too pretty."

"If appearance were all that counted, I might compete. I
think she has too much of your attention."

"Not in this frame. Hulk left her to me in Phaze; I
leave her to him, in Proton. It was not a completely easy
decision for either of us. But yes, I am jealous. It is hard
for me to watch another man courting her."

"And harder to watch her responding. Serves you right."

"Serves me right," he agreed.

"I do not lightly give my body or my heart," Bluette was
saying to Hulk. The holo-scene had frozen while Stile and
Sheen conversed; that was Sheen's touch on the control.
"You're a funny man, with a fairy-tale history. Yet there is
no doubt we are here, and surely we shall be interrogated.
Will you tell our captor the same story?"

"I'm not sure. I am not the one our captor wants." Hulk
pondered. "Lady, I fear it will go hard with us, when our
captor discovers the error. It would be better if he did not
realize it."

"Why?"

"Obviously there is something the captor wants of my
friend, not merely his death. Otherwise the robots would
simply have killed us, instead of bringing us here. Perhaps
it is information that is wanted. Since kidnapping is also a
crime, even when only serfs are involved, I will be disposed
of so I can not tell my story to my own Employer."

"Yes. I, too, will be useless as bait, after this. But I do
not see what action we can take. If we disrupt the holo-
pickup, the captor will know, and will send in—you said
there were robots?"

"I saw two, as I recovered consciousness."

"Who have the oxy-masks used to bring us here," Blu-
ette said, her eyes widening as she caught on. "What do
you propose. Hulk?"

"First, I must get out of sight of the pickup. Second, you
must address me as 'Stile' and describe me as a very small
man—smaller than you. The story is the same—that is

202                    Blue Adept

what he told you. He came to rescue you—and was him-
self trapped."
"I have that," Bluette said. "Assuming for the nonce that

your story is true, then this would be believed by another

person from that frame. But how—"

"I will hide outside the force-Held, downtunnel. I can
function for a limited time in external atmosphere, if I put
my body in near-absolute state of rest, or trance-state. You
try to lure the robots near the force-Eeld, then get clear

yourself. This will not be gentle."

"I know." Her tension hardly showed. She was, as Stile
knew, the type to handle difficult situations with verve. "I
am sorry to have met you like this. Hulk; you are a fas-
cinating person."

"Thank you. Say that again when I'm not trying to save
our lives, and we'll see where it leads." Hulk stepped
through the force-Eeld. The pickup tried to follow him, but
he was avoiding it, and disappeared from view. Frustrated,
the pickup returned to the next most likely subject, the

woman.
There was a momentary blankness, to signify a lapse of

time. Then the holo-image in the tunnel came on—a holo
within a holo. Stile was not sure how the holo-transceiver
was able to show itself; this was merely a minor marvel of

Proton electronics.

The image was a woman. She was tall and statuesque,

with her hair concealed under a skullcap. She was naked:

serf, not Citizen. She looked at Bluette. "Where is he?" she

demanded imperiously.
"Who are you?" Bluette demanded in return. "Why

have you done this?"
"He did not tell you? Then remain in ignorance. Your

function is finished."

"My Employer will—"

"That is of no concern to me."

The two robots reappeared from uptunnel. "Put her in
pain until her lover reappears," the woman said.

The robots were humanoid, but not specific; their faces
were impassive masks. Their strength was that of the ma-
chines they were. They seemed to have no speech ability,
and moved somewhat stiffly—low proficiency models. It

Blue Adept                   203

was possible for a serf to obtain such robots, while only a
Citizen could obtain robots of Sheen's quality. But these
were well suited to this type of work. A robot like Sheen
would have had too many humanistic restrictions.

Stile found himself tensing for action. The very notion
of hurting the lady appalled him. But this was only a holo-
recording; the action was long past. He could only watch.

"Ironic that the captor never bothered to film the prior
sequence," Stile muttered. "She could have had complete
information with no trouble. But I suppose a frame-trav-
eler hasn't time for niceties—and this one lacks the re-
sources of a Citizen. So this is crudely executed."

Bluette, alert to the threat against her, lurched toward
the upper end of the chamber. Both robots moved swiftly
to cut her off. She reversed, and moved with surprising
agility toward the lower end—which of course was where
she wanted to be.

The robots reversed with her. They might move awk-
wardly, but their reflexes were inhumanly swift; it was only
their wit that was. deficient. They caught her halfway, and
held her in the middle of the chamber.

"Shouldn't Hulk come out?" Sheen inquired. "They will
hurt her."

"Even Hulk cannot overpower two robots," Stile said.
"They aren't gentle creatures like you; each one is stronger
than he is, with no human vulnerabilities. Remember how
easily they carried him several kilometers to the mine."

"True. But if he waits—"

"The captor believes it is me out there, and that I love
Bluette and will be unable to let her suffer. That's why
Hulk said this error might be for the best; there is not the
leverage anticipated."

"He said it was for the best out of loyalty to you; your
generosity saved you from the trap. But doesn't he love her
too?"

"Not yet. He will hold out longer than I would have."
Stile's fist clenched. "Maybe too long."

One robot stood behind Bluette, pinning her arms back,
holding her firmly. The other glanced at the holo-image for




204 Blue Adept

clariEcation. "No permanent damage yet," the captor said.
"Pinch her knee, slowly. Make her scream."

"The knee!" Stile exclaimed. "That's my enemy!"

The robot reached for Bluette's knee. The woman lifted
both legs and planted them in the robot's chest and shoved
violently. Though the machine was strong, it did not have
extraordinary mass; the shove drove it back several steps.

"She fights; that's all to the good," the holo-woman said.
"We need commotion."

The robot holding Bluette did not let go. The recoil
shoved it back a step; then it stood Łrm.

"You can't Eght robots," the captor told her. "I don't
want you anyway. I want him. Make some noise, bring
him in, and you won't have to suffer."

"What do you want with Stile?" Bluette cried.

"She remembered to use your name," Sheen said. "Smart
woman."

"I want this time to be quite sure he is dead," the captor
said. "But Erst I want to know why he proposed to destroy
me. Adepts don't usually fight Adepts. He had no call to
attack me."

Bluette's surprise was genuine. "There really is a world
of magic?"

"You will never see it. Now call the Blue Adept."

"So you can torture him too? Never!"

"Do it," the captor said to the robot.

The robot caught the lady's leg and held it despite her
struggles. It placed its metal fingers on her knee and
squeezed. The pressure was obviously tremendous, crank-
ing slowly up like that of a vise. She inhaled to scream, but
caught herself and held her breath instead.

"My knees with a laser; hers with a robot," Stile grated.
He was afraid for the lady, and chokingly angry—and
helpless. Whatever would be—had already been.

Bluette collapsed, sobbing. "Oh, it hurts, it hurts!"

"Call him," the captor said dispassionately. "Scream.
Bring him to you."

Bluette looked defiant. The robot squeezed again. She
collapsed again. "Stop! I'll do it!"

The robot paused, hand still on knee. Dark showed
around the edge of its grip, where pressure had crushed the

Blue Adept                    205

fair skin. Bluette took another ragged breath. "S-s—" she
hissed, trying to call through her sobs.

"You can do better than that," the captor said without
pity.

"He—went down that passage," Bluette said, entirely
unnerved. "I—I'll try. Let me get closer—"

"What a sniveler you are!" the captor rapped.

Now Stile smiled, grimly. "She is no sniveler. She knows
what she has to do."

"Robots are no match for the wiles of woman," Sheen
agreed.

The captor decided. "Take her to the force-field. Put
only her head through. Hold it there until the man comes."

Now Bluette held back. "No—"

"You will call him—or suffocate slowly," the captor
said.

The robots hauled the struggling Bluette to the force-
field. One put a hand to her head, grasped her hair, and
shoved her head through.

The opacity of the force-field exploded into man-form.
One robot was lifted into the air and swung about by the
legs so that its head crashed into the wall, hard. There was
a blue flash of electricity as its wiring shorted; it was done
for.

Already Hulk was turning on the other robot. But this
one retained its hold on Bluette. Hulk could not get at it
without going through her.

Without pause. Hulk turned back to the first robot,
picked it up again by the feet, and smashed it into the wall
again. Then he jumped on it, caught hold of one of its
arms, and wrenched the limb up and around. His muscles
bulged hugely as he strained—and the arm broke off, trail-
ing wires. He worked it all the way free.

"That man is beautiful," Sheen said.

"They kidnapped more than they bargained on," Stile
agreed with grim satisfaction. "Hulk is the over-thirty serf
wrestling champion, and he knows free-fighting too. Now
he is armed, with only one robot left to disable. He has a
fair chance."

Hulk stalked the robot with his improvised weapon.




206

Blue Adept

Blue Adept

207

"Turn her loose, machine. You can not Eght me while you
remain encumbered with her."

The robot retreated uncertainly, but retained its hold on
Bluette, "What's this?" the captor screamed. "You are not
the Blue Adepti"

"I never said I was," Hulk replied, baring his teeth in a
Eghting grin. "I'm his bodyguard." He smashed his club at
the robot, catching it on the back of the head. It let Bluette
go, and she limped hastily away.

"Kill them both!" the captor screamed, enraged.

Hulk stood facing the robot, but he spoke to Bluette.
"Go to the body. Open the chest cavity. Take out the
breathing mask. Put it on and flee. I will occupy this ma-
chine."

"I can't go without you!" Bluette cried.

"You must go before the witch summons other help. Go
to your Employer; bring a rescue mission here. Don't let
the robot make you hostage again. I need this chamber
clear to Eght it properly."

"Yes," she said, quickly getting the mask. "You are a
bold, brave man, and I think I could love you in time.
Follow me if you can; I will go for help."

She walked toward the force-field. "Stop her!" the captor
shouted.

The robot went for the lady—and Hulk went for the
robot, smashing violently at its face. But the robot threw
up an arm to ward off the blow, and grappled with Hulk.

Bluette fled, limping. She knew she could not help, here.

The robot tried to go after her, but Hulk clung, using his
wrestling expertise. "Deal with him first," the captor de-
cided. "Kill him, then catch the woman!"

Given this unequivocal directive, the robot applied its
full force to the task at hand. It had no human weaknesses;

it could not be choked or kneed in the crotch or made to
yield by pain, and it was the stronger creature here. It was
bound by no human scruples. It put one hand in Hulk's
face and closed its metal fingers in the vise-constriction,
simultaneously gouging the man's eyes and ripping out the
cartilage of his nose.

Hulk smashed desperately with his weapon, but his lev-
erage was not good. His face was a blind mask of blood. It

was. Stile thought with horror, like fighting a wooden
golem: no harm could be done to the inanimate, and no
mercy was expected. Hulk's blows dented the metal in
several places, but he could not put the machine out of
commission. He made one more effort, lifting the machine
and squeezing it in a bear-hug and smashing it against the
wall, trying to destroy it along with himself.

The robot remained functional. It put its other hand up
to Hulk's head, clasped the man with its legs, and twisted
the head. There was a snap.

"Oh, God—" Stile cried, anguished.

"Leave this. Go after the woman!" the captor cried. "I
will shut down the field."

The robot disengaged itself from Hulk's body and lum-
bered in the direction Bluette had gone. It had suffered
some damage; its motion was hardly faster than hers had
been. Meanwhile, the force-field clicked off; the air puffed
out of the chamber.

If Hulk was not already dead, he would suffocate shortly.
With a broken neck and no air his situation was hopeless.

The holograph faded out. The recording was over.

CHAPTER 8

Quest

Stile emerged in Phaze at the familiar spot south of the
Blue Demesnes. Suddenly his will coalesced. He opened his
bag and brought out the magic Flute and played it hard
and long. His power gathered to him as the platinum notes
pealed forth. Almost, it seemed, the mountain trembled—
but not quite. This instrument was the finest he had played,
but he knew he could not keep it. When he found the
person who could play it better than he—




208                    Blue Adept

But at the moment something else preempted his atten-
tion. As he played, the words came to him. In a moment
he stopped playing and cried it out savagely: "Of the one
who killed mine other self, the one who slew my friend, I,

Stile, the Blue Adept, swear to make an end!"

The magic oath flung outward, making the ground rip-
ple, the trees tremble, and the welkin waver. Pine needles
burst into flame. From the Purple Mountains a rumbling
echo came back like the voice of a monster: "end . . . end
... end." Then lightning flashed across the sky and thunder
rolled down. A startled griffin shot up and away to the west.
A quick wash of water descended, extinguishing the local
flame, leaving wet ashes. His oath had shaken the firma-
ment, but it couldn't bring his friend back. Stile leaned
against a scorched tree and cried.

Neysa and the Lady Blue were waiting for him expec-
tantly at the Demesnes. As soon as they saw him, they

knew something was wrong.

"Hulk is dead," Stile said bluntly. "Mine enemy killed
him, in lieu of me. I have sworn vengeance."

"The sudden storm to the south," the Lady said. "Thine

oath! I thought it no natural occurrence."

"Mine oath," Stile agreed. Quickly he filled in the details
of the tragedy. "And I know not whether thine other self
survives. Lady," he finished. "I fear I have unwittingly
brought demise upon Bluette. I should not have suggested

to Hulk that he—"

"Nay," the Lady said. She exchanged glances with

Neysa, and the unicorn blew a small note of assent and left

the room.

Stile felt his burden increase. "It is meet that she rebuke

me," he said. "Others have paid the penalty for mine er-
rors."

"She rebuked thee not," the Lady said. "She knows thou

didst seek only to do a favor for thy friend. It was thine

enemy at fault."

"I should have anticipated—"
"So should my Lord have anticipated the threat against

him, by the ill hands of the same enemy. So also should I
have known to warn him. There is guilt enough to go

Blue Adept

209

around." She crossed to him and put her hands on his
shoulders, and he felt their healing power. "We were all of
us well-meaning and naive. We could not believe that gen-
uine evil stalked us."

"And thee," Stile said, not meeting her gaze. "It was
thine other self I involved in this. I had no right—"

"To pass her to another man? She surely has will of her
own I Thy friend was no bad person; I think she might have
wanned to him, had she no other commitment. Certainly
she would make her own choice, in her own time."

And the Lady Blue surely knew. "Thou hast no resent-
ment, that I did not—?"

"Did not court her thyself, and bereave the Blue Demes-
nes a second time? Even were the danger naught, it matters
not. An I decline thy suit for myself, why should I be
jealous of what attention thou mightest pay to mine other
self? She would like thee well enough, I think."

"But I did not court her!" Stile protested, in his distrac-
tion looking into her lovely face.

"And am I to feel insulted that it is I alone thou seekest,
not my likeness in another frame?"

"Thou hast a marvelously balanced perspective."
"It was a quality thine other self selected for, methinks,"
she said with a half rueful smile. "I could not otherwise
have maintained the Demesnes in his absence. Surely this,
not any wit or beauty, was what caused the Oracle to
identify me as his ideal wife."

"Thou hast those other qualities too," Stile said. "I beg
thee. Lady, let me go now, lest I embarrass us both by—"

She did not let him go. "Thou'rt very like my Lord. Well
I know what thou wouldst do with me, were I amenable."

'Then well thou knowest that I like not to be toyed
with!"

"Thou'rt now the Blue Adept. Thy power is proven.
Fain would I have thee remain here, not risking thy life in
any quest for vengeance."

"I have made an oath," Stile said, somewhat stiffly.
"Well do I know the power of thine oaths! Yet there be
ways and ways to implement, and here is thy bastion. Let
thine enemy come to thee here, where thy magic is strong-
est; do not put thyself in jeopardy in hostile Demesnes."

210                    Blue Adept

"There is merit in thy view," Stile said, still overwhelm-
ingly conscious of her nearness, of her hands upon him.
He kept his own hands at his sides. "Yet I fear that it is
folly to wait for attack. Already mine enemy's traps have
imperiled my life in both frames, and destroyed my friend
and perhaps thine other self too. I want no others to suffer
in my stead. I prefer to take the initiative, to do boldly
what has to be done. Thereafter will I retire to the Blue

Demesnes."
"I fear to lose thee, as I lost him! As has so nearly

happened already. What becomes of me, of the Blue
Demesnes, if thou goest the way of my Lord?"

That moved him. "Never would I place thee in jeopardy,
if I could avoid it. Lady. Yet I dare not take thee with me

on my quest for vengeance."

Her grip on his shoulders tightened. "It is my vengeance
too, to have or to renounce. If thou lovest me, heed my

plea! Leave me not!"

"I have no right to love thee, now less than ever," Stile

said. "I may only guard thee."

"Thou'rt the Blue Adept! Thy right is as thou makest

it!"
"My right is as my conscience dictates. I seek not the

spoils of mine other self's Demesnes. Fain would I return
thy Lord to thee, if I could."

She shifted her grip and drew him savagely in to her.
She kissed him. Stile's heart seemed to explode with long-
ing, but with an iron will he held himself passive.

She shook him. "Respond, Adept. These Demesnes are
thy spoils, and I too. Take what is thy right. Leave me not
bereft of Lord and of power. I will grant thee whatever
thou dost desire. I will give thee a son. No one, I swear,
will ever suspect by word or gesture or deed of mine that in
truth I love thee not. Only remain to preserve these

Demesnes."

It was that truth that cut him almost as savagely as the
murder of his friend. Gently but Emily Stile disengaged
from her. "If the occasion comes when I do not suspect,
then I may act as thou hast in mind. This scene becomes
thee not."

Blue Adept                    211

She slapped him stingingly across the cheek. "How dost
thou dare prate to me of scenes, thou who dost seek futile
vengeance that will only exterminate thee and bring down
what remains of what my Lord created?"

"I apologize for my foolishness," Stile said stiffly. He
hated everything about this situation, while loving her for
the sacriEce she was attempting. To preserve the memory
and works of her Lord, she would do anything. She had
thrown away her pride in that effort. "I am the way I am. I
will fulfill mine oath in the best way I know."

She spread her hands. Surprisingly she smiled. "Go then,
with my blessing. I will aid thee in whatever manner I am
able."

This startled Stile. "Why the sudden change. Lady?"

"It is now thy welfare I value, for whatever reason. If I
can not preserve thee from thy folly my way, I must help
thee do it thy way. Ever was it thus, in these Demesnes."

Stile nodded. "Thy balanced perspective, again. I thank
thee. Lady, for thy support." He turned to go.

"Thou'rt so very like my Lord," she repeated as he
passed through the doorway. "Nor wiles nor logic nor
rages could move him iotas from his set course, when
honor was involved."

Stile paused. "I am glad thou understandest."

She hurled a blue slipper at him. "I do not understandl
My love died of that stubbornness—and so wilt thoul"

Stile found Neysa in the courtyard, cropping the per-
petual bluegrass patch. "We must move swiftly to surprise
the enemy and allow me time to get to my next match in
Proton-frame. But I dare not leave the Lady unguarded,
especially in her present mood. Without Hulk—"

Neysa tooted reassuringly and led the way outside.
Shapes were racing toward the castle. "The werewolves!"
Stile exclaimed.

Soon the pack arrived, panting. The leader metamor-
phosed to man-form. It was Stile's friend Kurrelgyre, wild-
haired and scarred but trustworthy. "The Pack greets thee,
Adept."

"I have need of thy assistance," Stile said. "But how
didst thou know?"

212 Blue Adept

"Know? We know nothing," the werewolf said. "We but
came to visit our oath-friend the mare."

"But Neysa and I are leaving," Stile protested.

"Then we shall be forced to take advantage of the hos-
pitality of thy Demesnes to await her return. Can a pack
do less, for an oath-friend?"

Stile understood. Neysa had somehow summoned the
pack, all of whose members had sworn an oath of friend-
ship with her, and they would guard the Blue Demesnes
during his absence. An Adept enemy could get around
such a defense, but not easily; who would voluntarily
tackle a full pack of werewolves? The Lady Blue would be
as safe as she reasonably could be, for the duration.

"Methinks true friends appear when needed most," Stile
said gratefully.

The White Adept was female, so Stile rode Neysa
toward the White Demesnes. White did not resemble the
woman he had seen in the Hulk holo-tape, but of course
she had been in disguise at the Unolympics. So he would
go and defy her to show him her true form, establishing at
one stroke her guilt or innocence. Armed with the Plati-
num Flute, he felt he could successfully brace the Adept in
her own Demesnes.

Neysa knew the way. Stile slept on her back, refreshing
his strength. He knew she would protect him well, and this
approach would be less obvious than the use of magic. It
was also a salient principle in Phaze: do not waste magic.
He would use one of his rehearsed spells to travel away
from the White Demesnes, if hard-pressed, instead of ex-
pending it unnecessarily now.

It was good to be with Neysa for another reason. Stile
was sick at heart, angry about his ludicrous loss of a Game
in the Tourney, guilty for Hulk's brutal demise, and dis-
turbed by the Lady Blue's attempt to seduce him away
from his purpose. He needed to sort out his feelings and
get them settled, and he needed the solid support of an
understanding person. Neysa was that person. She did not
have to say a word or play a note; she settled him by her
presence. She had been right about the importance of her
assistance to him; he needed her for more than physical

Blue Adept                    213

reasons. With her he felt secure, emotionally as well as
physically.

They traveled northeast, angling toward the great White
Mountain range. At dawn they arrived at a narrow pass.
Now Neysa threw herself into a slow gallop, forging up
into the snows, while Stile hunched within his cloak. Such
was the energy she expended that thin fire shot from her
nostrils, and her hot hooves melted indentations into the
packed snow. Her body heat warmed Stile's own body, and
soon he leaned forward and hugged her about the neck,
burying his face in her sweet black mane. She was his best
friend in the frame of Phaze, the one he most depended on.
It was joy to be afield with her again like this.

At the height of the pass a cruel wind sliced through.
Beyond, the terrain opened out into a bleak frozen lake
many miles across. The ice was not flat; it pushed up in

cracked mounds, where the stresses of expansion had pre-
vailed.

And in the center of that ragged surface rose the icy
castle of the White Demesnes, formed of ice bricks par-
tially melted together and refrozen. Flying buttresses of ice
braced the walls. It was pretty in its fashion, but rather
squat and solid to be truly esthetic artistically.

Neysa walked down to the lake's edge. The ice was a
problem for her, as her hot hooves were not suitable for
skating. She would have trouble crossing this! "I can con-
jure skates for thee—" Stile offered dubiously.

She blew a note of negation. Then she shifted into her
firefly form.

"But it's too cold for that form here," Stile protested.
"Thou mayest be fireproof, but not freezeproof. Thou wilt
fly only minutes before thy little insect body stalls out."

She flew to his shoulder and lighted there, already cold.
"Oh," Stile said. "I'm to carry thee. Of course! Then I shall
put thee in my jacket where it is warm." He did so. Neysa
made one flash of thanks and settled down in comfort.

Then he conjured a good pair of skates for himself. Stile
was an excellent skater; he had developed power and artis-
try for use in the Proton Game.

He moved out. The ice was firm, and the curvatures of
its surface did not bother him. He skated smoothly yet




214

Blue Adept

swiftly toward the ice castle, not even bothering to use an
invisibility spell. He was here for a challenge, not a sneak
attack. He had only to discover the true appearance or
mode of the White Adept's magic. If it did not relate to
amulets or golems, she was not the one he wanted. A
demon amulet had almost killed him when he first crossed
the curtain into the frame of Phaze; four goons had been
set on his trail by his use of a healing amulet later. Now he
was wary of amulets—but at least it gave him the most
promising hint about the identity of his enemy.

One strange thing—the woman who had sprung the trap
in Proton had suggested that the Blue Adept had attacked
her, rather than the other way around. Why? Surely his
other self had been innocent. He would not have attacked
another Adept without reason, especially not a woman. So
she had to be wrong. Yet it bothered him, for the woman
had not known she was being recorded; she had been
speaking from her cold heart, not for an audience.

He skated on, drawing near the ice castle. Now it was
time to go into his act. He singsonged a spell: "Garb this
one in a suit of fun." His clothing changed, becoming a
brightly colored clown-suit that was, not incidentally, a
good deal warmer than his prior garb.

The thing was, the average Adept had all he or she
needed or wanted, materially. The Adept could conjure
food, and use magic to build a castle or other residence to
his liking, and could make deals for other necessities. But
he was liable to get lonely and bored in his guarded fast-
ness. That was why so many Adepts elected to participate
as judges and spectators in functions like the Unolympics.
It gave them something to do in a public but protected
situation. Yellow had obviously thrived on her job as head
judge for the Adept pavilion, being all dressed up with her
finest youth potion for the occasion. It followed, then, that
Adepts could use entertainment at home, too. An Adept's
own magic would not amuse himself, even if he chose to
waste it that way. So now Stile looked the part of an
entertainer—and should be admitted to the White Demes-
nes with no more than the usual suspicion.

So he leaped and looped and whirled into occasional
spins. He did a cartwheel and took a fancy, deliberate spill.

Blue Adept                    215

He was a clown, a joker, a fool. Until he had his chance to
brace the White Adept and discover the nature of her
magic.

He skated close to the castle. So far so good. No hostile
spell had been hurled at him.

There was a moat of ice-free water surrounding the cas-
tle: an effective barrier to a skater. Stile drew up. "Ho!" he
called. "Grant ye access for a fool?"

A human guard appeared. It seemed there was modest
employment for a number of villagers in the various Adept
castles. "Why come ye?"

"To entertain—for a fair fee. To glean what information
I can."

"A spy?"

"Naturally."

The guard lowered his voice. "Fool art thou indeed, if
thou wouldst enter these Demesnes. The Adept is ill of
humor. Depart, lest thou losest thy gizzard."

"I thank thee for thy warning," Stile said. "But I have
come far, and must complete my mission. Do thou an-
nounce me to the Adept and let me take my chance."

"On thy insecure head be it. I tried to warn thee." The
guard retreated inside the castle.

In due course he returned to crank down the draw-
bridge, which seemed to be formed of a huge slab of ice.
Stile skated blithely across and on into the central court-
yard, admiring the way the daylight refracted through the
ice walls. And the floor abruptly converted to stone. Stile
tripped on it and took a genuine tumble; he had not been
paying attention to his feet. He adapted his fall to an
acrobatic roll in what he hoped was comical fashion, then
removed his skates.

Neysa did not reappear. She remained as a firefly, hiding
in his hat. Stile knew why; her conversion back to equine-
form would attract attention to him. Who but the Blue
Adept, as the Platinum Elves had pointed out, rode a uni-
corn? But she would change in a hurry if it became neces-
sary. He felt much more secure with her along.

There were no special preliminaries. The White Adept
walked out, looking much as she had at the Unolympics,
but older and fatter. She had evidently used her magic only

216

Blue Adept

to improve her image moderately. "What hast thou got,
churl?" she demanded irritably. "What dost thou want?"

"I have a rare show of antics and prestidigitation," Stile
said, making his voice comical too. "'Twill lighten thy
spirit and make thee laugh. All I ask in return is the

smallest of favors."

"What smallest favor?" She was evidently used to pan-
handlers.

Stile brought out a silver medal he had conjured in prep-
aration for this moment. "This amulet—it is expended. I
want it restored to provide me heat from the cold."

"Amulets are not my business," she snapped. "Thou

shouldst apply to her who makes them."

So it was a female Adept who made the amuletsl This
was a valuable confirmation. "Once an amulet attacked
me," he said. "Now must I take them secondhand."

"Attacked thee?" She chortled. "Surely served thee rightl
Very well—if thou dost perform amusingly, I will reward

thee appropriately."

"I thank thee," Stile said humbly. He was fully aware

that she had made no significant commitment. That was
not what he needed. Once she showed the form of her

magic—

"Get on with it, clown," White snapped, her mouth set-
ting into solidified sourness. "Make me laugh."

Stile went into his act. He had developed a joker-ritual
as part of his Proton-Game expertise, and he had consider-
able manual dexterity. He put on his "stupid midget" pan-
tomime, trying to eat a potato that kept wriggling out of
his hands, looking for a comfortable place to sleep, finding
none, and getting tangled up in his own limbs, drawing
scarves out of his ears, taking spills, and in general making
a funny fool of himself. He was good at it, using no real
magic, only stage magic, before a person who well knew
the difference. Though the White Adept tried to maintain
a sour face, slowly it weathered and cracked. She evidently
did not like peasants, and had deep satisfaction seeing one
so aptly parodied. Also she, like many people, thought
there was something excruciatingly funny about mishaps
happening to a midget. In the end she was laughing whole-
heartedly.

Blue Adept

217

Stile completed his show. White sobered quickly. "I like
thee, fool. I believe I shall keep thee here for future enter-
tainments."

"Honored Adept, I cannot stay," Stile said quickly,
though he had expected something like this. "All I want is
mine amulet recharged."

She frowned. "Very well, fool. Give it here."

She was up to something. Stile passed over the medal,
braced for action.

The White Adept laid the medal on the floor. She
brought out a long-handled charcoal marker and drew a
mystic symbol around it. When the figure was complete,
she tapped it five times: tap-tap. Tap-tap, TAP.

The medal exploded into a dozen huge shapes. Ice mon-
sters, translucent, with snowy fur and icicle teeth and
blank iceball eyeballs. The small fragments of metal
seemed to adhere only to their formidable claws: nails that
were literal nails.

"Cool this arrogant peasant in the cooler, coolies," she
ordered, pointing at Stile.

The monsters advanced on him. Stile tried to run out of
the courtyard, but they leaped out to encircle him. Grin-
ning coldly, they drew their noose tight. There would be no
gentle handling here.

Suddenly Neysa flew out and changed to her unicorn-
form. She charged forward, spearing a monster on her
hom, lifting her head, and hurling the thing away to the
side. It crashed into its neighbor, and both went down in a
tangle of shattering ice.

"Ho! A unicorn!" White screamed, outraged. "Think ye
to 'scape my power in mine own Demesnes, animal?" She
started to draw another symbol on the floor.

That meant trouble. Obviously she could conjure any-
thing with the right symbol. Stile launched himself at the
White Adept—and was caught in a polar-bear hug by an
intervening ice monster and lifted from the floor. Fooll he
chided himself. He should have sung a spell. But no—
White did not yet know his identity, apparently not con-
necting the unicorn directly to him. He preferred to keep it
secret if he could. He would try to handle this without
magic.

218                    Blue Adept

He had better! The monster had a frigid hand over
Stile's mouth, half suffocating him and preventing him

from speaking.

Stile tried to get his hand on the Platinum Flute. That
would become a suitable weaponi But, jammed up against
the freezing demon, he could not reach the Flute.

He elbowed the monster. Ouch! That ice was hard! He
kicked, but the monster seemed to have no feeling in its
body. Stile could not throw the creature, because he had
no footing. Meanwhile, that terrible cold was penetrating

his flesh.

Neysa was busy routing the other monsters. One mon-
ster might be too much for Stile to handle, but one unicorn
was too much for the whole horde of them. She bucked,
her hind hooves flinging out to shatter two monsters; she
plunged forward to impale another on her horn. With
every motion she demolished a monster. Stile could have

had no better ally.

But Stile was held silent, and the White Adept was com-
pleting her new symbol figure. This surely meant mischief.

Stile bit the hand over his mouth. This helped; the icy
fingers crunched under his teeth. The monster might feel
no pain, but it couldn't gag Stile with no fingers. Stile
chewed and chewed, breaking off and spitting out the huge

hand piecemeal.

Now the witch's second symbol animated. A swarm of

stinging flies puffed into existence. They flung themselves
onto Neysa—who stiffened the moment they stung, thin
flame jetting from her nostrils. Then, with an extended

note of despair, she fell to the floor.

There was no question about the ability of an Adept to
handle a unicorn! White's magic was more cumbersome to
implement than Stile's was, but it was devastating when it

got there.

"Dump the animal into the lake—under the ice," White

ordered the two remaining ice monsters. "Dump the
peasant-clown there too; he's too much trouble."

But Stile could speak now. "Monsters of ice," he sang

breathlessly, "turn into mice!"

He had not gathered his power by playing music, so the

potency of his spell was not great. That was the cumber-
Blue Adept                    219

some quality of his own invocations. When fully prepared,
he could do excellent magic—but of course White, when
set up with a number of drawn symbols, could surely per-
form similarly. His spell operated incompletely. The two
ice monsters shimmered into rather fat white rats.

"Magic!" White hissed. "Now I know thee! How durst
thou intrude on these my Demesnes, Blue?"

Stile brought out his harmonica as he walked toward
Neysa. He had decided he didn't need the Flute on this
occasion. The deadly stingflies rose up in their humming
cloud, orienting on him. "I intrude to ascertain whether
thou art mine enemy," he said to the witch.

"I was not thine enemy before—but I am now!" she
cried. "Sting him, flies!"

Stile played his instrument. The flies felt the coalescing
force of his magic and hesitated. Stile willed heat—and as
the flies came near, they dried up and dropped to the floor.
A few hardier ones persisted until their wings burst into
flame.

Stile stopped, looking at the prostrate unicorn. He
thought of Hulk and Bluette, knocked out by gas. Which
parallels were valid and which were products of his guilt?
But this situation he could handle. "Neysa defy the bite of
the fly," he sang.

The unicorn woke and struggled to her feet. Stile could
heal others, but not himself.

White was forming a new symbol. Stile faced her and
sang: "White take the road, as a frog or a—tortoise."

The witch did a doubletake as the spell passed her by.
Stile had not filled in the obvious rhyme. Then she reached
for the symbol again.

"Let thy flesh become cold," Stile sang, and the magic
gathered as though to pounce. "And thy body grow . . .
oily."

Again she reacted, fearing the worst; no one feared age
like a middle-aged woman! Again she was left unscathed as
the spell fizzled. Stile's intent could only be consummated
with a terminal rhyme. Once more she went for her spell.

"White form a pyre, and burn like—fir," Stile sang.

This time her white hair seemed to take on a tinge of
orange flame. "Enough!" she cried. "Thou'rt victor. Blue!




220

Blue Adept

Blue Adept

221

Thy magic cannot truly transform me, but it could make
me very uncomfortable. What dost thou want?"

"Only to see thy magic operate," Stile said. "And to

depart in peace."

"No one sees the secret of my magic mode and departs
in peace!" she protested. "The mode is always an Adept
secret. Sooner would I dance naked before a crowd."

"Thou hast seen my magic mode," Stile pointed out. "I
lived my whole life naked in a crowd, ere I came to Phaze."
"Well, no one else shows either magic or body!"
"Yet thou knowest the identity of the amulet-maker."
She considered. "Ah, now it comes clear! Thy venge-
ance!"

"Indeed," Stile agreed. "Thou dost not seem to be the
one I seek, but it would help if I learned who mine enemy

really is."

"Aye, I know her. There are secrets witches share. But I

will not tell thee. It is not thy business."

"The amulet-maker murdered me!" Stile cried. "And
seeks to kill me again. That is not my business?"

"Well, mayhap thou wouldst see it that way. But it is
not my business to betray her to thee."

"Witch, thou runnest fair risk of suffering my wrath,"
Stile said, feeling the righteous heat rise. The force of his
oath urged him onward. "Yet can I turn thee into—"

"Nay, the power of one Adept is ineffective against an-
other Adept on guard. Yet neither is it my business to
betray thee to her. Depart now, and I shall not tell hei
thou hast narrowed thy choices to two."

To two. Two remaining female Adepts. White had given
him some information, by way of placation. That helped
considerably. The only problem was that he knew of only
one other female Adept.

Well, he would check that one. He mounted Neysa. He
played a bar of music, then sang: "Man and steed, to

Brown proceed."

They shot sidewise, accelerating to horrendous velocity,
passing right through the ice walls without touching them
and zooming southeast. Plains, hills and forests shot by in
blurs. Then they slowed and came to an abrupt halt.

They were before the great brown wooden door of a

brownstone castle from whose highest turret a brown pen-
nant flew. Obviously the Brown Demesnes.

Stile looked around. A muddy river flowed behind the
castle, but none of its water was diverted into a moat. On
its banks stood a sere, brown forest. It might be summer in
the main part of Phaze, but it was winter at the White
Demesnes and fall here at the Brown Demesnes.

Neysa snorted, not liking it. Stile could appreciate why;

the grass, too, was brown.

"Well, do we sneak in this time, or boldly challenge?"
Stile asked the unicorn. She blew a note of negation, end-
ing in a positive trill. "I agree," he said, "I'm tired of
sneaking. We'll settle this openly this time." He wondered
whether it was true that one Adept could not directly en-
chant another Adept who was on guard. That notion
seemed to be giving him confidence, certainly.

He faced the door and bawled in as stentorian a voice as
he could muster: "Brown, come forth and face Blue!"

The huge door cranked open. A giant stood in the door-
way. He was as massive as the trunk of an oak, and as
gnarly. He carried a wooden club that was longer than
Stile's whole body. "Go 'way, clownl" he roared.

Clown. Oops—he was still garbed in that fool's suiti
Well, let it be; he didn't want to mess with a nullification
spell right now.

Stile was used to dealing with men larger than himself;

all men were larger than himself. But this one was extreme.
He was just about ten feet tall. If he swung that club, he
could likely knock Stile off Neysa before Stile could get
close enough to do anything physical.

Unless he used the Platinum Flute as a lance or pike ...

But first he had to try the positive approach. "I want to
meet the Brown Adept."

The giant considered. His intelligence seemed inversely
proportional to his mass. "Oh," he said. "Then come in."

Just like that! Neysa trotted forward, following the
giant. Soon they were in a large brownwood paneled hall.

A man was there, garbed in a brown robe. He was
brown of hair, eyes and skin. "What want ye with me?" he
inquired, frowning.

"Nothing," Stile said. "I want the Adept herself."




222

Blue Adept

Blue Adept

223

"Speak to me," the man said. "I am Brown."
"Brown is a woman," Stile said. "Must I force the issue

with magic?"
"Thou darest use thy magic in my Demesnes?" the

brown man demanded.

Stile brought out his harmonica and played a few bars.

"I dare," he said.

"Guardi Remove this mani"

Giants appeared, converging on Stile and Neysa. "I want
these creatures swept," Stile sang quickly. "And bring the

Brown Adept."

It was as if a giant invisible broom swept the giants out
of the hall. Simultaneously an eddy carried in a disheveled,
angry child. "Thou mean mani" she cried. "Thou didst not

have to do thati"

Stile was taken aback. "Thou'rt the Brown Adept?" But

obviously she was; his spell had brought her.

"If I were grown and had my full power, thou wouldst
never be able to bully mel" she exclaimed tearfully. "I

never did anything to thee, clown!"

Appearances could be deceptive, but Stile was inclined
to agree. Why would a child murder an Adept who meant
her no harm? Unless this was another costume, concealing
the true form of the Adept. "I am here to ascertain that,"

Stile said. "Show me thy true form."
"This is my true formi Until I grow up. Now wilt thou

go away, since thou art not a very funny clown?"
"Show me thy true form of magic," Stile said.
"Art thou blind? Thou didst just make a jumble of all

my golems!"

Golems! "Thou makest the wooden meni"
She was settling down. "What else? I use the brownwood
growing outside. But most of these were made by my pred
—the prior Brown Adept. He trained me to do it just
before he died." A tear touched her eye. "He was a good
man. It is lonely here without him."

"Knowest thou not a wooden golem usurped the Blue

Demesnes?" Stile demanded.

Her cute brown eyes flashed. "That's a lie! Golems do
only as told. I ought to know. They have no life of their
own."

Like the robots of Proton. Only some robots, like Sheen,
and her sophisticated friends, did have consciousness and
self-will. "Thou hast sent no golem in my likeness to de-
stroy me?"

Now she faltered, bobbing her brown curls about. "I—I
did not. But I have not been Adept long. My predi-pred—"

"Predecessor," Stile filled in helpfully.

"That's the wordi Thanks. Predecessor. He might have. I
don't know. But he was a good man. He never attacked
other Adepts. He just filled orders for them. Golems make
the very most dependable soldiers and servants and things,
and they never need feeding or sleeping or—"

"So another Adept could have ordered a golem in my
likeness?" Stile persisted, piecing it together.

"Sure. He made golems in any likeness, in exchange for
other magic he needed. Like a larderful of food, or a get-
well amulet—"

Stile pounced on that. "Who traded him an amulet?"

"Why the Red Adept, of course. She makes all the amu-
lets."

Something was wrong. "I met the Red Adept at the
Unolympics. Red was a tall, handsome man."

"Oh—she was in costume, then. They do that. Just as I
tried to do with a golem when thou earnest. Sometimes
strangers are bad to children, so Brown warned me not to
reveal myself to intruders. I didn't know thou wert ap-
prised I was a girl."

It burst upon Stile with dismaying force. The costume!
Not merely different clothing or appearance, but different
sex too! Child's play to produce the image of the opposite
sex. In fact, Red could have done it without magic. Re-
move the mustache, lengthen the hair, put on a dress, and
the Red he had seen was a woman. Remove the dress so
that she was naked, and cover the hair with a skullcap, and
it was the woman who had killed Hulk in the mine. How
could he have overlooked that?

"Brown, I apologize," Stile said. "A golem invaded my
Demesnes, and I thought thee guilty. I see I was mistaken.
I proffer amends."

"Oh, that's okay," she said, smiling girlishly. "I haven't




224

Blue Adept

Blue Adept

225

had company in a long time. But thou mightest put back

my giants."

Stile made a quick spell to restore the golems he had
swept away. "Is there aught else I can do for thee before I

go?" he inquired.

"Nothing much. I like thy unicorn, but I know they

don't mess with other Adepts or anybody. Only other thing
I'm trying to do is grow a nice flower-garden, but they all
come up brown and dry. I don't want thy magic for that; I

want to do it myself."

Neysa blew a note. Stile dismounted, and she shimmered
into girl-form. "Unicorn manure grows magic plants,"

Neysa said.

"Gee—pretty ones?" Brown asked, her eyes lighting.

"Like a Jack-in-the-pulpit who preaches a real sermon, and

tiger-lilies who purr?"

Neysa had already changed back to her natural shape.

She blew an affirmative note.

"Send one of thy golems with a cart and fork," Stile
said. "A giant, who can haul a lot. Thou knowest where

the herds roam?"

Brown nodded. "I go there all the time, to look at the
pretty 'corns," she said wistfully. "But I dare not get close

to them."

All girls liked equines. Stile remembered. He looked at
Neysa, who nodded. "If thou likest, Neysa will carry thee
there this time, and tell her friends to give manure to thy

golem."

"A ride on a unicorn?" Brown clapped her hands with

delight. "Oh, yes, yesi"

"Ride, then," Stile said, glad to make this small amend
for his unkind intrusion here. "I will meet thee there."

The child mounted the unicorn somewhat diffidently,
and they started off at the smoothest of gaits. Stile knew
Neysa would not let Brown fall, and that her unicorn herd
would acquiesce to the golem's acquisition of several loads
of excellent manure, for such things were not denied to
oath-friends. Neysa had helped bail him out of mischief,
again, by making Brown glad for his visit.

This had turned out to be the wrong Adept, but the
excursion had been worthwhile. Now at last he knew the

identity of his enemy. He would not have time to brace
the Red Adept after rejoining Neysa at the herd; he had
to get back across the curtain for the next Round of the
Tourney. But on his return to Phaze. . . .

CHAPTER 9

Music

It was Round Six of the Tourney. Barely one fifth of the
original entrants remained. The concentration of the skilled
and the lucky increased. The audience for individual
Games was larger, and would grow larger yet, as the num-
bers of contestants dwindled further and each Round be-
came more important.

His opponent was another Citizen. This was not unusual
at this stage; the Citizens tended to be the best players, and
suffered elimination reluctantly. This one was old, obvi-
ously not in prime physical vigor—but any Citizen was
dangerous, in and out of the Tourney.

Stile resolved to put it into the PHYSICAL column if he
had the chance, not risking this man's accumulated knowl-
edge and experience.

He had the chance. They were in 2B, Tool-Assisted
PHYSICAL GAMES. Stile's area of strength. Yet the Citi-
zen did not seem alarmed. Did he have a secret?

They played the subgrids and came up with the Ice
Climb. This was a frozen waterfall about fifteen meters
high that had to be mounted by use of spikes and pitons
from the base. Safety ropes suspended from above pre-
vented it from being dangerous, but the climb itself was
arduous. Stile did not see how this old man could handle

it.

Stile was naked; all he had to do was put on the spiked




226                    Blue Adept

shoes, gloves, and safety line. He did not need insulative
clothing; the ice was frozen by elements beneath, while the
air of the dome was warm. A naked man could handle it
well enough, since his own exertion heated him.

The voluminous robes of the Citizen would interfere

with his climbing. Slowly he undressed.

Stile was amazed. Under his concealing cloak the Citizen

had a body of considerable gristle and muscle. The man
was older than Stile—perhaps much older because of pos-
sible rejuvenation—but his torso resembled that of a man
in his mid-forties, well developed. Stile still should have the
edge, but much less of one than he had thought.

They donned their gear, and approached the waterfall. It
gleamed prettily, like translucent quartz. Stile had the right
channel, the Citizen the left. The first to touch an electron-
ically keyed marker at the top would win. The first to fall
would lose. Theoretically one person could swing across on
his safety rope and interfere with the other, but he would
already have lost. Throwing pitons at each other meant
immediate forfeiture. Cheating and fouling never occurred

in Games.

Now the Citizen faced the ice and stared into it, unmov-

ing. It was time tor the match to begin, but Citizens could

not be rushed. Stile had to wait.

The man remained for several minutes in silence. What
was he up to? Stile, alert for some significant factor, was
alarmed by this behavior. There had to be meaning in it.
Why should a person delay a match by remaining trance-
like?

Trance! That was it! The Citizen was indulging in self-
hypnosis, or a yoga exercise, putting himself into a mental
state that would allow him to draw without normal re-
straint on the full resources of his body. This was the sort
of thing that lent strength to madmen and to the mothers
of threatened children. Stile never used it, preferring to live
a fully healthy life, saving his ultimate resources for some
genuine life-and-death need. But the Citizen was evidently

under no such constraint.

This could be trouble! No wonder the man had made it
this far in the Tourney. He had suckered opponents into

227

Blue Adept

challenging him on the physical plane, then expended his
inner resources to defeat them. Stile had fallen neatly into

the trap.

But Stile, because of his light weight and physical fitness
and indefatigable training in all aspects of the Game, was
an excellent ice climber. Or had been, before the injury to
his knees. Since he could place his pitons to avoid severe
flexation of his knees, that should not hamper him much.
Very few people could scale the falls faster than he could.
He might win anyway. Trance-strength was fine, but the
body reserves had to be there to be drawn on, and a re-
juvenated Citizen might not have large reserves.

Stile did mild limbering exercises, toning up his muscles.
He could throw himself into a light trance at will, of
course, but refused to. Not even for this.

At last the Citizen came out of it. "I am ready," he

said.

They donned the safety belts. The lines would keep pace
with the ascent, rising but not falling again. Stile felt his
heartbeat and respiratory rate increase with the incipience
of this effort.

The starting gong sounded. Both went to work, hammer-
ing the first piton. There were little tricks to this Game; the
ice could vary from day to day because of ambient condi-
tions. Sometimes it was a trifle soft, which made insertion
easier but less secure; today it was a trifle hard, which
posed the risk of cracking. Since each piton had to be set
as rapidly as possible, judgment was important. If a con-
testant took too long, making a piton unnecessarily firm
for its brief use, he lost time that might mean loss of the
match; if he proceeded carelessly, he would fall, and lose
the match. Discrimination, as much as physical strength
and endurance, was critical.

The Citizen worked faster than Stile. He was on his first
piton and working on the next ahead of Stile. He was
pushing the limit, hitting too hard, but the ice was holding.
Stile was close behind, but losing headway because he was
playing it safer. Ice was funny stuff; sometimes it tolerated
violation. Sometimes it did not.

They moved on up. Steadily Stile lost position—yet he




228                    Blue Adept

did not dare hit his pitons harder. All he could do was
marvel at the luck of the Citizen, and hope that the law of

averages—

It happened. Halfway up, the ice cracked under the Citi-
zen's piton. The man had only to put it in a new spot and
hammer more carefully—but he would lose just enough
time to bring Stile even. The law of averages had come

through at last.

But the Citizen, in his trance, was not alert to this.
Automatically he put his weight on the piton—and it gave
way and fell out. The Citizen swung from the rope, dis-
qualified.

Stile did not even have to complete the climb. He only

had to proceed one centimeter higher than the point the
Citizen had reached. His caution, his alertness, and his
reliance on the odds had brought him easy victory. Some-
how it hadn't seemed easy, though.

There was no fake address this time. Sheen took care of
him, questioning him about his latest adventures in Phaze,
and let him sleep. She concurred with the Lady Blue; she
didn't like the notion of him bracing the Red Adept in the
Red Demesnes. "She's a mean one; I could tell that from
the holo. She'll cut your throat with a brilliant smile. But
I'm only a logical machine," she complained. "I can't stop
an illogical manbrained flesh creature from being insanely

foolish."

"Right," Stile agreed complacently. "Even clownish."

She always made reference to her inanimate status when

upset.

But first he had to handle Round Seven. This turned out

to be against another serf of about his own age. He was
Clef, a tall thin man named for a symbol on written music,
who evidently had qualified for the Tourney only because
the top players of his ladder had not wanted to. Stile knew
all the top serf-players of the current ladders, but did not
recognize Clef. Therefore this man was no skilled Games-
man, though he could have spot-skills.

They chatted while waiting for the grid. "Whoever wins
this Round gets an extra year's tenure," Stile said. "Or
more, depending on which Round he finally reaches."

Blue Adept                   229

"Yes, it is my best hope to achieve Round Eight," Clef
agreed. "I have no chance to win the Tourney itself, unlike
you."

"Unlike me?"

"I have the advantage of you, so to speak," Clef said. "I
am aware of your skill in the Game. To be fair, I should
advise you of my own specialties."

"Fairness is no part of it," Stile said. "Use any advan-
tage you have. Maybe I'll misjudge you, and grid right into
your specialty. In any event, I have no way of knowing
whether what you tell me is the truth."

"Oh, it has to be the truth!" Clef said, shocked. "There
is no place in my philosophy for untruth."

Stile smiled, once again finding himself liking his op-
ponent. "Glad to hear it. But still, you don't have to—"

"I am a musician, hence my chosen name. My single
other hobby is the rapier."

"Ah—so you have a strength in either facet. That's use-
ful."

"So it has proved. That and fortune. I did lose one
match in CHANCE, but since I won three in that category
I can not seriously object. I have come further in the
Tourney than I really expected."

"But you know I'll play away from your strengths," Stile
said.

"I could as readily play for CHANCE again and neu-
tralize your advantage."

"Not if you get the letters."

"Then my choice is easy. Rapier and flute are both
tools."

The flute? Stile wasn't sure how well the Platinum Flute
would play in this frame, since its magic could not operate
here, but it was such a fine instrument it might well make
him competitive. "I am not expert with the rapier," he said,
thinking of the training Neysa had given him in Phaze.
"Yet I am not unversed in it, and in other weapons I am
proficient. Unless you managed to get the rapier itself,
rather than an edged sword, I doubt you would want to
meet me in such a category."

"I have no doubt at all I don't want to meet you there!"
Clef agreed.




230                    Blue Adept

"But I have lost one match in this Tourney through
CHANCE, as you have, and am eager to avoid another."

"Are you proffering a deal?" Clef inquired, elevating an
eyebrow. He had elegant eyebrows, quite expressive.

"This is legal and ethical. Of course no agreement has
force in the Game itself. But two honorable players can
come to an agreement if they wish."

"I understand. Are you willing to meet me in Music?"

"Yes, depending."
"You grant me Music, and I will grant you choice of

instruments."

"That was my notion."
"However, I should warn you that I am widely versed in

this area of the arts. My favorite is the flute, but I am
proficient in any of the woodwinds and strings. More so
than you, I believe; I have heard you play. So you may
prefer to select one of the less sophisticated instruments."

Stile's fiercely competitive soul was aroused. He had a
compulsion to beat opponents in their special areas of
strength. That was why he had tackled Hulk in Naked
Physical. He thought again of the Platinum Flute, surely
the finest instrument he could employ. On it he could play
the best music of his life. He might take the measure of
this self-proclaimed experti But caution prevailed. If the
flute was Clef's instrument of choice, no skill of Stile's
could reasonably hope to match him, and it would be
foolish to allow himself to believe otherwise. Also the Flute
was in Stile's possession only on loan, and if his use of it
here drew the attention of Citizens to it—no, he could not
risk that. Fortunately he did have an alternative.

"The harmonica," Stile said.

"A good harmonica is hardly a toy," Clef said. "Properly
played, it can match any instrument in the orchestra. Are
you certain—I am trying to be fair, since you are so gener-
ously offering me the category—"

"I'm certain," Stile said, though Clef's confidence dis-
turbed him. Exactly how good could this man be on the

harmonica?

"Then so shall it be," Clef agreed, and offered his hand.

"A handshake agreement is not worth the paper it's
printed on," Stile reminded him.

Blue Adept                    231

"But it is also said that the man who trusts men will
make fewer mistakes than he who distrusts them."

"I have found it so." Stile took the proffered hand, and
so they sealed the agreement.

Their turn at the grid came. They played as agreed.
They would contest for this Round with the harmonica.

Sheen was ready with Stile's harmonica; she was able to
carry objects unobtrusively in her body compartments,
and she was the only one in this frame he trusted with such
things. It had to be this familiar instrument, the one he had
played so often in Phaze, rather than some strange one
issued by the Game Computer. It was not the Flute, but
there seemed to be a certain magic about it. On this, he
could play well enough to defeat a musician—he hoped.
For Stile thought it likely that a man who played the flute
habitually would not be able to do much on short notice
with the harmonica. Not as much as Stile could. Stile was
by no means a bad musician himself, and he well under-
stood the nature of the Game. There were tricks of victory
apart from straight skill. And Stile had practiced with a
unicorn.

Sheen, however, was alarmed. She had only a moment
to speak to him during the transfer. "Stile, I spot-researched
this man Clef. He's no dabbler in music—he's experti
He may be the finest musician on the planet—the one
Citizens borrow for their social functions. He can play
anything!"

Oh-oh. Had he walked into the lion's den—again? It was
the penalty he paid for spending his free time chasing
down magicians in the fantasy frame, instead of doing his
homework here. When would he learn better? Part of being
in the Game was doing one's research, ascertaining the
strengths and weaknesses of one's likely opponents, devis-
ing grid-strategies to exploit whatever situation arose. He
would be much better off to remain in Proton for the
duration of the Tourney, settling it one way or the other.
But he could not; the lure of magic, of Adept status, of
free and open land and of his ideal woman—maybe that
last told it all!—were too great. He had discounted Clef's
confidence as bravado, at least in part, and that might have
been a bad error. "I'll do my best," he told Sheen.




Blue Adept

232

"You'll have to do better than that," she grumped as
they separated. Sometimes she was so human it was pain-
ful.

Clef met him in a concert hall. Spectators were permit-
ted here; there were seats for about a hundred. The cham-
ber was already full. "Some interest generated here," Clef
noted. "You appear to be well known."

"Maybe they are music fans," Stile said. Often he did
attract audiences for his Games, but this was a greater
response than he could account for. But of course he had
never been in the Tourney before this year; only slightly
over one in ten of the original entrants remained, which
allowed the audience to concentrate much more heavily on
the remaining games.

They took their places on the small stage. There were
seats there, and music stands; the archaic paraphernalia of
the artistic medium. Clef had obtained a harmonica similar
to Stile's own, from the Game supplies.

"The rules of this competition," the voice of the Game
Computer came. "Each contestant will play a solo piece
randomly selected. The Computer will judge the level of
technical expertise. The human audience will judge the
social aspect. Both judgments will be tallied for the deci-
sion. Proceed." And a printed sheet of music appeared on a
vision screen in front of Clef.

The musician lifted his harmonica and played. Stile's
hope sank.

Clef was not merely good and not merely expert. He was
outstanding. He was conversant with every technique of
the harmonica, and played the music absolutely true. He
tongued notes, he employed the vibrato, he trilled, he
shifted modes without slip or hesitation. If the harmonica
were not his chosen instrument, that was not apparent

now.

The man's long, tapering fingers enclosed his harmonica
lovingly, his right forefinger resting on the chromatic lever,
his hands opening to modify the tonal quality. Each note
was pure and clear and perfectly timed; a machine could
hardly have been more technically accurate. Stile certainly
could not improve on that performance.

Yet he had a chance. Because though the Computer

Blue Adept                    233

reacted to technical expertise, the human audience cared
more about feeling. The appearance of the person playing
counted for something, and the flair with which he moved
and gestured, and the emotion he conveyed to the audi-
ence, the beauty and meaning, the experience he shared
with it. Music was, most fundamentally, a participant ac-
tivity; people without other esthetic appreciation neverthe-
less liked to tap toes, nod heads, sway to the evocative
melody and beat. Stile was good at evoking audience re-
sponse. If he could do that here, he could gain the social
facet and pull out a draw. The audience participation in
judging the arts was for this very reason; in the early days
some Tourneys had been won by performances that no one
except the Computer thought were worthwhile. This prob-
lem had been evident historically throughout the arts.
Prizes had been awarded for paintings that no one could
comprehend, and for sculpture that was ludicrous to the
average eye, and for literature that few people could read.
Refined, rarefied judgments had been substituted for that
of the true audience, the common man, to the detriment of
the form. So today, in the Tourney, art had to be intelli-
gible to both the experts and the average man, and esthetic
to both. Stile had a chance to nullify Clef's certain com-
puter win and send it back to the grid for the selection of
another game. Stile would surely stay clear of music for
that one!

Clef finished. The audience applauded politely. It had
been an excellent performance, without question; the tiny
and subtle nuances of feeling were not something the aver-
age person grasped consciously. People seldom knew why
they liked what they liked; they only knew that in this
instance something had been lacking.

Now it was Stile's turn. Clef lowered his instrument and
stood silently, as Stile had. The music screen lit before Stile
with the printed music. Actually, Stile did not need it; he
could reproduce it from his memory of Clef's performance.
But he looked at it anyway, because he did not want to
make any single false note. Nothing that would jar the
audience out of its rapport.

Stile played. From the start, his hands moved well. The

1.-————-•— ---—--1 1.- 1-- ——-•——-1.-J -—•I.I- -11 1.1-- ————•——---




234 Blue Adept

Stile had had from the time he discovered it, there in the
great valley between the Purple Mountains and the White
Mountains in the lovely frame of Phaze. He thought of
Neysa as he played, and it was as if he were playing for
her, with her again, loving it. Every note was true; he knew
he would make no errors.

But he was not playing for himself or for Neysa now.
He was performing for an audience. Stile refocused on
that, passing his gaze over the people, meeting eyes, lean-
ing forward. He tapped his bare heel, not to keep the beat
for himself but to show the audience. A toe could tap
unobtrusively, but a heel made the entire leg move; it was
obvious. The people started picking it up, their own legs
moving. Stile caught the eye of a young woman, and
played a brief passage seemingly for her alone, then went
on to another person, bringing each one in to him.

It was a responsive audience. Soon most of the people
were swaying to the music, nodding their heads, tapping
their heels. He was working them up, making them part of
his act, giving them the thrill of participation. Together,
they all played the harmonica.

Suddenly it ended. The piece was over. Had it been
enough?

The moment Stile put down his instrument, the audi-
ence burst into enthusiastic applause. Stile glanced at Clef
—and found the man staring, his lips parted. Clef, it
seemed, had not realized that music could be played this
way, that it could be hurled out into the audience like a
boomerang, and bring that audience back into its ambience.
Perhaps Clef considered this a degradation of the form. No
matter; Stile had won his audience.

Sure enough, the announcement verified the split deci-
sion. "Expertise, first player. Clef. Social content, second
player, Stile. Draw." For the benefit of the audience, the
Computer was not employing the assigned Player numbers
now.

Clef shook his head ruefully. "You showed me some-
thing, Stile. You played very well."

Stile's reply was forestalled by another announcement by
the computer. "It is an option of the Game Computer to
require a continuation of a drawn match in the Tourney.

Blue Adept                    235

This option is now exercised. The contestants will perform
a medley in duet, the parts alternating as marked on the
score. A panel of qualified musicians will be the final ar-
biter."

Oh, no! Stile had thought himself safe. A new trap had
suddenly closed on him. But there was nothing to do ex-
cept play it out, despite a judgment that would surely be
unfavorable to him. He would not be able to evoke the
confused passions of an audience of experts.

There was an intermission while the panel was assem-
bled. "This is new to me," Clef said. "Is there a prece-
dent?"

"I've heard of it," Stile said. "But normally it is invoked
only when the contestants can't agree on the draw and
insist on playing it out."

"Is it fair? I hardly object to finishing this in Music, but
it seems to me you should prefer—I mean, a panel of
musicians—"

"Is likely to favor the musician," Stile agreed. "I might
win the audience again, but not the computer or the panel.
You're bound to take it."
"You must lodge a protest!"

"No good," Stile said. "The Computer does have the
option. I'm stuck for it. I knew the rules when I entered
the Tourney." And this was very likely the end of his
participation in it. So close to the key Round, secured by
that prize of tenure!

"I don't like this at all," Clef said. "I do want to win,
and I'll have to play my best, but there is a fundamental
inequity here on more than one level. It is not merely that
the odds of your winning are greatly in your favor if we go
to a new grid. It is that you have a chance to go consider-
ably farther in the Tourney than I do; you are a skilled
player, while my skills are largely limited to this particular
pursuit. You should be allowed to continue, for I shall
surely be eliminated in the next Round or two."

"Play your best," Stile said. "Chance is always a factor
in the Game. Someone always profits, someone always
loses. I do have another resource." Stile knew he faced
disaster, but his liking for this honest man increased. How




236

Blue Adept

Blue Adept

237

much better it was to lose to superior talent than to blind

chancel

"While we wait—would you be so kind as to explain to
me how you make the audience respond like that? I saw it,
but I have never been able to do that. I rather envy it."

Stile shrugged. "It's apart from the music itself, yet also
the essence of it. Basically you have to achieve rapport
with the people you're performing for. You have to feel."

"But that isn't music!" Clef protested.

"That is the vital spirit of music," Stile insisted. "Sonic
emotion. The transmission of mood and feeling from one
person to another. The instrument is merely the means.
The notes are merely means. Music itself is only a process,

not the end."

"I don't know. This is like heresy, to me. I love music,
pure music. Most people and most institutions fall short of
the ideal; they are imperfect. Music is the ideal."

"You can't separate them," Stile said, finding this ex-
ploration interesting. "You are thinking of music as pearls,
and the audience as swine, but in truth pearls are the
accretions of the irritation of a clam, while the audience is
mankind. These things must go together to have meaning.
Like man and woman, there's so much lost when apart..."

"Like man and woman," Clef echoed. "That too, I have

never quite understood."

"It's not easy," Stile said, thinking of the Lady Blue and
her violent shifts of attitude during their last encounter.

"But until—"

He was interrupted by the Game Computer. "The panel
has been assembled. Proceed." Musical scores appeared
before Clef and Stile. The sound of a metronome gave
them the countdown. Quickly each lifted his harmonica to

his mouth.

It was an intricate medley, highly varied, with segments

of popular, folk and classical music from Planet Earth.
The two ranges counterpointed each other nicely. The
audience listened raptly. The music of a single instrument
could be excellent, but the action of two instruments in
harmony was qualitatively as well as quantitatively su-
perior.

Stile found that he liked this composite piece. He was

playing well—even better than before. Partly it was the
inherent joy of the counterpoint, always a pleasure; that
was why he and Neysa had played together so often. But
more, it was Clef; the musician played so well that Stile
needed to make no allowances. He could depend on Clef,
lean on him, knowing there would be no error, no weak-
ness. Stile could do his utmost. Everything was keyed cor-
rectly for takeoff.

Stile took off. He played his part with feeling, absorbing
the rapture of that perfect harmony. He saw the audience
reacting, knowing the technique was working. He put just
a little syncopation in it, adding to the verve of the pres-
entation. The Computer would scale him down for that, of
course; it could not comprehend any slightest deviation
from the score. To hell with that; Stile was lost anyway.
He could not exceed his opponent's perfection of conform-
ance, and had to go for his best mode. He had to go
down in the style he preferred. He refused to be bound by
the limitations of machine interpretation. He had to feel.
And—he was doing that well.

Then he became more specifically aware of Clef's play-
ing. The man had started out in perfect conformance to the
score, but Stile's deviations had forced him to deviate
somewhat also, for as a musician he could not tolerate the
separation of efforts. The piece had to have its unity. Now,
amazingly. Clef was making deviations of his own. Not by
any great amount, but. Stile could tell, and it was certain
the musicians on the panel could, and the Computer would
be having inanimate fits. Clef certainly knew better; why
was he doing it?

Because he was picking up the feel. Uncertainly at first,
then with greater confidence. With dismaying acuity. Clef
was following Stile's lead, emulating him, achieving the
same rapport with the human element. But Clef retained
his special expertise. Already he was playing Stile's way—
better than Stile was doing himself. Stile had to retreat, to
play "straight" in support of Clef's effort; otherwise the
integrity of the medley would suffer, and it was too fine as
music to let suffer. Clef had preempted feeling.

Now the medley swung into a classical fragment Stile
recognized—the Choral Symphony—Beethoven's Ninth.




238                    Blue Adept

Marvelous music never heard by the deaf composer. A
beautiful piece—and Clef was playing his theme with in-
spired brilliance. Stile found his emotions split; part of him
was sinking into resignation, knowing there was no way to
match this, that he was in fact losing Computer, panel and
audience votes, that he had washed out of the Tourney at
last. The other part of him was reveling in the sheer delight
of the Ode to Joy, of the finest playing he had ever done on
any level, the finest duet he had ever participated in. Ney-
sa's hom was an excellent harmonica—but it had to be
conceded that Clef's instrument was a better one. The man
was putting it all together in a way no other could. And—
Clef himself was reveling in it, moving his body dynami-
cally, transported—as was Stile too, and the entire audi-
ence. What an experience!

The music ended. Slowly the emotion of the moment
settled out of Stile. He descended from his high and came
to grips with the onset of reality. He had, without question,
been outplayed. If there was a finer musician in all the
universe than Clef, Stile could hardly imagine it.

Clef stood silent, eyes downcast. There was no applause
from the audience. There was only the muted murmuring
of the five musicians on the panel, comparing notes, con-
sulting, arguing fine points. Stile wondered why they both-
ered; there was no question in anyone's mind who had
played better. Stile had only torpedoed himself, explaining
the secret of feeling to his opponent; the man had caught
on brilliantly. Yet Stile could not really bring himself to
regret it, despite the consequence; it had been such a pleas-
ure to share the experience. His loss on the slot machine
had been degrading, pointless, unsatisfying; his loss here
was exhilarating. If it were ever worthwhile to sacrifice a
kingdom for a song, this had been the song. Something of
miraculous beauty had been created here, for a small time;

it had been a peak of performance Stile knew he would
never truly regret. Better this magnificent defeat, than a

cheap victory.

The foreman of the musicians signaled the Computer

pickup. "Decision is ready," the^ Computer's voice came
immediately. "This dual performance has been declared the
finest overall rendering of the instrument of the harmonica,

Blue Adept                   239

and is therefore ensconced in the Tourney archives as a
lesson example. A special prize of one year's extension of
tenure is awarded to the loser of this contest."

Stile's head jerked up. Salvation! This was the prize
slated for those who made it to the next Round, that he
had just missed. Not as good as a victory, but far, far
better than a loss.

The odd thing was that Clef seemed to be reacting iden-
tically. Why should he be concerned with an award to the
loser? He should be flushed with the victory.

"The advisory decision of the Computer: Clef," the
computer continued after a pause. "The advisory decision
of the audience, as recorded by tabulation of those receiv-
ing the broadcast of this match: Clef."

Yes, of course. Clef had won both the technical and
social votes this time, deservedly. Stile walked across to
shake his opponent's hand.

"The decision of the panel of judges," the Computer
continued. "Stile."

Stile extended his hand to Clef. "Congratulations," he
said.

"Therefore the Round goes to Stile," the Computer con-
cluded.

Stile froze in midgesture. "What?"

The Computer answered him. "Advisory opinions do not
have binding force. Stile is the winner of this contest.
Please clear the chamber for ensuing matches."

"But—" Stile protested, dumbfounded. Then he was
drowned out by the tumultuous applause of the local audi-
ence, abruptly augmented by that of the speaker system as
it carried the reaction of the larger, unseen audience.

Clef took him firmly by the arm, leading him through
the colossal din to the exit. Bemused, unbelieving. Stile
suffered himself to be guided out.

A line of people had formed in the hall. At the head of it
was the Rifleman. The Citizen grabbed Stile's hand and
pumped it. "Congratulations 1" he cried. "Magnificent per-
formance!" Then the others were congratulating him in
turn, until Sheen got to him and began running interfer-
ence.

Blue Adept

240

Clef turned to leave. "Wait!" Stile cried. "You can't go!
This is all wrong! You won! Has the planet gone crazy?"
Clef smiled. "No, you won. I'm surprised you weren't

aware."
"You should enter a protest!" Stile said. "You clearly

outplayed me. I think you're the finest musician on the

planet!"

Sheen guided them to seats on the capsule home.
"I may be so—now," Clef said. "You showed me how to

alleviate the major weakness in my skill. I owe it to you."

"Then how—?"

Clef smiled. "It is a pleasure to have the privilege of
educating you as you educated me. You recall how we
played separately, to a split decision?"

"Indeed," Stile said wryly.

"And how you then explained to me the manner music
is a participatory endeavor? Not every man an island?"

"Yes, of course! You proved to be an apt student!"

"A duet is a joint endeavor. Each must help the other, or

it fails."

"Of course. But—"

"A man who plays well alone, can play better in com-
pany—if he has proper support. Harmony and counter-
point enable a new dimension of effect."

"Yes, I played better, because I knew you would make
no error. Still—you played better yet. I think you improved

more than I did."

"I am sure this is the case. Because you provided more
support to me than I provided to you," Clef said. "I gave
you merely good technical performance, at the outset; you
gave me the essence of feeling. You showed me how. I was
never able to accomplish it on my own, but in tandem with
you I felt the living essence at last, the heart and spirit of
music. I was infused by it, I merged with its potent pulse,
and for the first time in my life—I flew."

"And you won!" Stile cried. "I agree with everything you
said. You and I both know you profited greatly, and played
my way better than I ever played in my life. You went
from student to master in one phenomenal leap! Surely the

panel of judges saw that!"

"Of course they did. I have known all of the members of

Blue Adept                    241

that panel for years, and they know me. We have played
together often."

And this panel of friends had given the match—to Stile?
Was it overcompensation?

The capsule stopped. Sheen took each man by the arm
and guided him on toward the apartment.

"Therefore you won," Stile said. "That's obvious."

"Let me approach this from another angle, lest you be as
obtuse as I was. If you play solo on one instrument and it
is good, then play the same piece on another instrument of
the same type and it is better, wherein lies the source of the
improvement?"

"In the instrument," Stile said. "My skill on similar in-
struments is presumed to be constant."

"Precisely. Now if you play a duet with one person, then
with another, and your performance stands improved on
the second—?"

"Then probably the other player is superior, enabling me
to—" Stile paused. It was beginning to penetrate. "If I
improve because of the other player, it's him that really
makes the difference!"

"When we played together, I improved more than you
did," Clef said. "Who, then, contributed more to the joint
effort? The one who flew the heights—or the one who
lifted him there?"

"That duet—it was not to show individual expertise,"
Stile said, working it out. "It was to show cooperative
expertise. How each person fit in as part of a team. Yet
surely the Computer did not see it that way; the machine
lacks the imagination. So it shouldn't have—"

"The machine was not the final arbiter. The musicians
saw it that way, and their vote was decisive."

The human mind remained more complex than the most
sophisticated of machines! Of course the musicians had
imposed their standard! "So I supported your effort—"

"More than I supported yours," Clef finished. "You gave
way to me; you made the sacrifice, for the benefit of the
piece. You were the better team player. You contributed
more significantly to the total production. Therefore you
proved your overall participation to be better than mine.
You would have made anyone shine. This is the subtle




242                    Blue Adept

point the Computer and audience missed, but the musical
experts understood. They knew it was from you I derived
the ability that enabled me to make the best individual
performance of my life. You are the sort of musician who
belongs in a group; your talent facilitates that of others."

Again Stile thought of his many playing sessions with
Neysa, those happy hours riding. Their music had always
been beautiful. "I—suppose so," he said, still amazed.

Clef extended his hand. "Now permit me to congratulate
you on your deserved victory. You are the better man, and
I wish you well in the Tourney."

"Victor, perhaps, thanks to an unusual judgment. Better
man, no." Stile took the hand. "But if you lost—you can
no longer play here on Proton."

"I do have one more year, thanks to the special award.
We did incidentally render the finest harmonica recital in
the Proton records. But this becomes irrelevant. I no longer
need Proton. You have given the universe to mel With the
skill you have shown me, I can play anywhere, for exorbi-
tant fees. I can live like a Citizen. I have gained so much

more than I have losti"

"I suppose so," Stile said, relieved. "A musician of your
caliber—the best that any audience is likely to en-
counter—" He paused, another massive realization coming
upon him. "Your preferred instrument is the flute?"

Clef raised that expressive eyebrow. "Of course. My
Employer provides me with a silver flute, and rarely am I
allowed to play on a gold one. One day I hope to be able to
purchase such an instrument for myself. The tonal qual-
ity-"

"How about a platinum flute?"

"That would be best of alll But it would depend on who
made it. The craftsmanship is really more important than
the metal, though the best craftsmanship does make any
given metal significantly superior. But why dream fool-
ishly? The only craftsmen capable of doing justice to plati-
num are far away on Earth."

"Sheen," Stile murmured.

Sheen produced the Platinum Flute and handed it to

Clef.
The man took it with infinite respect and awe. "Why it

Blue Adept                    243

is, it actually is! A finely Grafted platinum instrument! I do
not recognize this make, yet it seems excellently done.
Who—have aliens gone into the business?"

"Elves," Stile said.

Clef laughed. "No, really. I must know. This is of con-
siderably more than incidental interest to me. This instru-
ment has the feel of ultimate quality."

"Mound Folk. Little People. Among them I am a giant.
They use magic in their trade. This is an enchanted flute,
on loan to me until I pass it along to one who has better
use for it than I do. I should have recognized you as a
prospect the moment I met you, but I suspect I did not
want to part with this magic instrument, and suppressed
my own awareness. But I made a commitment, and must
honor it. At least I understand, now, how the elves felt
about yielding the Flute to me. It is hard to give up."

"I should think so!" Clef's eyes were fixed on the Flute
as his hands turned it about. Light gleamed from it as it
moved. The man seemed mesmerized by it. Then he lifted
it to his lips. "May I?"

"Please do. I want to hear you play it."

Clef played. The music poured out in its platinum
stream, so pure and eloquent that Stile's whole body shiv-
ered in rapture. It was the finest sound ever created by
man, he believed. Even Sheen showed human wonder on
her face—an emotion prohibitively rare for a machine.
Stile had not played it this well.

Clef finished his piece and contemplated the Flute. "I
must have this instrument."

"The price is high," Stile warned.

"Price is no object. My entire serf-retirement payment is
available—"

"Not money. Life. You may have to give up both your
tenure on Proton and your future as a professional musi-
cian in the galaxy. You would have to travel into a land of
magic where your life would be threatened by monsters
and spells, to return the Flute to its makers—and there is
no guarantee they would allow you to keep it. They might
require some significant and permanent service of you.
There may be no escape from their control, once you enter
that region. They do not like men, but they are questing

244                    Blue Adept

for a man they call the Foreordained, and exactly what he
is expected to do I do not know, but it is surely difficult

and significant."

Clef's eyes remained on the Platinum Flute. "Show me

the way."

"I can start you on that journey, but can not remain

with you once you enter the Demesnes of the Platinum
Elves. The Flute will protect you; at need it will become an
excellent rapier. When you reach the Mound, you will be
in their power. I warn you again—"

"I must go," Clef said.

Stile spread his hands. "Then the Flute is yours, on loan
until you determine whether you are in fact the Foreor-
dained. I will take you across the curtain. Perhaps we shall
meet again, thereafter." Somehow he knew Clef would
have no trouble crossing into Phaze.

"You took Hulk across," Sheen reminded him. "When

he returned—"

"Some things transcend life and death," Stile said.
"What must be, must be." And he wondered: how could
the Mound Folk have known that Stile would encounter
Clef, the man they evidently wanted, in this frame where
they could not go? His meeting with Clef as an opponent
in the Tourney had been coincidental—hadn't it?

CHAPTER 10

Red

"And so I sent him on his way to the Mound Folk," Stile
concluded. "I do not know what they want of him, and
hope there is no evil."

"The Elven Folk are not evil," the Lady Blue agreed.
"They, like us, must follow their destinies. Yet their ways
be not ours."

Blue Adept                   245

"Now must I seek mine own destiny, coming at last to
brace mine enemy and thine. I must slay the Red Adept;

so have I sworn and so must it be."

"So must it be," she agreed pensively. As always, she
was garbed in blue, and as always she was compellingly
lovely. They were in a private chamber of the Blue Castle.
Neysa was absent temporarily, seeing to the security of
Clef on his trek to the Mound Folk. Kurrelgyre's wolves
ranged the vicinity, keeping an eye on whatever went on.
There had been no move against the Blue Demesnes. "I
know what this means to thee, this vengeance," the Lady
said. "And fain would I see my Lord avenged: I am no
gentler than thee. Yet I mislike it. There is aught thou
knowest not."

"I hope we are not going to have another scene," Stile
said uneasily. "Dearly would I like thy favor, as thou
knowest, but I shall not be swayed from—"

"Methinks we shall have a scene," she said. "But not
quite like the last. Shamed am I to have tested thee as I
did. I agreed to support thine effort, and I shall not renege.
I like not playing the role of the contrary advocate. But
now I must inform thee of misinformation thou hast."

"It is not the Red Adept who is mine enemy?" Stile
asked, suddenly alarmed.

"Forget the Red Adept for the momenti" she snapped.
"This relates to us."

"Have I offended thee in some fashion? I apologize;

there remain social conventions in this frame I do not—"

"Apologize not to mel" she cried. "It is I who have
wronged theel"

Stile shook his head. "I doubt thou'rt capable of that,
Lady."

"Listen to me!" she said, her blue eyes flashing in the
way they had, momentarily brightening the curtains. "I
have to tell thee—" She took a breath. "That never till
thou didst come on the scene was I a liar."

Stile had not been taking this matter too seriously. Now
he did. "Thou knowest I do not tolerate a lie in these
Demesnes. I am in this respect the mirror of mine other
self. Why shouldst thou lie to me? What cause have I given
thee?"




Blue Adept

246

The Lady Blue was obviously in difficulty. "Because I
lied first to myself," she whispered. "I denied what I wished
not to perceive." Now tears showed in her eyes.

Stile wanted to comfort her, to hold her, but held him-
self rigidly apart. She was not his to hold, whatever she
might have done. Yet he recalled his own recent reluctance
to recognize Clef as the one destined to receive the Flute,
and knew how the Lady might similarly resist some nox-
ious revelation. This was not necessarily the sort of lie he
could completely condemn. "Lady, I must know. What is
the lie?" Once before a woman had lied to him, in kindness
rather than malice, and that had cost him heartbreak and
had changed his life. He could not even blame her, in
retrospect, for from that experience had come his affinity
with music. Yet the Lady Blue was more than that serf-girl
had been, and her lie might wreak greater havoc. He knew
she could not have done such a thing lightly.

She stood and faced away from him, ashamed. "When
I said—when I told thee—" She was unable to continue.

Stile remembered now how Sheen had at first tried to
deceive him about her nature. He had forced the issue, and
regretted it. Associations relating to Sheen had led him to
this world of Phaze, making another phenomenal change

in his life.

Somehow it seemed that the greatest crises of his exist-
ence had been tied in to the lies of women.

"Thou'rt so like my Lord!" the Lady Blue burst out, her

shoulders shaking.

Stile smiled grimly. "By no coincidence. Lady." He
thought of how similar her alternate self in Proton, Bluette,
was to her. Had Bluette escaped the robot? He hardly
dared check on that. Bluette dead would be a horror to his
conscience; Bluette alive—how could he deal with her, he
for whom the trap had been set?

"When I said—" The Lady Blue paused again, then
forced it out. "I loved thee not."

Stile felt as he had when declared the winner of the
harmonica contest. Was he mishearing, indulging in a
wish fulfillment? "Thou dost love thy Lord the real Blue
Adept, whose likeness I bear. This have I always under-
stood."

Blue Adept                   247

"Thee," she said. "Thee ... Thee."

She had told him of that convention of love—but even if
she had not done so, he would have understood. There was
a ripple in the air and in the curtains of the window, and a
tiny brush of wind touched his hair in passing. For a
moment there was a blueness in the room. Then the effects
faded, and all was as before.

Except for the lie, now demolished. For this was the
splash the world of Fhaze made in the presence of deep
truth. She had confessed her love—for him.

Stile found himself inadequate to rise to the occasion in
any fashion. He had been so sure that the Lady's love, if it
ever came, would be years in the making! There was an
obvious rejoinder for him to make, but he found himself
unable.

The Lady, her statement made, now began her docu-
mentation. "When thou didst prove thine identity by per-
forming magic, and I saw the animals' loyalty to thee, it
was my heart under siege. I thought thou wouldst be either
like the golem, all wood and lifeless and detestable, or that
thou wouldst use thy magic as the Yellow Witch suggested,
to force my will to thy design."

"Nay, never that!" Stile protested. "Thou'rt thy Lord's
widowl"

"Always didst thou safeguard me, with Hulk or Neysa
or the wolves or some potion. Even as my Lord did."

"But of course! The Lady of the Blue Demesnes must
ever be protected!"

"Wilt thou be quiet a moment!" she flared. "I am trying
to tell thee why I love thee. The least thou canst do is
listen."

Stile, perforce, was silent.

"Three things distinguished my Lord," she continued
after a moment. "He was the finest rider in Phaze—and so
art thou. He was the strongest Adept—and so art thou.
And he was of absolute integrity—as so art thou. No way
can I claim thou art his inferior. In fact—long have I
fought against the realization, but no more shall I lie—
thou art in certain respects his superior."

"Lady—"




248

Blue Adept

Blue Adept

249

"Damn me not with thy modesty!" she cried fiercely,
and Stile was suppressed again.

"Never did he actually ride a unicorn," she continued.
"Never did he enchant an entire assembly into friendship
with one. Never did he win the active loyalty of the wolf-
pack. I think he could have done these things, had he
chosen, but he chose not. And so he was less than thee,
because he exerted himself less. Always had he his magic
to lean on; mayhap it made him drive less hard. Thou—
thou art what he could have been. And I—I love what he
could have been."

Stile started one more protest, and once more she
blocked him with a savage look. "When thou sworest
friendship to Neysa, such was the power of that oath that
its backwash enchanted us all. Thy magic compelled me—
and I knew in that moment that never more could I stand
against thee. The emotion thou didst feel for the unicorn
became my emotion, and it has abided since, and I would
not choose to be rid of it if I could. Always will Neysa be
my friend, and I would lay down my life for her, and my
honor too. Yet I know it was no quality in her that evoked
this loyalty in me, though she has qualities that do deserve
it. It was thy spell, like none before in this world. I love
Neysa, and Neysa loves thee, and through her I too must
love thee—"

Yet again Stile tried to interrupt, and yet again could
not.

"I tell thee this to show that I know the extent to which
thy magic has acted on me—and thus am assured it does
not account for the fullness of my feeling. I love thee in
part because I have experienced the depth of thy love
for Neysa, and hard it is to deny feeling of that sincerity.
Thou lovest well. Adept, and thereby thou dost become
lovable thyself. But I do love thee more than I can blame
on magic."

She paused, and this time Stile had the wit not to inter-
rupt her. "When thou didst take me along on thy trip to
the Mound Folk," she continued, "and the Sidhe toyed
with us, and thou didst dance with the Faerie-maid, then
did I suffer pangs of jealousy. Then when thou didst dance
with me, as my Lord used to do—"

She broke off and walked around the room. "Ever was I
a fool. I thought I could withstand thy appeal. But when I
heard thee play the magic Flute—0 my Lord, that sound!
—not since the days of mine other courtship have I heard
the like! But then thou didst go to fight the Worm, and I
cursed myself for my callousness to thee, swearing to make
it up to thee an I should ever see thee again alive—and yet
I hardened again when thou didst survive, telling myself it
could not be. The lie was on me, and I could not cast it off.
Then at the Unolympics when thou didst so readily defend
me against the seeming slur of Yellow—alas, I am woman,
I am weak, my heart swelled with gratitude and guilt. And I
could not help myself, I had to hear thee play again, and
so I betrayed thy possession of the Flute to Yellow. And
saw thee nearly killed by the Herd Stallion. Yet again had I
played the fool, even as Yellow knew. And then at last,
when thou didst come to me suffering from thy loss of thy
Game and of thy friend Hulk—I longed to comfort thee
with all my being, but the lie lay between us like a festering
corpse, making foul what would have been fair, adding to
thy grief, making of me a fishwife—and yet in that adver-
sity didst thou steer thy narrow course exactly as he would
have done, and I knew that I was lost. And I feared that
thou wouldst die before ever I had chance to beg the for-
giveness I deserved not—"

"I forgive thee that lie!" Stile cried, and again the air
shimmered and the things of the room rippled and the
breath of breeze shook out her tresses.

Now again she faced away from him, as though ashamed
of what she had to say. "I was a girlish fool when first
the Blue Adept courted me. Somehow I took him not
seriously, for that he resembled to my ignorant eye a child
or one of the Little Folk. Even when I married him I
withheld somewhat my love from him. When I learned of
the geas against his siring a child by me, I mourned more
for the lack of the child than for my Lord's deprival. For
years I dallied, and only slowly did I leam to love him
truly—and only when he died did I realize how deep that
love had grown. Fool I was; I loved him not with abandon
until he was gone. I swore, once it was too late, never to be
that kind of fool again. Yet was I trying to be that kind




250                    Blue Adept

of fool with thee, even as I was with him. Now thou dost
go yet again perhaps to thy doom, and I will deceive my-
self or thee no longer. An thou must die, thou must suffer
my love first. And that is the scene we must have."

Now at last she gave him leave to speak unfettered. Stile
could not doubt her sincerity. He loved her, of course; they
had both known that all along. Yet he was not sure he
wanted her love this way. "How did he die?" he asked.

If this question struck her as irrelevant, she did not treat
it so. "The golem in thy likeness walked to the Blue Castle
during my Lord's absence. At first I thought it was Blue,
but very soon knew I better. *I bring an amulet for Blue,'
the golem said, and gave me a little demon on a chain, the
kind employed by frame-travelers to mock clothing when
they have none.

"I encountered one of thosel" Stile exclaimed. "When I
invoked it, it tried to choke me with the chain!"

"Even so," she agreed grimly. "All innocently did I relay
it to my Lord, who took it for a message-amulet, perhaps
an exchange for some favor. I begged him to invoke it with
caution, lest there be some error, but he heeded me not. He
put the chain about his neck and invoked it—" She was
unable to continue.

"And it strangled him so that he could utter no spell in
self-defense," Stile concluded. "He depended on magic to
foil magic, and this time could not. Had he used physical
means—"

"I could not heal a dead man," the Lady sobbed. "Nor
could I let it be known he was lost, lest the Demesnes
suffer. The golem took his place, the hateful thing, and I
had to cooperate—"

So nothing further was known about the motive for the
murder. The Red Adept had dealt with the Brown Adept to
obtain the golem, and used it without Brown's knowledge
for evil. Perhaps she had even been responsible for the
original Brown's death, to prevent him from interfering,
leaving the innocent child as tlie new Brown Adept. The
golem itself had not committed the murder of Blue; it had
not been made for that. Probably Brown had been told it
would serve as a double for Blue when the latter was

Blue Adept                    231

indisposed to expose himself to public scrutiny, or when he
wished to conceal his absence from the Castle. Exactly as
the robot in Stile's likeness had served in the frame of
Proton.

"This curse of infertility—what of it?"

"After I married Blue, I went to the Oracle to inquire
what kind of children I would have, wasting my lone ques-
tion in girlish curiosity. The Oracle replied 'None by One,
Son by Two.' I understood that not until my Lord died:

that I would bear children not by my first husband. Oh, I
grasped it in part, but did not realize that it was not truly a
geas against fertility, but that he would die too soon. I
thought he was cursed by sterility—" Again she broke
down, but almost immediately fought out of it. "Thou art
my second husband—and before thou dost suicide in this
awful mission of vengeance, thou must give me that soni"
she concluded with determination.

"My son shall not be raised by a widow!" Stile said.

The Lady turned at last to face him. "I love thee. I have
at last confessed it. Shame me not further by this denial. I
must have at least this much of thee."

But already Stile's mind was working. He loved the Lady
Blue, but this sudden force of her retum-love was too
much for his immediate assimilation. He would be ready
for it after due reflection; but now, this instant, it was too
much like a windfall gift. He somehow feared it would be
taken from him as rapidly as it had been bequeathed, and
he wanted to protect himself against such loss before get-
ting committed. Love did not make Stile blind; he had
learned caution the hard way. So now he looked for the
catch. He did not doubt the Lady's sincerity, or question
her desirability; he simply didn't trust the magic vicissi-
tudes of fate. "The Oracle always speaks correctly."

"Aye." She looked at him questioningly. He was not
reacting as her experience of him in two selves had led her
to expect.

"Then I will not die until I have given thee thy son.
Allow me to wait until I have disposed of the Red Adept,
that I may have child and life with thee."

Her lovely face was transformed by realization. "Yes!




252                    Blue Adept

Thou must survive! There be no guarantee that thou may-
est live one day after thou dost sire a child, unless the
threat to thy life be abated before."

That seemed to be the trap fate had set, the thing that
would have made their union brief. Not her change of
heart, but his death. Stile's pause for thought could have
saved his life.

But then the Lady Blue thought of something else. "Ex-
cept that thou art not married to me. If thou dost desist, it
may be fated that some other man—1 loathe the thoughtl
—will marry me and sire my son. It must be thee, I will
not have it otherwise, and therefore—"

How fate wriggled to snare him anyway! Stile had al-
most missed that loophole. "That is readily solved," he
said. He took her hands in his. "Lady of the Blue Demes-
nes, I beg thy hand in marriage."

"Thou dost not say thou lovest me," she complained.

"In good time."

She fought him no longer. "I grant my hand and my
heart to thee in marriage," she agreed, radiant.

They went outside. Neysa had returned from her mis-
sion, somehow knowing what was in the offing. "My
friend," he said to the unicorn. "I have proposed marriage
to the Lady, and she has accepted my suit. Wilt thou be
witness to this union?"

Neysa blew a single loud note on her horn. Immediately
the wolfpack gathered, the werewolves charging in from all
directions. Kurrelgyre changed to man-form. "The mare
informs us thou hast won the Lady at last!" he exclaimed.
"Congratulations!"

Stile marveled again at how much a unicorn could con-
vey in one note. Then the wolves formed a circle, and
Kurrelgyre stood before the couple, and Neysa stood be-
tween them in her natural form. There was no doubt in
any creature what was happening. "By the authority vested
in me as leader of the Pack, I perform this ceremony of
mating," Kurrelgyre said. "Neysa, as friend to each party,
dost thou bear witness that this contract be freely sought
by this man and this bitch?"

Neysa made a musical snicker.

""This mare—I mean, this woman," the werewolf said

Blue Adept                    253

quickly, finally getting it straight. The Lady Blue smiled;

well she knew that the appellation "bitch" was no affront
in the mouth of a wolf.

Now Neysa blew an affirmative note.

"Wolves and bitches of my pack, do you bear witness to
the validity of this contract?" Kurrelgyre inquired rhetori-
cally.

There was a general growl of assent, admixed by a yip or
two of excitement. They were enjoying this.

"Then I now proclaim the two of you man and mate.
Wife," Kurrelgyre said solemnly. Neysa stepped out from
between them.

Stile and the Lady came together. Stile held her at half-
distance one more moment. She remained in her blue
dress, ordinary daywear, but she was the loveliest creature
he could imagine. "Thee . . . Thee . . . Thee," he said.
Then he kissed her.

The shimmer of the oath surrounded them, stirring the
Demesnes and touching the fur of the animals and momen-
tarily coloring the grass. For a sweet eternity he embraced
her, and when it ended she was in a light blue wedding
dress, and a magic sparkle emanated from her.

"Now must I depart to brace the Red Adept," Stile an-
nounced as they separated.

Astonishment was manifest among Neysa and all the
wolves. There were growls and yips of confusion, and Ney-
sa blew a volley of startled notes. "Not right at this hour!"
Kurrelgyre protested. "Tomorrow, mayhap—"

"Right this minute," Stile said, vaulting to Neysa's back.
"I shall see thee anon, wife."

"Anon," she agreed, smiling.

Neysa, responsive to his unspoken directive, set off at a
canter eastward, toward the Red Demesnes.

When they were well clear of the Castle, Neysa blew an
insistent note of query. Stile laughed. "Since thou wilt have
it from me at the point of thy hom if I tell thee not, I will
answer. The Oracle told the Lady 'None by One, Son by
Two.' Now I be Two, her second husband, and—"

Neysa's laughter pealed musically forth. How readily she
understood! How inany Adepts could arrange the Oracle's
assurance that they would survive a life-and-death en-.




254

Blue Adept

counter to sire a son? Stile had cleverly made the prophecy
work for him.

As they settled into the hours of travel. Stile concen-
trated on his spells. He needed a variety of general-purpose
defenses and counters. He should survive this encounter,
but he had no guarantee that he would win it. He could
emerge crippled or blind, able to sire a son but then unable
to live in health and independence. Oracle prophecies
tended to be slippery, and he had to be on guard against
some loophole he had not anticipated. Yet he understood
why such predictions were often devious. A person fated to
die at a certain place at a certain time would strive to avoid
that situation if he could, so the prophecy would be self-
negating if clearly stated. Absolute clarity and hundred
percent accuracy could not always be simultaneously ac-
commodated, by the very nature of it. Also, there could be
a certain flexibility in a situation; a man could die in a
dozen different ways, or survive at an expense worse than
death. The Oracle had to make a brief statement that cov-
ered all prospects, and that was often necessarily ambigu-
ous. So Stile fully intended to fight for the best possible
interpretation of this particular prediction. The Oracle had
not truly pronounced his fate; it had merely defined the
broadest parameters. Interpretation was the essence of his
specific fate.

Send this spell straight to Hell, he thought, careful not to
vocalize. Would that work against an amulet? It should, if
he willed it properly. As he understood it, from his limited
experience, an amulet was a solidified spell, quiescent until
invoked. Some, like the healing or clothing amulets,
worked on a slow, sustained basis. Others, like the throttle-
demon, took a few seconds to achieve full strength. Just so
long as he had time enough to sing a prepared counterspell.
Maybe he could work out a number of easy variants that
would lack full force but would suffice in a pinch. Send
this spell into a dell, make this spell into a smell, make this
spell fail to jell, banish this spell when I yell—all doggerel,
but that was the way his magic worked. What he consid-
ered real poetry, where form, style and significance were
more important than rhyme or meter, took time to create,
and he was not sure how much time he would have. There

Blue Adept

255

was some evidence that better verse had more potent effect,
for he deemed his verse-form oath of friendship to Neysa
to have been a cut above doggerel—but he hardly had need
of such potency in routine magic. So he kept working out
his cheap spot rhymes, hoping to cover every contingency.

They passed the Unolympic site, now deserted. "Thou
didst put on a fine show, Neysa," Stile murmured. "Thou
didst do credit to thy Herd." And she snorted contentedly.
Winning was less important to her than recognition of her

right to compete.

They were nearing the Red Demesnes by nightfall. Stile
considered where they might camp, since he did not want
to engage his enemy by night. There were too many im-
ponderables. He could conjure a suitable shelter, but hesi-
tated to employ his magic here. The Red Adept might be
alert to magic in the vicinity, and he wanted his arrival to
be as much of a surprise as possible.

But Neysa was already zeroing in on a location. She
drew up before a large cave and blew a note. Bats sailed
out of it to swirl around the visitors. Then they dropped to
the ground and converted to men and women.

"The vampires!" Stile exclaimed. "I didn't realize they
lived here!" But obviously Neysa had known; that was
another reason he needed her along.

One came forward. It was Vodlevile, the one who had
come to Stile during the Unolympics. "Adept! How goes

my friend Hulk?"

Wrong question! "Alas, he was murdered in Proton-
frame," Stile said. "I seek vengeance of the Red Adept."

"Dead?" the vampire asked, shocked. "But I met him
only so recently! He was the nicest ogre I knew!"

"He was that," Stile agreed. "Red killed him, in lieu of

me."
Vodlevile frowned. Now the cutting edges of his teeth

showed. "We have ever lived at peace with Red. She never
helped us, but hindered us not. I dared not make petition
to her for a charm for my son, for fear she would simply
claim my son. We hold Adepts in low esteem. Thou art the
first who helped. And Yellow, because of thee." He lifted
his hand, and a small bat fluttered down to be caught. "My
son," Vodlevile said proudly.

256 Blue Adept

Stile nodded. "I was glad to do it. May we camp here the
night?"

"Indeed. Our resources are at thy disposal. Dost thou
wish to join our evening repast?"

"I think not, meaning no offense. Thy ways are not
mine, and this is my wedding night, which I must spend
alone. Also, I would not wish to cause thy kind trouble
with the Adept, should she survive me; best that it be not
known I dallied here."

"Thy wedding night—alonel Thou'rt correct—our ways
are not thinel We shall honor thy desire to be alone, and
shall see that none intrude on thee."

So it was that Stile found himself ensconced in a warm
cave guarded by bloodthirsty bats. He certainly felt secure
here; very few creatures would even attempt to intrude, for
fear the vampires would suck their blood.

Neysa brought him some fruit she found, then went
outside to graze. She slept while grazing at night; Stile had
never quite figured out how she did that, but was used to it
by now.

Before he slept, feeling extraordinarily lonely. Stile
looked up to spy a small bat fluttering in. There was a
manner of skulking about it. It converted to a lad about six
years old. "Adept, I am not supposed to bother thee—but
can I talk a moment?" the boy asked hesitantly.

"Thou'rt the one the potion helped," Stile said, making
an educated guess. "Welcome; I am glad to converse with
thee."

The lad smiled gratefully. "My father would cut off my
blood, if he knew I bothered thee. Please don't tell him."

"Not a word," Stile agreed. Children did not take adult
rules as seriously as they took the prospect of punishment.
"I'm glad to see thee flying."

"It was Yellow's potion, but thy behest, my father says. I
owe thee—"

"Nothing," Stile said quickly. "Thy father repaid any
favor that might have been owing. He helped me match the
unicorn Herd Stallion."

"Yet thou didst lose, he says," the lad insisted. "His help
was not enough."

"My skill was not enough," Stile said. "All I wanted was

Blue Adept                   2S7

a fair match, with shame on neither party. That I had. The
unicorn was the better creature."

The lad had some trouble grasping this. "In a pig's eye—
my father says. He says thou dost give away more than can
ever be repaid, and dost gain more than can ever be reck-
oned thereby. Does that make sense?"

"None at all," Stile said cheerfully.

"Anyway, methinks I owe thee, for that thou madest my
life complete. Yet I know not what favor I can do thee."

"Thou dost need do nonel" Stile insisted. Then he saw
that the lad was near tears. The vampire child was serious,
and wanted to repay his debt as he perceived it. "Uh,
unless—" Stile thought fast. "There is much I do not
know, yet I am most curious about things. Canst thou keep
an eye or an ear out for what might be of use to me, and
tell me when thou findest it? Perhaps a sick animal I might
heal, or something pretty I might fetch for my Lady."
Stile smiled reminiscently, and a little sadly. "Fain would I
give my love something nice."

The lad's eyes brightened, and his little bloodsucking
tusks showed cutely. "I'll look, Adepti" he exclaimed hap-
pily. "Something important, something nicel" He changed
to bat-form and zoomed from the cave.

Stile lay down again to sleep, satisfied. The lad would
have a happy quest, until he forgot the matter in the press
of other entertainments.

In the morning Stile bade the vampire colony parting.
"Thou dost understand," Vodlevile said apologetically.
"We dare not accompany thee to the Red Demesnes or
help thee too directly on thy quest. If ever the Adept sup-
posed we had taken action against her—"

"Well I understand," Stile said. "This be not thy quar-
rel."

"Not overtly. Yet when I remember the ogre—"
"Bide a while," Stile said. "That may be avenged."
Vodlevile looked startled, but said nothing. Stile
mounted Neysa, who was well fed and rested after her
night of sleep-grazing, and they trotted off south to the Red
Demesnes.
The Red Castle looked more like a crazy house. It

258

Blue Adept

Blue Adept

259

perched atop a miniature mountain, with a narrow path
spiraling up to the tiny hole that was the front entrance. It
was obviously the home of an Adept; a faint glow sur-
rounded it, like a dome of Proton.

A magic dome? Of course! This castle was probably
situated on the curtain, so the Adept could pass freely
across, unobserved, to do her mischief in either frame.
That would explain much. The Blue Demesnes had not
been constructed on the curtain because the Blue Adept

had not been able to cross it.

They circled around the castle. It was so; Stile spied the
curtain. Just to be certain, he spelled himself across. Sure
enough, it was the same castle, with the force-field dome
enclosing it. He willed himself back. "This is a sophisti-
cated setup," he told Neysa. "She's been operating in both

frames for years."

The unicorn snorted. She did not like this. Neysa could
not cross the curtain, probably because she was a magical
creature, so could not protect him in the other frame.

"All right," Stile said. "She killed me by stealth. I shall
kill her honorably." He singsonged a spell: "Shake a leg,
fetch a meg." And a fine big megaphone appeared in his
hand. It was not artificially powered, for that was no part
of magic, but he was sure it would do the job.

But first a precaution: "Sword and mail: Do not fail."
And he was clothed in fine light woven metal armor, with a
small sharp steel sword swinging in its scabbard from his
hip. The Platinum Flute would have been nice, but that
was gone. An ordinary weapon would have to do.

He raised the megaphone. "Red, meet the challenge of
Blue." The sound boomed out; it could hardly go unheard.

There was no response from the Red Demesnes. Stile
bellowed another challenge, and a third, but had no visible

effect.

"Then we brace to meet the lioness in her den," Stile

said, not really surprised. The worst traps would be there.

Neysa did not seem thrilled, but she marched gamely
forward. It occurred to Stile that he might need more than
armor to protect Neysa and himself. Suppose monsters
hurled rocks or spears from ambush? He needed to block
off any nonmagical attack. "Missiles spend their force," he

sang. "Return to their source." That should stop that sort
of thing. He wasn't sure how far such spells extended,
particularly when opposed by other Adept magic, but this
precaution couldn't hurt. The spells of Red could not be
abated this way—but that was limited to amulets. He
should have a fair fighting chance—and that was all he
wanted. A fair match—so that he could kill the Red Adept
without compunction.

Neysa walked up the spiraling path. There was no at-
tack. Stile felt nervous; he really would have preferred
some kind of resistance. This could mean that no one was
home—but it could also mean an unsprung trap.

A trap—like that of Bluette, in the other frame? Bluette
herself had obviously known nothing of it; she had been
cruelly used. Stile hoped she had managed to survive,
though he knew he still would not follow that up; now that
he was married to the Lady Blue, there could be no future
in any association with Bluette. Meanwhile, his rage at the
fate of Hulk burgeoned again, and Stile had to labor to
suppress it. Hulk, a truly innocent party, sent by Stile
himself to his doom. How could that wrong ever be
abated?

There were a number of deep emotional wounds Stile
bore as a result of the malicious mischief of the Red
Adept; he could not afford to let them overwhelm them.
His oath of vengeance covered it all. Once Red was dead,
he could let the tide of buried grief encompass him. He
simply could not afford grief—or love—yet. Not while
this business was unfinished.

They rose up high as they completed the first loop. From
a distance the castle had seemed small, but here it seemed
extraordinarily high. The ground was thirty feet below, the
building another sixty feet above. Magic, perhaps, either
making the hill seem smaller than it was, when viewed
from a distance, or making it seem higher than it was,
from here.

Stile brought out his harmonica and began to play. The
magic coalesced about him, making the castle shimmer—
and the perspective changed. His gathering magic was can-
celing Red's magic, revealing the truth—which was that
the castle was larger than it had seemed, but the hill lower




260                    Blue Adept

than it now seemed. So it was a compromise effort, draw-
ing from one appearance to enhance the other. Pretty
clever, actually; the Adept evidently had some artistic

sensitivity and sense of economy.

Now they arrived at the door. It was open, arched, and
garishly colorful, like an arcade entrance. From inside
music issued, somewhat blurred and off-key. It clashed
with Stile's harmonica-playing, but he did not desist. Until
he understood what was going on here, he wanted his

magic close about him.

They stepped inside. Immediately the music became

louder and more raucous. Booths came alive at the sides,
apparently staffed by golems, each one calling for atten-
tion. "How about it, mister? Try thy luck, win a prize.

Everybody wins!"

This was the home of an Adept? This chaotic carnival?

Stile should have worn his clown-suit!

Cautiously he approached the nearest booth. The golem-
proprietor was eager to oblige. "Throw a ball, hit the tar-
get, win a prize! It's easy!"

Neysa snorted. She did not trust this. Yet Stile was curi-
ous about the meaning of this setup, if there was any
meaning to it. He certainly had not expected anything like
this! He had become proficient in the Game of Proton in
large part because of his curiosity. Things generally did
make sense, one way or another; it was only necessary to
fathom that sense. Now this empty carnival in lieu of the
murdering Red Adept—what did it mean? What was the

thread that unraveled it?

This was, of course, dangerous, but he decided to take

the bait. If he couldn't figure out the nature of this trap by
looking at it, he might just have to spring it—at his own
convenience. He could certainly hit the target with the ball;

he was quite good at this sort of thing. But true carnival
games were traditionally rigged; the clients were suckers
who wasted their money trying for supposedly easy prizes
of little actual value. In the Proton variants, serfs had to
use play-money, since there was no real money. Here—

"How much does it cost?"

"Free, free!" the android—rather, the golem—cried.

"Everybody wins!"

261

Blue Adept

"Fat chance," Stile muttered. He did not dismount from
Neysa; that might be part of the trap. He took the prof-
fered ball gingerly, bracing for magic, but there was none.
The ball seemed ordinary.

Experimentally, Stile threw. The ball shot across to
strike the bull's-eye. The booth went wild, with horns
sounding so loudly as to drown out everything else. A
metal disk dropped out of a slot. The golem picked it up
and handed it to Stile. "Here's the prize, sir! Good shot!"

Stile hesitated. He had been aiming to miss the target;

instead magic had guided the ball to score. Anyone else
would have been deceived, thinking it was his own skill
responsible. The golem had spoken truly: everybody won.
The game was rigged for it. But why?

Stile looked at the disk. It was an amulet, obviously. He
was being presented with it. Yet all this could not have
been set up for him alone; he had come unexpectedly—and
even it he had been expected, this was too elaborate. Why
would visitors be treated to this?

He had an answer: the Red Adept, like most Adepts,
was fundamentally paranoid and asocial, and did not like
visitors. Power was said to tend to corrupt, and the Adepts
had power—and tended to be corrupted. Since they had to
live somewhere, they established individual Demesnes rea-
sonably separated from each other, then guarded these
Demesnes in whatever fashion their perverse natures dic-
tated. Yet they could not kill intruders entirely randomly,
for some were legitimate tradesmen with necessary services
to offer, and others might be the representatives of formid-
able groups, like the unicorns or Little People. Sometimes,
too, Adepts visited each other. So instead of random kill-
ing, they fashioned selective discouragements. The Black
Adept had his puzzle-walls, so that few could find their
way in or out of the labyrinth; the White Adept had her
ice, and the Brown Adept her giant golems.

Probably a serious visitor would ignore the beckonings
of the barkers and booths. Those who were ignorant or
greedy would fall into the trap. This amulet was surely a
potent discouragement, perhaps a lethal one. It was best
left alone.




262                    Blue Adept

But Stile was ornery about things like this. He was curi-
ous—and he wanted to conquer the Red Adept, magic and
all. If he couldn't handle one amulet, how could he handle
the maker of amulets? So he sprang the trap. "Amulet, I
invoke thee," he said, ready for anything—he hoped.

The disk shimmered and began to grow. Projections
sprang from it, extending out and curving toward him. A
metallic mouth formed in the center, with gleaming Hal-
loween-pumpkin teeth. The projection arms sought to
grasp him, while the mouth gaped hungrily.

Of course his armor and protective spell should be proof
against this, but there was no sense taking a chance. "Send
this spell straight to Hell," Stile sang, using the first of his

prefabricated spells.

It worked. The expanding amulet vanished in a puff of

smoke. His own magic remained operative here, as he had
expected. He had now dipped his toe in the water.

He nudged Neysa with his knees, and she walked on
down the center aisle. They ignored the clamoring of the
golems; there was nothing useful to be gained from them.

The domicile seemed much larger from the inside, but
there was not extensive floor space. Soon they were at the
far side, looking out the back door. Where was the Red

Adept?

"On another floor," Stile muttered. "So do we play hide

and seek—or do I summon her with magic?"

Neysa blew a note. Stile could understand some of her
notes. "You're right," he agreed. "Use magic to locate her,
quietly." He considered a moment. "Lead us to Red—

where she has fled," he sang.

A speck of light appeared before them. Neysa stepped
toward it, and it retreated, circled around them, and
headed back down the aisle they had come along. They
followed. It made a square turn and advanced on one of

the booths.

"Tour the sensational house of horrors!" the proprietor-

golem called.

The light moved into the horror house doorway. The

aperture was narrow, too tight for Neysa's bulk. But they
solved that readily enough; Stile dismounted, and she
changed into girl-form in black denim skirt and white slip-


Blue Adept                    263

pers. She was not going to let him meet the Red Adept
alone.

Stile stepped into the aperture, Neysa close behind. He
didn't like this, for already he was partially separated from
Neysa, but it seemed his best course. Trace the Red Adept
quickly to her lair-within-this-Iair; maybe she was asleep.
If so, he would wake her before finishing her. More likely
she was at the very heart of her deadliest ambush, using
herself as the bait he had to take. But he had to spring
it—and he had to do it properly. Because it wasn't enough
to kill the Adept; he had to isolate her, strip her of her
power, and find out why she had murdered his other self.
He had to know the rationale. Only when he was satisfied,
could he wrap it up.

The difficult part would not be the killing of her. Not
after what he had seen of Hulk's demise. The hard part
would be satisfying himself about that rationale. Getting
the complete truth. Or was he fooling himself? Stile had
never, before this sequence of events that started with the
anonymous campaigns against him in both frames, seri-
ously contemplated becoming a murderer himself. But the
things that he had learned—

It was dark inside the horror house. The passage folded
back and forth in the fashion such things did; Stile had
navigated many similar ones in the Game. Darkness did
not bother him, per se. Neysa, too, could handle it, espe-
cially since her hearing was more acute than his.

The light led them on through the labyrinth. A spook
popped up, eyes glowing evilly: a harmless show. But it
made Stile think of another kind of danger: the noose,
choking him, preventing him from singing a defensive
spell. That was how his other self had died. That was
typical of the way the Red Adept attacked. One of these
spooks could be a noose, that he would not see in the dark
until it dropped over his head. He needed a specific defense
against it. "Turn me loose against a noose," he sang qui-
etly.

A collar formed about his neck, a strong ring with sharp
vertical ridges that would cut into any rope that tightened
about it. Proof against a noose.

The maze-passage opened onto a narrow staircase lead-




264                    Blue Adept

ing up. Dim illumination came from each step, like phos-
phorescence, outlining its edge. A thoughtful aid from Pro-
ton practice, so children would not trip and fall. Stile
stepped out on the first step—and as his weight came on it,
it slid down to floor level, like a downward-moving escala-
tor. He tried again, and again the stair countered him.
There did not have to be anything magical about this; it
could be mounted on rollers. It could not be climbed. Yet
the glow of light he had conjured to show the way was
moving blithely up the stairway; that was where the Red

Adept was.

"I think I'll have to use magic again," Stile said. He

oriented on the stair and sang: "All this stair, motion for-
swear." Then he put his foot on the lowest step again.

The step did not slide down. It buckled a bit, as if trying
to move, but was Exed in place. Stile walked on up, each
step writhing under his tread with increasing vigor, but

none of the steps could slide down.

Then one step bit his foot. Stile looked down and dis-
covered that the step had opened a toothy mouth and was
masticating his boot. It was in fact a demon, compressed
into step-form, and now it was resuming its natural shape.
Stile had not had this sort of motion in mind when fashion-
ing his spell, so it had not been covered.

Neysa exclaimed behind him. She, too, was being at-
tacked. All the steps were demons—and Stile and Neysa
were caught in the center. The trap had sprung at last.

Hastily Stile tried to formulate a spell—but this was
hard to do with the distraction of his feet getting chewed.
Neysa changed into firefly form and hovered safely out of
reach of the demons. "Send this spell straight to Helll" he

sang.

Nothing significant happened. Of course not; he had
already used that spell. He needed a variant. "Send this
smell—ouch!" The teeth were beginning to penetrate, as
the demons grew steadily stronger. "Put this spell—in a

shelll" he sang desperately.

The shell formed, pretty and white and corrugated like
the clamshell he had in his haste visualized, enclosing all
the demons—and Stile and Neysa too. He had not helped
himself at all.

265

Blue Adept

Neysa came to the rescue. She shifted to unicorn-form.
There was barely room for her on the stairway, but her
hooves were to a certain extent proof against the teeth of
the demons. She sucked in her barrel-belly somewhat, giv-
ing herself scant clearance, and blew a note of invitation to
Stile.

Gratefully he vaulted back onto her back. Neysa did a
dance, her four hooves smashing at the teeth below. Now it
was the demons who exclaimed in pain; they did not like
this at all.

Neysa moved on up until she reached the top landing,
bursting through the shell he had made. Bits of the shell
flew down to mix with the bits of teeth littering the stair.

Stile dismounted and stood looking back. "Something I
don't quite understand here," he murmured as the demons
at last achieved their full natural forms, but were unable
to travel because of his spell. "If she has demons, why did
she hide them there instead of sending them after me? Why
did they come to life when they did, instead of when I first
touched them? There's a key here—"

Neysa changed back to girl-form, which really was more
comfortable in these narrow confines. "Amulets must be
invoked," she reminded him. One thing about Neysa: she
never chided him for the time he took to work things out
his own way. Whatever he did, she helped. She was in
many respects the ideal woman, though she was really a

mare.

"Ah, yes." Amulets were quiescent until animated by the
minor magic of a verbal command. So these step-demon-
amulets had waited for that magic. But he had not invoked
them. He had merely fixed them in place.

Unless it was not the words, but any magic directed at
the amulet that accomplished the invoking. So when he
cast his spell of stability—yes.

But this meant he would have to be careful how he
used his magic here. No amulet could hurt him unless he
invoked it—but he could accidentally invoke quite a few.
Any that were within range when he made a spell.

In fact—suddenly a great deal was coming clear!—this
could explain the whole business of this carnival-castle. If it
was defended by amulets that had to be invoked by the




266 Blue Adept

intruders, these amulets would be useless unless something
caused them to be activated. So—they were presented as
prizes, that greedy people would naturally invoke. Because
an amulet was just a bit of metal until it was invoked,
worth little. When the golem-barkers claimed that "every-
body wins" that was exactly what they meant. Or, more
properly, everybody lost, since the amulets were attackers.
Stile had acted as projected—and had he not been Adept
himself, and on guard, he could have been in serious trou-
ble from that Erst "prize."

But these steps had not been prizes. They were a defense
against magic—and that, too, had been pretty effective. So
he was really making progress because he was passing from
the random traps to the serious ones. The steps, that would
not remain firm without a spell that converted them to
demons...

Could it be that the Red Adept herself could not invoke
her amulets—or that they would attack her if she did? Like
bombs that destroyed whoever set them off? So that the
intruder had to be forced to bring his doom upon himself?
If so, and if he resolutely refrained from invoking amulets
either by word or by the practice of magic, he should have
the advantage over—

Advantage? Magic was his prime weapon! If he couldn't
use that, how could he prevail?

A very neat trap, to deprive him of his chief poweri But
unlike his alternate self. Stile had had a lifetime to develop
his nonmagic skills. He could compete very well without
magic. So if his refusal to invoke the hostile amulets lim-
ited him, it also limited his enemy, and he had the net
advantage. This was a ploy by the Red Adept that was
about to backfire.

"I think I have it straight," Stile told Neysa. "Any magic
invokes the amulets—but they can't affect me if I don't
invoke them. So we'll fight this out Proton-fashion. It may
take some ingenuity to get past the hurdles, but it will be
worth it."

Neysa snorted dubiously, but made no overt objection.

The passage narrowed as it wended its way into a hall of
minors. Stile almost walked into the first one, as it was
angled at forty-five degrees to make a right-angle turn look

Blue Adept                    267

like straight-ahead. But Neysa, somehow more sensitive to
this sort of thing than he, held him back momentarily,
until he caught on. After that he was alert to the mirrors,
and passed them safely.

Some were distorting reflectors, making him look huge-
headed and huge-footed, like a goblin, and Neysa like a
grotesque doll. Then the mirrors reversed, making both
resemble blown-up balloons. Then—

Stile found himself falling. Intent on the mirror before
him, he had not realized that one square of the floor was
absent. A simple trick, that he had literally fallen for. He
reacted in two ways, both bad: first, to grab for the sides,
which were too slick to hold, and second to cry a spell:

"Fly high!"

This stopped his fall and started his sailing upward
through the air—but it also invoked the nearest amulets,
which happened to be the mirrors. Now they themselves
deformed, stretching like melting glass, reaching amoeba-
like pseudopods toward him. Mirrors were everywhere, in-
cluding the floor and ceiling; Stile had to hover in the
middle of the chamber to avoid their silicon embrace.

Neysa had gone to firefly-form, and was hovering beside
him. But the ceiling mirrors were dangling gelatinous ten-
tacles down toward him, making the chamber resemble a
cave with translucent stalactites. Soon there would be no
place to avoid them.

But the little glow of light showed the way out. They
followed it down through the pit Stile had first fallen into
and up again in another chamber whose amulets had not
been invoked.

Stile was about to cancel his flying spell—but realized
that would have taken another spell, which could start
things going again. It was harder to stay clear of magic
than he had thought! For now, it seemed best to remain
flying; it was as good a mode as any.

They flew after the glow. It took them through a section
of shifting floors—that had no effect on them now—and a
forest of glistening spears that might be coated with
poison, and a hall whose walls were on rollers, ready to
close on whoever was unwary enough to trigger the mech-
anism by putting weight on the key panel of the floor. This

268

Blue Adept

Blue Adept

269

was certainly a house of horrors, where it seemed only
magic could prevail. But they had found a loophole; con-
tinuing magic did not trigger the amulets. Only the invok-
ing of new magic did that. So they had a way through.

Abruptly they flew through a portal and entered a pleas-
ant apartment set up in Proton Citizen style: murals on the
walls, rugs on the floor, curtains on the windows, a food
dispenser, holo-projector, and a couchbed. The technologi-
cal devices would not operate in this frame. Unless they
had been spelled to operate by magic. Stile was not sure
what the limits were, to that sort of thing. Did a scientiEc
device that worked exactly as it was supposed to, by the
authority of magic, become a—

Then Stile realized: on the couch reclined the Red
Adept.

Stile floated to a halt. Red was not concealing her sex
now. She was wearing a slinky red gown that split down
the sides to show her legs and down the front to evoke
cleavage. Her hair was luxuriously red, and settled about
her shoulders in a glossy cloud. All in all, she was a svelte,
attractive woman of about his own age—and a full head
taller than he. She was certainly the same one who had
been responsible for Hulk's murder.

"Before we finish this. Blue," she said, "I want to know
just one thing: why?"

Stile, ready for instant violence, was taken aback.
"Thou, creature of evil, dost ask me why?"

"Normally Adepts leave each other alone. There is too
much mischief when magic goes against magic. Why didst
thou elect to violate that principle and foment so much
trouble?"

"This is the very information I require from theel What
mischief did I ever do thee, that thou shouldst seek to
murder me in two frames?"

"Play not the innocent with me, rogue Adept! Even now
thou dost invade these my Demesnes, as thou didst always
plan. I have heard it bruited about that thou dost consider
thyself a man of integrity. At least essay some semblance
of that quality now, and inform me of thy motive. I cannot
else fathom it."

There was something odd here. Red acted as if she were

the injured party, and seemed to mean it. Why should she
lie, when her crimes were so apparent? Stile's certainty of
the justice and necessity of this cause was shaken; he
needed to resolve this incongruity, lest he always suffer
doubt about the validity of his vengeance.

"Red Adept, thou knowest I am here to destroy thee. It
is pointless to hide the truth longer. Art thou hopelessly
insane, or didst thou have some motive for thy murders?"

"Motive!" she exclaimed. "Very well. Blue, since thou
choosest to play this macabre game. I proffer thee this
deal: I will answer truly as to my motive, if thou dost
answer as to thine."

"Agreed," he said, still somewhat mystified. "I shall pro-
vide my motive before I slay thee. And if I am satisfied as
to thy motive, I shall slay thee cleanly, without unneces-
sary torture. That is the most I can offer. I made mine oath
to make an end of thee."

"Then here is my rationale," she said, as though discuss-
ing average weather. "The omens were opaque but disquiet-
ing, hinting at great mischief. The vamp-folk were restive,
responding reluctantly to my directives. Indeed, one among
them made petition to the Oracle, asking, 'How can we be
rid of the yoke of Red?' And the Oracle answered, 'Bide
for two months.' A vamp spy in fief to me reported that, so
naturally I had to verify it personally. Indirect news from the
Oracle can never be wholly trusted; there are too many
interpretations. But there did seem to be a threat in two
months concerning me—and that time, incidentally, is now
nearly past. So I rode a flying amulet to the Oracle, and I
asked it 'What is my fate two months hence?' and it replied
'Blue destroys Red.' Then I knew that I had to act. Never
has the Oracle been known to be wrong, but I had no
choice. I operate in both frames; I could be hurt in either.
The Oracle said not that I would lose my life, only that I
would be destroyed, which could mean many things. The
only way to secure my position was to be rid of Blue
before Blue took action against me. So I sent one of
Brown's golems with a demon amulet to Blue, while mean-
while I sought out Blue's alternate self in Proton too, lest
Blue die yet also destroy me. But someone warned thee,
and sent a robot to guard thee, and I was unable quite to




270 Blue Adept

close that loop. Now must I do it here, or suffer the fate
the Oracle decreed for me. Sure it is, I mean to take thee
with me, an the Oracle prove true. Thou art the cause of
all my woe."

Still Stile was perplexed. "My motive is simple. Thou
didst murder mine other self, rendered the Lady Blue
bereft, attempted to slay me also in Proton and in Phaze,
and slew my friend Hulk. For two murders I owe thee, and
that debt shall be paid."

She grimaced. "Thou claimest that we should have had
no quarrel, but for my actions against thee?"

"As far as I know," Stile said. "Mine other self, the Blue
Adept, had no designs against thee as far as I know; his
widow, now my wife, had no notion what enemy had mur-
dered him, or why. As for me—I could never have crossed
the curtain without the death of the Blue Adept, and I
would not have left my profession as jockey had not my
knees been lasered." He paused. "Why were my knees
lasered, and not my head? Had I been killed then, thou
wouldst have suffered no vengeance from me."

"The laser-machine I smuggled into the race was pro-
grammed against killing," she said disgustedly. "Citizens
like not fatal accidents, so machines capable of dealing
death must have a safety circuit. Also, it is easier to de-
stroy the narrow tissues of the tendons than to kill a man
by a single beam through the thickness of his skull. Thou
probably wouldst not have died regardless; thy brain would
have cooked a little, and no more. And the Citizens would
have reacted to such a killing by lowering a stasis Eeld over
the entire raceway, trapping me. I had to injure thee first,
subtly, while I escaped the scene, then kill thee privately
when thou wert stripped of Citizen protection. Except that
the robot balked me."

"The robot," Stile said. "Who sent the robot?"

"That I do not know," she admitted. "I thought thou
knewest, that it was part of thy plan. Had I realized that
thou didst have such protection, at the outset, then would I
have planned that aspect more carefully. I thought the
Blue Adept was the hard one to eliminate, rather than
thee."

Blue Adept

271

Not an unreasonable assumption! Of such trifling mis-
judgments were empires made and lost. "There remain
mysteries, then," Stile said. "Someone knew of thy mission,
and acted to protect me. Enemies we be, yet it behooves us
both to leam who that person is, and why he or she elected
to act anonymously. Hast thou some other enemy—
perhaps one who could be identified as 'Blue* though no
Adept? Thou must surely have mistaken the Oracle's refer-
ence, for I was innocent until that message generated a self-
fulfilling prophecy. Now Blue will destroy Red, for there
can be no forgiveness for thy crimes—but I would not be
here now, if that Oracle had not set thee against me."

"A hidden enemy, pitting Red against Blue," she re-
peated. "Fool that I was, I queried not the identity of mine
enemy, but only my two-month fate—and so the Oracle
answered not what I thought it did. The Oracle betrayed
me."

"I think so," Stile said. "Yet there must be a true enemy
—to both thee and me. Let us make this further pact: that
the one of us who survives this encounter shall seek that
enemy, lest it pit other Adepts against each other similarly
in future."

"Agreed!" she cried. "We two are in too deep; we must
settle in blood. But there is vengeance yet remaining for us
each."

"Could it be another Adept?" Stile asked. He was not
letting down his guard, but he did not expect an attack
until this was worked out. Enemies could, it seemed, have
common interests. He had operated in ignorance of the
forces that moved against him for so long that he was
determined to discover whatever truth he could. "One who
coveted thy power or mine?"

"Unlikely. Most Adepts cannot cross the curtain. I la-
bored hard to cross myself, and paid a price others would
not pay. I arranged to have mine other self dispatched,
then I crossed over and took her place, hoping to be desig-
nated the heir to our mother the Citizen. But the wretch
designated another, an adoptee, and I had to take tenure
and practice for the Tourney."

Stile was appalled at her methodology, but concealed it.

272 Blue Adept Blue Adept 273

Her mode had always been to do unto others before they
did unto her. That was why she had struck at the Blue
Adept. Probably her Proton-self had been conspiring to do
the same to Red. And, possibly. Red was now trying to put
Stile offguard so she could gain an advantage. "Thou play-
est the Game?"

"That I do, excellently—and well I know thou art my
most formidable opponent in the current Tourney."

"I know not of thee on any ladder."

"Never did I enter any ladder until the final moment. I
practiced privately, in my Proton-Citizen mother's facili-
ties."

"Even if the Oracle referred to my defeating thee in the
Tourney, and thus destroying thy remaining chance for
Citizenship," Stile said slowly, "I had three years tenure
remaining, and would not have entered this year's Tourney
but for thy intercession."

"The Oracle betrayed me on many levels, it seems," she
said.

How right he had been to analyze the nature of the
Oracle's statements carefullyl Yet the mischief of the Ora-
cle was only in its confusing answers; it did not initiate
things. Someone must have taken this into account. But
what a devious plot this was! "Could anyone in Proton-
frame seek revenge? A friend of thine other self, perhaps,
avenging her demise?"

"She had no friends; she was like me. That was why she
was disinherited. And no one knows she's gone; they think
I'm her."

That had been a neat operation! "Someone in Phaze,
then. Unable to attack an Adept here, so he interferes with
thee there? Perhaps a vampire, able to cross the curtain in
human guise—" Suddenly Stile wondered whether Neysa,
now hovering behind him, would be able to cross the cur-
tain in girl-form. Had she ever tried it? Unicorns did not
exist in Proton, but girls did, and if there was no girl
parallel to—

"Why send a robot to defend thee, then? Why not sim-
ply send it to attack me? That's one expensive robot thou
hast; for that value, it would have been easy to send a
competent execution squad after me. It is as likely that the

attack was directed at thee, at thy magic self, with protec-
tion sent to thy Proton-self so that it could come after
me."

Food for thought! "There is that," Stile agreed. "The
Oracle must have known that despite thy attack on the
Blue Adept, his alternate self would find thee. The key
seems to lie in the unknown party who sent the robot. Find
that party, and we may be on the trail of the true enemy.
There does seem to be more afoot here than merely my
convenience or thy demise; the plot be too convoluted to
account for these."

"That's for sure! It isn't much, but it will have to do."
She raised her right hand. "On thy mark, get set, go! End
of truce." And she threw an obejct at him.

Stile dodged the object. It looked like a small knife, a
stiletto—which it could be. But it was also an amulet, and
he didn't want to invoke it. It stuck in the wall behind him
and remained there, a bomb awaiting detonation.

Red threw another object. This one resembled a ball.
When Stile dodged it, the thing bounced off the wall and
settled to a stop near his feet. He was floating a few inches
off the floor, since his flying spell remained in operation, so
the ball did not touch him.

She threw a third. It was like a beanbag, dropping dead
behind him. But none of them could hurt him as long as he
didn't invoke them.

Then Red invoked one herself. She held the amulet in
her hand, spoke to it, and dropped it on the floor. It
formed into a hissing snake with glistening fangs. "Go for
that man," she told it.

The snake crawled rapidly toward him. Rather than fly-
ing upward as Red might want. Stile drew his sword and
decapitated the reptile.

Already she was activiting another amulet—a bat. Stile
did not want to kill it, because it might be a member of the
vampire tribe who had given him safe lodging for the
night. A captive of the cruel Adept, bound to do her bid-
ding. Yet if it attacked him—

It did. Its little eyes gleamed insanely, and droplets of
viscous saliva fell from its teeth. It could be rabid. There
was no help for it; he had to use magic.




274

Blue Adept

Blue Adept

275

"Bat—scat!" he sang. The bat vanished.

But now the three inert amulets near him animated. One
was turning into a demon resembling a goblin, growing
larger each second. Another was hissing out some kind of
greenish vapor, perhaps a toxic gas. The third was catching
fire, becoming a veritable ball of flame.

Stile could not ignore any of these. For the moment he
floated clear of all three—but all were expanding, and
there was not any great clearance, and the ceiling was
festooned with amulets. If he flew high, and banished them
with his own spells, hell would break loose from that ceil-
ing. Red had more amulets than Stile had immediately
available spells, so this sequence could be disastrous. That
was the disadvantage of bracing the Adept in her own
Demesnes; her power was overwhelming here. It would be
better to deal with the three activated threats some other
way.

The Red Adept, smiling wickedly, was already throwing
more amulets. Stile had either to act or to retreat—and to
retreat would be tantamount to defeat, for he surely would
have more trouble passing her defenses a second time.
Now was the moment of decision,

Neysa, who had been hovering as the firefly, shifted to
mare-form. She speared the demon on her horn, then
shoved it into the green vapor. The demon screamed in
agony, then expired. That was poison, all right! Neysa
backed off, the demon still impaled on her horn. She did
not dare touch that vapor with her nonmagical flesh.
Meanwhile, the ball of fire blazed fiercely, and it was float-
ing up toward Stile.

Stile had an inspiration. He began playing his harmon-
ica. The music filled the room, summoning his magic—but
he did not sing any spell. He just kept playing. He knew
now that the music-magic could have a certain effect itself,
without any specific spell, if he directed it with his mind.
So he willed it to suppress other magic. If this had the
force of new magic itself, the effect would be opposite, and
he would be in twice as much trouble as before; but if it
worked—

The fireball guttered and dimmed and sank, finding itself
slowly stifled. The ^green vapor ceased its expansion and

lost some of its color. None of the new amulets were acti-
vated. Phew! The gamble had paid off.

Neysa approached the vapor cautiously, seeing it be-
come denatured. She used the dead demon on her horn as
a crude broom to shove the vapor into the fire. The two

E" lined instant battle, destroying each other. Stile broke off
is music, and the battle intensified as its compass nar-
rowed: the fire tried to bum up the vapor before the vapor
could smother it. But the vapor was stronger; soon the fire
was out.

Neysa mopped up the remaining vapor on the demon.
Then with a strong motion of her head she hurled the
demon directly at the Red Adept.

The woman was caught by surprise. She scrambled off
her couch just before the sodden demon landed. Her col-
lected amulets scattered across the floor like so much jew-
elry. The green vapor sank into the material of the couch,
rendering it uninhabitable, while the demon lay on it as if
asleep.

Stile had another inspiration. He had noticed that Red
was careful which amulets she threw and which she kept.
Obviously some amulets served the invoker, while others
attacked the invoker. Benign and malign spells, as it were.
If he could get hold of some of the benign amulets, he
could use them against her. That should turn the tide.

But she was alert to the threat. She dived for the spilled
collection, reaching it before Stile got there.

Stile reacted with a spot decision he hoped he would not
regret. "Each spell farewelll" he sang, willing all the amu-
lets within range out and away from the castle. Since he
had been playing his harmonica, his magic should be
strong enough to affect most of them.

The result was confusion. His act of magic invoked all
the nearby amulets—but it also banished them. They tried
to animate and depart simultaneously. Since there were
many of them, their magic outmassed his. Thus they were
coming to life faster than they were moving out.

Rapidly-forming things and creatures were scrambling
for the exits. One resembled a squid, crawling on its tenta-
cles. Another was like a yellow sponge, rolling along, leav-
ing a damp trail that stank of putrefaction. Several were




276

Blue Adept

Blue Adept

277

bats or other flying creatures. Some were colored clouds
and some were blazes of light or darkness. One was a small
flood of water that poured down through the crevices; an-
other was a noisy string of exploding firecrackers. Stile had
to keep dodging and ducking to stay clear of them. His
incantation had also abated his flying spell; he was con-
fined to the floor again, where he didn't really want to be.
For one thing, the Red Adept was there, avoiding creatures
with equal alacrity. At the moment she was trying to brush
a swarm of tiny red spiders out of her hair. Both Red and
Blue were now too busy to concentrate properly on each
other.

Why was he fooling with all these incidental spells, when
he could solve the whole thing by simply abolishing the
Red Adept herself? Maybe he had held back at the notion
of killing a human being, despite his oath. But he thought
again of the way Hulk had died, and his resolve finned.
"Red be deadi" he sang.

There was a kind of soundless implosion and explosion
centering on the woman. Her clothing burst into smoke.
But in a moment she stood naked—and alive. "Fooll" she
spat. "Knowest thou not that no Adept can be destroyed
readily by magic alone? Only the unguarded and vulner-
able succumb."

"But thy amulet killed the Blue Adepti" he protested.

"It never would have worked, had he been properly par-
anoid. He was a trusting fool. Even so, I am surprised he
did not save himself; methinks he could have had he tried
hard enough."

As Stile had saved himself from the same spell, by fight-
ing hard enough. He should have known it could not be
that easy to abolish her. Otherwise, he could simply have
uttered his spell from the sanctity of the Blue Demesnes,
and let Red die in her sleep. Many things were difficult
against a person on guard. One stab with a knife could
kill—but if that person were alert, the knife would never
score, or would be turned against its wielder. Also, the
White Adept had said his spells could not really hurt her.
He had thought that mere bravado, but evidently it was
not. Still, with the local amulets clearing out of the way, he
had another option.

Stile drew his sword. "Then shall I slay thee without
magic."

Quickly she snatched a similar weapon from its place on
the wall. "Thinkest thou I am untrained in such arts? Look
to thyself, midget!"

They engaged. She was proficient, and she had a longer
reach than he. She was in superb physical condition, and
had a fiery will to win. Yet this was the broadsword. Stile's
preferred weapon. In this he was more than proficient; he
was expert. He fenced with her, foiling her attacks readily,
setting up for his proper opening. He could take her.

Red realized this. Suddenly she stepped back into an
opening behind the couch and disappeared. Stile plunged
after her. But a panel slammed across, blocking him off.
He hacked at it with his sword, and wood splintered—but
by the time he cleared it, the Red Adept was gone.

CHAPTER 11

Trap

Now was the time to use his magic. "Trace her place!" he
sang, and a new light appeared, leading the way into the
passage. "Fret the threat," he added, to abate whatever
nasty little surprises lurked along the passage. This wouldn't
stop them all, but it should help. A little alertness should
do the rest.

Stile charged into the passage, following the light. Then
the light stopped. But the Red Adept wasn't there.

Baffled, Stile retraced his steps. He squinted at the glow
from one side and the other.

"The curtain," Neysa said. She was back in girl-form.

Now he saw it—the faint shimmer of the curtain across
the passage. What a neat devicel No enemy confined to
Phaze could follow her there.




278 Blue Adept

He had little time if he was to catch her. "Neysa—I
must go through. I—" He could not find the words to tell
her what he had to: his gratefulness for her vital help and
support right up to this moment; his continued need of it;

but the impossibility of having it in Proton-frame. Unless
she could cross in girl-form—but then she would be fixed
in that form, unable to revert to natural status, and highly
vulnerable in the unfamiliar world. No, he did not want
her there! So he simply grabbed her and kissed her.

"Make a spell for me to follow," she said.

Good idea! In fact, why not put tracers on both himself
and the Red Adept? If this device worked, he could check
with Neysa every time he lost track of his enemy, and
receive guidance. That would ensure his success. His magic
was more versatile than Red's; he might not be able to
abolish her by a direct spell, but he could at least track her.
Maybe.

The present glow-tracker was designed to follow where
Red had gone; it was balked by the curtain, so hovered
there helplessly. Stile hesitated to step through at the same
spot; no telling what Red had in store there for the un-
wary.

A small demon-animal blundered down the hall. One of
the animated amulets, running late. Stile and Neysa flat-
tened themselves against the wall and let it pass. The thing
wandered on past the curtain, never perceiving it, seeking
escape from the Red Demesnes. It turned the far corner—
and there was an explosion.

"Methinks she set a trap for us," Stile murmured. Prob-
ably his counterspell would have protected him, but he
could not be certain. Following too closely after the Red
Adept was dangerous! "Take me to safe ground while I
ponder new spells," he said.

Neysa took him by the hand and led him, while Stile
concentrated fully on the task at hand. Soon they were
standing on the ground outside the Red Castle, and he had
what he needed.

But first one concern: "Neysa, I know thou dost not like
magic applied to thee—"

She blew him a look of get-on-with-it, as he had known
she would. She had once hated his practice of magic, but

Blue Adept                    279

after she had accepted his status as the Blue Adept she had
seemed to revel in the evidences of his power.

"Identify the one we scorn, by orienting with thy horn,"
Stile sang to her. Neysa, still in girl-form, turned her head
with its tiny decoration-horn toward the south, obviously
aware of the Red Adept. "And trace thine oath-friend
without fail, by orienting with thy tail." She spun about,
slapping her pert derrier with her hand as if stung by a fly.
Her lack of a tail in this form was a problem. Then she
converted to unicorn, and it worked perfectly.

"Let me step across the curtain, and do thou trace me,"
Stile said. "Just to be sure." This was consuming time
while Red escaped, but if this operated the way he hoped,
that wouldn't matter.

Stile spelled himself across, ran a hundred meters over
the sand, and crossed back, gasping for the good air of
Phaze. Neysa was right there, some three hundred feet
from her starting point, her pretty black tail facing him. It
worked!

"Good enough!" Stile exclaimed. "Thou canst now trace
us both—even across the curtain. I will check with thee
whenever I lose her. If she recrosses, we will have her. I
shall see thee anon!" And he passed through the curtain
again, setting off in the direction Neysa had pointed for the
Red Adept. No traps out herel

But this was Proton, and outside a dome; quickly the
rarefied and polluted air affected him. The Red Adept
seemed to be within the dome—which of course was her
Proton-home. Stile would have no safe access there!

He found the curtain and passed back through. Neysa
was there, having paced him neatly. "I've got to organize
for this better," he said. "It's certain she's organized! It's
not safe to go after her in her Proton-home."

He paced in a circle for a moment. Even his two brief
excursions into the atmosphere of Proton had depleted
him. Inside the dome the air would be good—but she
would have power he lacked. Her Citizen-mother might not
like Red, but would act to protect the dome against intru-
sions by hostile serfs. "I need to smoke her out, then chase
her down in neutral territory. I'd better enlist Sheen's help
in the other frame. But I don't want to take mine eye off




280

Blue Adept

Blue Adept

281

the prey. So I'll need to call her. Yes." He walked to the
spot where he had seen a tube connection to the dome.
There would be a communication screen at the transport

terminal.

He spelled himself through. Certain spells were elemen-
tary; he didn't even have to rhyme. Just an originally
phrased wish sufficed, for him or any eligible person. He
had wasted a number of rhymes before catching on to

this.

In a moment he was in the station. There was good air

here! He called Sheen.

She appeared immediately on the screen. "So soon?

Game is tomorrow—"

"Come to this addressi" Stile said. "I may need help."
The screen went blank. Red had intercepted the call; he
should have known she would not be sitting idle. He might
have avoided her little traps along the way, by declining to
pursue her directly, but she knew he would come for her
here. He had made a tactical error. Stile dived for the

curtain.

A nozzle started hissing out vapor as he moved. Some
sort of gas, probably stun-gas. Red seemed to like that sort
of thing. Had she known precisely where and when he
would appear, she could have nailed him. As it was, it was
a close call; he got a whiff of it as he crossed the curtain,
and reeled as he emerged in Phaze. Neysa steadied him
with her solid body, and in a moment his head cleared.

"Good thing I stayed close to the curtain," he said. "I'm
going to have to create a distraction, so she won't spy me
next time. The Oracle says Blue will destroy Red; I'll start
the process now. Let me have my harmonica."

Neysa shifted to girl-form. She now wore a little knap-
sack over her dress—she manifested clothed or naked at
will—in which she carried Stile's harmonica and other
oddments. Stile had never quite fathomed how she was
able to carry foreign objects on her human body that dis-
appeared when she changed form, yet were not lost. She
could change to firefly-form while carrying his harmonica,
though it was far larger than the firefly, and have no trou-
ble. He kept discovering new aspects of magic that made
little sense in scientific terms—and of course magic did not

make scientific sense. If it did, it wouldn't be magic. So he
just had to accept that impossible things happened magi-
cally, and let it be.

He took the harmonica and played a brooding, powerful
theme. For this job the Platinum Flute might have been
better, but that had never really been his. He hoped Clef
was getting along with the Mound Folk all right, and won-
dered whether the musician really could be the Foreor-
dained they wanted, and if so, in what manner he was
destined to save Phaze. Sometimes Stile had the feeling that
he was just one thread in a complex skein, doing whatever
it was he was fated to do, with no more free will than a
robot had. So many seemingly coincidental things had hap-
pened to him—but of course he could be manufacturing a
pattern for nothing. Clef might not be the Foreordained;

the mountain might not tremble when he played the Flute.
So Stile's encounter with him would have been no more
than the randomness it appeared to be.

His magic was now intense. He concentrated on the Red
Castle. "Make of this, the Red Demesne, a holocaust, a
wreck obscene."

They watched. The entire structure shimmered. Smoke
appeared. The remaining creatures associated with it
scrambled out as if fleeing something horrible. Behind
them licked tongues of greenish flame. The smoke ex-
panded, bursting out windows in its urgency to breathe
free. Gouts of it roiled up in burgeoning masses resembling
the grotesque heads of goblins.

Then the explosions came. Whole walls shoved outward.
Partitions sailed flaming in wide arcs, to crash and splinter
in minor puffs of fire. Rockets of light shot out, and sprays
of burning fog. All colors were represented, but gradually
red predominated: this was the home of the Red Adept,
after all.

"That should give her something to think about," Stile
said. "I really don't like such destruction, but I must de-
stroy the entire works of the Red Adept. I mean to leave
no springboard for her to wreak her mischief again." He
thought once more of Hulk and Bluette. Had she survived?
He hoped so, though he did not want to deal with her




282                    Blue Adept

directly. What grief Red had brought upon her, merely to
try to trap him. Stile. Yes, Red had to be destroyed.

The pyrotechnics continued at the castle, reducing it
steadily to the obscene wreck speciEed by the spell. Mean-
while, Stile stepped back across the curtain, checking to see
whether Sheen had arrived. He avoided the gassed station,
knowing that Sheen would check for him outside. He came
back to Phaze for air, then checked Proton again.

On his third crossover, he spied her. She ran to him,
opening her chest compartment to bring out an oxygen
mask for him so that he could handle the Proton outdoor
air. Quickly he explained the situation. "So what I have in
mind is to interrupt the power to the dome-field generator,"
he concluded. "Can you get me a heavy-duty cutting laser?"

Sheen smiled. She opened her compartment again, and
presented him with a compact Protonite-powered portable
metal-cutting laser unit and a power-cable locator. "Bless
you!" Stile exclaimed, kissing her, then replacing the mask.

They walked across the desert, searching out the cable.
Stile was apprehensive that someone would think to look
outside the dome, and would spot them, but that was a
chance they had to take. Citizens and serfs of Proton were
very much dome-oriented, and simply ignored the outer
world as if it did not exist. That might help. This should
not take long; the force-fields that formed the air-enclosing
domes drew a lot of power. Such heavy-duty cables were
easy to locate. Soon they found it.

Stile aimed the laser-cutter down and turned it on. The
sand bubbled into glass as the beam plunged into it. It
formed a glass-lined hole leading down to the shielded
cable. Then it cut through the cable itself, casing and in-
sulation and all, centimeter by centimeter.

There was a flash from the hole. Air puffed from the
dome in decompression. The force-field was gone.

"I think she will be out presently," Stile said with grim
satisfaction. "Now I have sworn to kill her, but I want to
be fair about it. I don't want you to do the job for me.
Since there are regulations against the execution of serfs by
serfs, in the frame of Proton, 111 need to drag her into
Phaze. Maybe we can bring her to trial there, and put her
away ethically. So you leave it to me—but keep an eye on

Blue Adept                    283

me, because I don't expect Red to pass up any advantage
or ploy, legal or illegal, that she thinks will work. She'll try
to keep our feud private, because if the Citizens investigate
her connection to Hulk's murder she'll be exiled from Pro-
ton. So this is private between us—and I don't want to be
the victim of cheating."

"Your logic is human," Sheen said wryly. "If I weren't
programmed to love you—"

"Get on with it. Get a vehicle or something."

"Bluette's Employer has launched an investigation. Very
soon he will obtain a transcript of Hulk's experience." She
walked toward the shuttle tube. The gas would have no
effect on her, and she would be able to use the communica-
tion screen to contact her friends.

So Bluette's Employer was taking action. Red was al-
ready getting into trouble on Proton. But that didn't
change his own need to deal with her.

Stile ran on into the dome-area, now a shambles from
the abrupt decompression. With luck he could catch Red
during this initial period of confusion. All the occupants
should be gasping, looking for long-neglected oxygen equip-
ment, not paying attention to anything except their per-
sonal discomfort.

But as he entered, a vehicle charged out—a sand buggy
with a bubbletop, painted red. She was taking off.

Stile ran for the cellar section. Maybe there would be
another vehicle. He had to have some way to follow.

There were three other vehicles—all in flames. Red had
made sure she would not be pursued.

Well, he had another avenue. Stile hurried to the curtain
and stepped through, removed his abruptly inoperative
oxygen mask, and looked about. Neysa was there, of
course, pointing the way. "I'll spell myself to a spot ahead
of her, then recross," Stile said.

But the unicorn nudged him, blowing a negative note.
She wouldn't let him go alone.

"All right—-we should stay together," Stile agreed. "But
I don't want to wear thee out chasing after a Proton car.
I'll have to enhance the trip by magic."

Neysa still was not keen on magic practiced on herself,
but accepted this as she had the horn-tail enchantment,




284 Blue Adept

with equine grace. "We two proceed with smiles. Red's
direction fifty miles." That made it possible to overshoot
Red's position, and land ahead—which was where he
wanted to be.

They moved rapidly across the landscape, as they had
when leaving the White Demesnes. In a moment they were
there. It was a pleasant enough glade east of the Red
Demesnes. Neysa's directional horn pointed west; they had
outdistanced the quarry.

"All I have to do now is cross back and intercept her,
and—" Stile stopped. "Oh, no!"

For the curtain was nowhere near there.

"Well, we'll just have to pace her until she intersects the
curtain," Stile said.

They paced her, moving near the limit of the unicorn's
capacity. It was a strange business, because away from the
curtain they could not see Red at all; only Neysa's horn
pointed out her location in the parallel world. It was like
following a ghost.

A ghost. Stile wondered whether there was a similar
curtain-effect on other worlds. Back on Planet Earth, when
the legends were being formed—could a curtain have ac-
counted for the perception of ghosts? People or creatures
that were and were not present? So much seeming fantasy
could be accounted for, if—

Then Stile spied the curtain. "This is it!" he said. He
tore off his clothes and set his mask back in place as he
spelled himself through.

Red had evidently been heading for this intersection with
the curtain. The car was slowing. It swerved almost im-
mediately to charge him. Was she trying to drive him back
across the curtain? Stile distrusted that, so he stayed put.
The car had four choices; it could swerve to the left to
catch him as he dodged that way, or to the right, or go
straight ahead on the assumption he would risk standing
still, or it could stop. He doubted it would stop. She in-
tended to smash him if she could, and make him step back
across the curtain otherwise.

She made a good effort. She feinted slightly to the left,
then to the right, trying to provoke his motion. Stile stood
still, and the car accelerated straight at him.

Blue Adept

285

At the last moment. Stile leaped up. The car was sleek
and low, more powerful than the dune buggy he had at
first conjectured. It passed right under him. Sometimes it
paid to be an acrobat. He landed neatly in the swirl of sand
the vehicle had stirred up without even a twinge from his

bad knees.

Now he saw another vehicle approaching. That would be
Sheen, having obtained a car from her friends. No wonder
Red was in a hurry; any delay, and the pursuit would catch

up.

But why had Red wanted him out of Proton? If she
planned to cross the curtain, why force him to cross too,
when she knew he had the advantage in Phaze. That didn't
seem to make much sense.

Stile got ornery when unsatisfied. Red was up to some-
thing, and wanted him out of the way so she could do
whatever it was—and so he had better stay right on her.
He hailed the second car, and sure enough, it was Sheen.
She slowed to pick him up, then accelerated after the flee-
ing car.

Sheen's car was larger and faster; her friends had pro-
vided well. Stile did not inquire how they had produced it
so quickly. Some computer entry had surely been made to
account for its use. They zoomed over the sand at some
hundred to hundred and ten Idlometers per hour, a velocity
even Neysa could not match. In Phaze, she would have to
run sixty to seventy miles an hour cross-country. She might
facilitate things by changing to firefly-form to cross the
worst of it, but she would inevitably fall behind.

A huge plume of dust swirled up behind each car. Be-
fore long they had closed in on Red's vehicle, traveling a
little to the side so as to be clear of her cometlike wake.
That dust served to emphasize the barrenness that was
Proton—a world that science had improved into desolation.

Red cut southeast, angling toward the Purple Mountain

range. Where was she going?

"Do we have any way to bring her to a stop?" Stile
asked. "I don't like getting too far ahead of Neysa, in case
we have action on the other side of the curtain."

"Oh, yes. This is an attack vehicle. We can fire a dis-
rupter to short out her electrical system."

286

Blue Adept

Blue Adept

287

"That's ideal!"

But now Red's car shot into a channel in the mountain.
It slewed through a curvaceous pass and up a barren slope.
Sheen's car followed, but could not get a direct shot at it.
Now, directly behind, they suffered the full effect of the
dust-wake. Red obviously was familiar with this region;

Sheen and Stile were not.

On they skewed, wending through the mountain foothills
and gullies at dangerously high velocity, never getting a
clean shot. "I don't like this," Stile said. "She thinks in
terms of traps. Things that wait quiescent until invoked.
She'll have something set up here."

"I can call my friends on the car's band, and ask them
to—"

"No! They have to maintain their anonymity. A 'clerical
errof freed this car; that's as far as they can go. It's my
job."

"No, they do not need to resort to supposed error. There
are ways to—"

"No."

"I believe I have remarked on your defective living logic
before."

"I believe so," Stile agreed.

"Do you have any assurance at all that you will survive
this foolishness?"

"Yes, the Oracle says that I will sire a son by the Lady
Blue, whom I just married, and since I have not yet—"

The car began to ride up the side of the channel. "You
married the Lady Blue?"

Oops. He had forgotten the ramification that would have
on this side of the curtain. "I did."

She brought the car back to level, but the course seemed
none too steady. "Then it is over between us."

"No! Not over. Just—modified. We're still friends—"

"With a machine?"

"With a machine!" he shouted. "You're still a person! I
still love you as a person!"

She accelerated, closing the gap that had opened be-
tween vehicles, though the dust obscured almost every-
thing. "Yes, of course."

And Stile knew that whatever he had gained in Phaze

had been at a necessary cost in Proton. The next stage in
his inevitable alienation from Sheen had come to pass.
They had known this would happen, but still it hurt. "I
don't suppose you'd settle for an oath of friendship?" he

asked with an attempt at lightness.

"I am less complicated than a living creature like Neysa.

Oaths are not part of my programming."

Stile was spared the embarrassment of struggling further
with this dialogue by their sudden encounter with Red's
car. She had drawn it up in an emergency stop just around
a turn in the channel and jettisoned herself with the emer-
gency release. Now her stalled vehicle blocked the way at a
narrow neck, impossible to avoid. Stile saw her running up
the steep slope, getting clear of the inevitable crash. The

trap had sprung.

Sheen's finger moved with mechanical speed and preci-
sion, touching a button on the dashboard. The ejection
mechanism operated. Stile was hurled in his seat out the
top of the car. A gravity diffuser clicked on, softening his
fall, letting him float to the ground.

The moving car collided with the stationary one. Both
exploded. A ball of flame encompassed the mass, and
smoke billowed outward. Frotonite didn't detonate like
that; Red's vehicle must have been booby-trapped with ex-
plosives. It had been a trap, all right.

Then Stile realized he was alone. "Sheen!" he cried in
anguish. "Why didn't you eject too?" But he knew why.
She had wanted to be junked cleanly when she lost him;

she had seen to it herself.

He knew there was nothing he could do for her. It was
Red he had to go after. He shucked his carseat and charged
across to intercept the Adept.
She had a hand weapon. She pointed it at him.
Stile dived, taking advantage of the irregularity of the
ground. The laser beam seared the sand ahead of him,
sending up a puff of acrid fumes. Then he crawled rapidly
to the side, grabbed a small rock and hurled it at her. He
did this without lifting his head or body; he could throw

accurately by sound.

But she too had moved, crossing to get a shot from a
better vantage. Only Stile's continuing motion saved him




288 Blue Adept

from getting lasered. But now he too was armed—with a
number of good throwing rocks. He could throw them
rapidly and with excellent effect, when the target presented
itself—if he did not become the target of the laser first.

They maneuvered. Watching, listening, stalking. Red
was no amateur at this; she knew how to stay out of
trouble—and she had the superior weapon. He would have
to catch her by surprise, score with a rock before she could
bring her laser to bear, and close for the finish. It was a
challenge similar to certain Games, and he was good at this
type of thing too. But she had the advantage of weapon
and familiarity with the terrain.

Nevertheless, he outmaneuvered her, got in a good loca-
tion, and prepared for attack. He wanted to knock her out
with a score on the head, but his stones were too light for
certainty. He was more likely to stun her momentarily or
injure her, and have to take it to hand-to-hand combat. So
be it. Too bad he had not brought his sword across the
curtain. But he could do a lot of damage to a human body,
bare-handed, in a very short time.

He watched for his moment, then made his move. He
rose up and hurled his first stone. His aim was good; it
glanced off her head, making her cry out. But her thick red
hair had cushioned it somewhat; the stone only gashed her,
not seriously.

Then she leaped—and disappeared.

The curtain! The curtain was here, and she had used it.
In this respect, too, she had been better prepared than he.
He charged across to it and willed himself after her.

Suddenly the mountain greened about him. He stood on
verdant turf, with patches of purple flowers decorating the
slopes. The air was warm and fragrant.

Red was still reeling from the blow of the stone. Blood
colored her hand where she had touched the gash, and her
hair was becoming matted. But when she saw him she
raised the laser and fired at point-blank range.

Of course it didn't work. The curtain was not the de-
marcation of worlds, but of frames—modes of energy-
application. She was getting rattled, making mistakes now.

Stile hurled another rock at her. His weapon was good
in either frame!

Blue Adept                    289

But she dodged the rock and brought out an amulet.
Where she had carried it he didn't know, since she was
naked, as serfs had to be in the other frame. "Invokel"
she cried.

The amulet expanded into a ravening griffin—body of
lion, head and wings of eagle. It oriented on Stile and
leaped.

Stile spelled himself hastily back through the curtain.

He was in Proton again, inhaling oxygen through the
mask. How bleak this frame was! Smoke still drifted up
from the wrecked vehicles. Sheen had been there, suiciding
rather than continue an animation that had become mean-
ingless.

Stile concentrated a moment, then willed himself back
through the curtain. "Creature fly up into skyi" he sang,
and the griffin, just now turning on him after having over-
shot him, abruptly spread its wings and ascended. It was
out of the fray.

Stile launched himself at Red, who held another amulet.
She had a flesh-toned compartment belt, he saw now, that
held her assorted weapons; from a distance she looked
properly naked. He caught her hand and wrenched the
amulet from her. "Invoke!" he cried.

The amulet grew into a flying octopus. It reached hun-
grily for Red. Stile had realized before that there were
malign amulets that attacked the invoker, and benign ones
that fought on the side of the invoker. Since Stile had
stopped invoking amulets. Red was using these benign ones
against him. He had just stolen one and turned it against
her.

Now Red dived across the curtain, escaping the malice
of her own creation. Stile went after her—and almost got
clobbered by a rock. She was using his tactic against him,
now.

He grappled with her. She was a foot taller than he—in
this frame, about thirty centimeters—and had more mass.
She was strong, too. A virtual Amazon, a naked tigress,
eager to kill. Her claws gouged at his eyes, her knee
rammed his groin. But Stile saw the smoking wreckage
where Sheen had perished, and was a savage animal him-
self. Every person he held dear was being destroyed one

290

Blue Adept

Blue Adept

291

way or another; he would destroy in turn. He was expert in
several martial arts; he knew which nerves to pinch, the
vulnerable spots to strike, the pressures that would disjoint
which joints, on man or woman. He blocked her attack
and concentrated on his own.

Again Red was overmatched, and realized it. She willed
herself back into Phaze—and Stile went with her, not re-
lenting. But here her amulets functioned; she invoked one,
and it hissed out of a bottle, a genie, a giant gaseous man
all head and arms. Quickly Stile recrossed the curtain.

He needed a spell to banish a genie. And another to take
the offense. He might not be able to attack Red directly,
but he could isolate her or—

Something was moving in the now almost-quiescent
wreckage of the two vehicles. Stile's attention was instantly
distracted from the battle. Could it be—7

With timorous hope he hurried over there. Yes—a shape
was struggling to extricate itselfl This was not the fantasy
frame; it couldn't be a demon!

"Sheen?" he called tentatively.

"Stile?" her voice came back, oddly distorted.

"Sheen, you survived! I thought—"

"I am a machine. I am damaged, not yet defunct. Unfor-
tunately."

"Let me help you—"

"Do not touch me. I am hot."

She was indeed. As she completed her extrication, he
saw the extent of the damage. Most of her superficial flesh
had been burned away. Her face was rubble. Her lovely
skin and hair had been stripped to reveal scorched metal,
with dangling shreds of substance. Wisps of smoke and
steam drifted upward from her joints, and hot oil dripped
from her chest cavity. She looked about as much like a
corpse as a machine could. An animated corpse—a zom-
bie.

"Sheen, we must get you to a repair shop! You—"

"Go after Red, Stile!" she cried weakly. "Do not let me
distract you. I am of no further use to you. If I did not
have this damned self-preservation circuit that cut in—"

Still, he was torn. Once before she had suffered injury on
his behalf, making him realize how important she was to

him. Her damage this time was surely worse, though she
remained animated; all of her surface had been charred by
the flame, and she was probably operating ineffectively on
the last dregs of her Protonite charge. Yet it seemed that
this merely reflected her emotional desolation, for she was
programmed to love him—and never would be his lover
again.

Perhaps it would be kinder simply to allow her to expire.
She was close to the end now.

The thought triggered a savage reaction. "Vengeance I
have sworn, but it shall not take precedence over friend-
ship," Stile said. "Walk with me across the curtain. I can
restore you, there."

The eyeless husk of a head oriented on him. The tattered
remnant of her speaker spoke. "You must not. Red will
trap you—"

"I think Red is already far from here. I have given her
time enough to escape. She is less important than you."

"You must not give her time to set up—" Sheen's voice
failed at last. Her power was fading. Even Protonite had
finite limits.

"Walk, or I must carry you," Stile said sternly, knowing
she would not allow him to harm himself by touching her
burning surface.

She walked with decreasing stability. Charred fragments
fell from her. Something rattled and buzzed inside. Finally
she crashed forward, still smoking. But she was half across
the curtain.

Stile located an unsmouldering spot on her torso and
touched his finger to it and willed them both across the
curtain. The grass appeared, the air freshened, and her
body sizzled in the greater moisture. He removed his finger
before it burned.

The Red Adept, as he had surmised, was gone. He had
been besting her; she had wanted to escape all along, sal-
vaging time and resources to meet him again in a situation
more favorable to herself. He didn't like letting that hap-
pen, but he had been afraid that if he left Sheen too long it
might not be possible to restore her—or that he himself
would die or lose power and be unable to return to her. If
he had let her perish in favor of his vengeance, he would




292                    Blue Adept

have sacrificed much of what he valued: his own human-
ity. He might have gone on to establish his power and
security as the Blue Adept—and become more like the
other Adepts, corrupted by power, cynical and sel5sh to
the point of worthlessness.

There was the sound of hooves. Neysa was catching up,
Ere snorting from her nostrils, bringing the harmonica just
when he needed it. He would be able to use his magic to
restore Sheen as he had before, and then would return her
to Proton for reanimation. Maybe he could include a spell
to make her feel better about the situation; that probably
would not work, but it was at least worth a try. Then it
would be time to set up for the next Round of the Tourney.

Round Eight brought him up against a young woman of
the Age 22 ladder, a fair player whose skills he knew from
prior experience. She was Tulip, a gardener-tender for a
Citizen who favored ornamentals. She was as pretty as a
flower herself, and not averse to using her sex-appeal to
gain advantage. But Stile had no intention of prejudicing a
likely victory by such dalliance. He put it into MENTAL,
and so nullified her choice of NAKED. No body-contact
sport this time! They wound up in WORD GAMES.

"Travel from FLESH to SPIRIT," the Game Computer
said. "Time five minutes."

Stile and Tulip got to work. The challenge was to fash-
ion a chain of words linked alternately by synonyms and
homonyms, converting "Flesh" to "Spirit" by readily defin-
able stages. Both length and time counted; within five min-
utes, the shortest viable chain would win. Beyond that time
limit, the first person to establish any viable chain of any
length would win. So it behooved them each to take up
most of that five minutes to seek the shortest possible
chain. To settle on a given chain too quickly would be to
invite the opponent to come up with a shorter one within
the time limit and win; to take too long beyond the time
limit invited loss to a longer but sooner-announced chain.
The point of decision could be tricky.

Flesh, Stile thought. Synonyms would be Body, Meat,
Fatten—there would be others, but these sufficed. If he
explored every single avenue, he would not complete any

Blue Adept                    293

one chain in time. Selectivity—there was the key to this
challenge.
Now try Meat, as the best prospect for homonyms:

Meet as in proper. Meet as in a competitive event. Mete as
in measure. Try the competition-event for synonyms: Con-
test, Race, Competition. Then Race, jumping to the hom-
onym, meaning subspecies, and the synonym Color, and on
to Hue—was this leading to Spirit? Not rapidly. Better try
an alternate, and return to this if necessary. His first job
was to establish a viable chain, any chain, within five min-
utes. That would be an automatic win if Tulip failed to find
one.

Of course, if they both came up with the same chain, the
first to announce it would win. So if he found a good one,
he should announce it regardless of time. But he was not
worried about that; he had pretty good judgment on word-
chains.

He glanced covertly at Tulip. She was chewing on her
lip, making little gestures with her left hand, as though
shaping a slippery sequence. Was she making faster
progress? He didn't think so, as she really wasn't that
bright, but it was possible. Then she caught him looking,
and made a suggestive motion with her hip. He had to turn
his eyes away, lest she bring his thoughts right back to
Flesh and cost him the Game. That was what she was
trying to do, the flirt. Maybe that was how she had gotten
this far.

Try Meet as in proper. Synonym Fit, homonym Fit as in
the contour of clothing. Yes, then Suit, and its homonym
Suit as in satisfy, or the synonym Please.

Homonym Pleas, as in several requests. Synonym—was
he returning to Fit, as in a fit plea for favor? If so, this was
a dead-end, a waste of time, like a loop in the maze-puzzle
he had fallen into in another Game with another woman.
Too much time had passed; he couldn't afford that! This
simple game became confusingly tricky under the pressure
of competition. No, no loop here; define it as a wish, as
desire. And Desire as a homonym, meaning the urgency to
possess, achieve, prevail—he certainly had thati—which
was a possible synonym for team spirit—




294 Blue Adept

Spirit! There it was! And jump to homonym Spirit as in
Soul, and his chain was complete.

Unless that Desire link was faulty. Pleas—Desire—
Spirit. The Computer might reject that as inexact. Better to
work out a tighter chain.

But four minutes were passed. Not enough time to Egure
out a new chain. Tulip looked as if she were on the verge
of completing her own chain. Stile decided to go with this
one. "Chain!" he announced.

"Damn!" Tulip muttered.

"Present," the Computer said.

Stile presented it, trying to conceal his nervousness
about the Desire connection. But the Computer did not
challenge it; it was fairly liberal on the adaptations of
language.

Still, Tulip had another minute to produce a shorter
chain, or a better one of the same length. Stile waited
nervously.

But she seemed to have given up. The time expired with-
out her entry. Stile had won, more or less by default.

"It would have been different in NAKED/PHYSICAL,"
Tulip said tearfully. She had choked at the crisis-point in
this Game, and now suffered the reaction.

"That's why I avoided it," Stile said, though he would
have put it into some subcategory like foot-racing and
probably beaten her anyway. She really hadn't lost much;

with her appearance, she should do well enough in the
wider human galaxy. But it had the mild distaste of an
unjustified victory.

The separations between Rounds were diminishing.
Round Nine was due in the afternoon of the same day.
Stile planned to spend the interim devising strategy and
spells to finish the Red Adept, and to get some rest and
refreshment. He was also concerned about Sheen; he had
restored her in Phaze, again, and she was now fully opera-
tional. But how could he abate the hurt of her nonliving
heartbreak? His attempted spell had not taken effect. She
seemed to have lost much of her will-to-animation, and
there seemed to be no way he could restore it. She needed

Blue Adept                    295

the one thing he could not give—his complete love.
Maybe, he thought again, he should have let her perish,
instead of languishing like this. He had promised a clean
death to the Red Adept; could he do less for his friend?

There was a knock on the apartment door. That was
unusual; visitors usually announced themselves on the
screen. Sheen, alert to threats, went to see to it.

"Oh," she exclaimed, in a perfect representation of sur-
prise. "You survived!"

"I must speak to—Stile," the visitor said.

Stile snapped alert. That was the Lady Blue's voicel

He went to the door. There she stood, a little disheveled
but irremediably splendid. Bluette, of course; she had es-
caped the robot and sought out the name and description
Hulk had given her. Smart woman!

Yet this was extremely awkward. "Come in," Stile said.
"Of course I'll help you. I'm on the trail of the woman who
killed Hulk now. But one thing you must know at the
outset: I want nothing personal to do with you, after this."

Her brow furrowed prettily. "Nothing?"

"I am married to your alternate self, the Lady Blue of
Phaze. You look exactly like her, Bluette—you are exactly
like her—but she is the one I love. This is no reflection on
your own merit, that I sincerely appreciate. And I know
you have no personal interest in me. But—well, if she
thought I was seeing you—"

She smiled, oddly at ease. "I understand."

"Stile," Sheen said, evidently making some sort of con-
nection. "She is not—"

"Not my woman," he agreed. "Bluette, I never wanted to
meet you. It—it's too confusing. And I know, after all you
went through—is that robot still on your trail? That we
can take care of!"

"Stile, listen," Sheen said. "I just realized this is—"
"Look, don't make this any more difficult than it is!" Stile
snapped. "Every second she stands here—this woman is so
like the one I love—"

The woman smiled again. "Now thou dost know what I
went through. Adept. The false so like the true."
"What?" Something didn't jibe here.




296

Blue Adept

Blue Adept

297

"Thee... Thee... Thee."

Stile froze. "Oh, no!"

"I am the Lady Blue," she said. "Fain would I listen
longer to thy protestations of other love, my Lord, but I
did cross the curtain to bring thee a vital message."

Never had Stile imagined the Lady Blue in this frame.
"But that means—"

"That Bluette is dead," Sheen Enished. "It has after all
been several days. We should have heard from her before
this, had she escaped."

"Oh, God," Stile said. "That I did not want. And now
the two of you have met—that was never supposed to
happen!" In the back of his mind, moving rapidly to the
fore, was his concern that the robot might do some harm
to her human rival. He had to get the Lady Blue out of
here!

"Thou speakest as if there be some shame here," the
Lady Blue said. "I have long known of thy most loyal
friend in this frame, the lovely Lady Sheen, and I am glad
to meet her at last." She turned to address Sheen directly.
"I am oath-friend to Neysa. Can I be less to thee? If thou
wouldst honor me with thy favor, 0 noblest of Ladies—"

And Sheen was crying. It was not the sort of reaction a
robot was supposed to have, but it was natural to her. "Oh,
Lady—oh. Lady!"

Then they were hugging each other, both crying, while
Stile stood in mute confusion. Somehow it seemed that
Sheen had been restored—yet the mechanism of it was
beyond his immediate comprehension.

When the Erst flush of their emotion subsided, the Lady
Blue delivered her message to Stile. "A bat-lad came to the
Demesnes, sore tired from rapid flying. Methought he
wanted healing, but it was news for thee he brought."

"Vodlevile's son!" Stile exclaimed. "I never thought he
would—"

"He said the Red Adept had returned to the ruin of her
Demesnes and fashioned a terrible spell, a basilisk-amulet
that would destroy whatever it touched, being invoked by
the very frame of Phaze. This she meant to give thee in the
frame of Proton, and when thou didst bring it across the
curtain—"

"Her final trap!" Stile said. "A basilisk—a creature
whose very touch brings horrible death, whose gaze petri-
fies. But why does she think I would accept such an amulet
from her?"

"The bat-lad said she made it resemble something thou
couldst not refuse. Something thou wouldst immediately
take across the curtain. That was all he knew; he dared not
get within the range of her power. He thought it was news
thou shouldst have—and I thought so too. So I tried to
reach thee—and succeeded."

"It is as if Bluette gave her life, to make this message
possible," Stile said. "And the vampire child—my trifling
favor to him may be destined to save my life. Yet this is
strange. Why should I need to be warned against doing
what I would not have done anyway? Well I know the
power of Red's amulets! In this frame they are harmless,
but I would never carry one across to Phaze."

The Lady Blue spread her hands. "Mayhap we can piece
it out, my Lord. I must return to the wolves in three hours,
lest they worry. Meanwhile, may I view more of this won-
drous frame of Proton? This may be mine only chance to
visit it, and tain would I know as much of thy homeland as
I can."

"I'll show you," Sheen said. "I'll show you everythingi"

Sheen was a machine, but she would not deceive Stile. If
she accompanied the Lady Blue, she would protect her.
And if that was what she wanted, how could he deny it?
Thus it was that Stile found himself alone with his puzzling
piece of information, while the two Ladies toured the local
domes.

Who would have thought that the source of Sheen's woe
would also be the abatement of it? Yet from the moment
the Lady Blue had addressed her as Lady Sheen—

What healing magic there was in a title! The Lady Blue,
without apparent premeditation or design, had granted
equal status to Sheen and proffered friendship and respect.
Sheen had been instantly conquered. The issue of her
machine-nature had not even been a consideration.

Stile returned to his deliberations. He decided that the
Red Adept planned to gift him with the amulet through
some third party, so that he would not suspect its nature.




298

Blue Adept

Blue Adept

299

Perhaps a silver brooch for the Lady Blue; of course he
would take that to her in Phaze. But now he had been
warned; he would not take anything across the curtain.

In two hours the two returned, forever friends. "What
a frame this is!" the Lady Blue exclaimed, exactly like the
tourist she was. "Never since I saw the West Pole have I
seen the like! Truly a magical world!"

The West Pole? "You mean in Phaze there really is a—?"

"Thou didst not know? I will take thee there, my love,
once this business here is done."

"I will go there," Stile said. Fascinating, that an alien
creature from some far galactic world had heard about the
West Pole, while Stile who seemed to live almost on top of
it had not. "Now—I love thee. Lady, and fain would have
thee stay—but until the message of the Oracle has been
appropriately interpreted, guaranteeing me the chance to
stay with thee, I must remain apart from thee."

"I go, my Lord." She approached Stile and kissed him.
Then Sheen accompanied her to the curtain. Stile contin-
ued his research for the next Round of the Tourney, fear-
ing his company would only endanger the Lady Blue, here
on Proton. She had acted with considerable courage, com-
ing here and finding her way through the mysterious tech-
nological habitat of Proton. He loved her for that courage
—but this was not her frame.

Round Nine carried a two-year tenure bonus for the
loser, and the prospect of much more for the winner. Stile
was now into "safe" territory; he could not be exiled from
Proton after washing out of the Tourney. This removed
some of the tension. It was now more important to deal
with the Red Adept than to win any particular Game. Oh,
to win the Tourney would be grand—but the odds re-
mained against him, especially with one loss on his tally.
But once he eliminated Red, the entire frame of Phaze was
awaiting him, and a happy life with the Lady Blue. So he
would play his best, but without the terrible urgency he
had had before. That was just as well, since he had other
things to do than research his prospective opponents. That
research had become a chore.

His opponent this time was a female Citizen. Three Citi-
zens in one Tourney—his luck was bad! But no—probably

half the survivors of this level were Citizens, so this was no
luck at all.

Still he did not intend to mess with her. He had the
letters, so couldn't stop her from picking her specialty—
probably MENTAL or ART. But he might interfere with
her plan. He chose MACHINE.

It came up 4C, Machine-Assisted ART. Not his favorite,
but probably not hers either. They could find themselves
doing esthetic figures while parachuting from a simulated-
airplane tower, or playing a concert on a theremin, or
doing sculpture by means of selective detonations of incen-
diary plastic. He would probably feel more at home in
these pursuits than she.

But when they gridded through, she outmaneuvered him.
They had to compete on the sewing machine, making intri-
cate patterns and pictures on a cloth background. She as a
Citizen had had a lot more exposure to cloth than he;

indeed, she wore an elaborate dress-suit with borders
stitched in gold and silver thread. But she had always had
serfs to do her dressmaking for her. So unless she had
practiced in this particular art—

Stile, of course, had practiced. He had spent years ad-
vancing his skills in every facet of the Game. He knew how
to use a sewing machine. He was not expert, but he was
adequate.

As it turned out, he was moderately better than the
Citizen. It was an unspectacular Game, but the victory was
his.

Now for the finish against Red. Sheen's friends, who as
machines had great difficulty perceiving the semi-subjective
curtain, had come up with a device to detect it. Sheen now
carried this device. She would know, in much the way
Neysa knew the whereabouts of Red, where the curtain
was. That way Red would not again elude him by stepping
across a fold of the curtain he did not know was near.

Stile prepared carefully. Sheen carried an assortment of
small weapons and devices—a laser, a radiation grenade, a
periscope, stun-gas capsules, and a folding steel broad-
sword. Her friends had provided a gyro-stabilized unicycle
seating two, so she could ferry him rapidly about, any-
where where crowds would not find it too attention-fixing.




300

Blue Adept

Blue Adept

301

A great deal went on in Proton that failed to attract the
notice of Citizens, but there were limits. In fact, part of
this deadly "game" would be the effort to force Red to call
attention to herself, while Stile escaped it. His only crime
was the sabotage of Red's dome; that had probably an-
noyed her Citizen-mother, but might be attributed to a
repair-machine malfunction. Red would have known the
truth, but not wanted to report it and have her own situation
investigated. She, on the other hand, had been responsible
for the deaths of Hulk and Bluette—oh, a double pain and
guilt there!—and these were recorded on holo-tape. She
would be banished instantly, even if she won more tenure
through the Toumey, once those murders came to light.

Unless she won the Tourney and became a Citizen. Then
she would be immune to all reprisal. Stile had to make sure
she did not succeed in that.

They set out in quest of the enemy. Stile had a full day
before Round Ten—and if that were not time enough, he
would resume the chase after the Round. His oath of
vengeance would soon be satisEed, one way or the other.

First he went to the curtain at a remote spot and stepped
across. Neysa was there—with the Lady Blue.

Startled, Stile protested. "Lady, I wanted thee to be
under the protection of the werewolves."

"A wolf went to the Oracle," she said. "And learned that
his oath-friend Neysa was in dire peril from this mission.
Since Neysa will not give over, the wolves and unicorns are
now patrolling the curtain, ready to aid her if need be.
Rather than interfere with this effort, I too patrol the cur-
tain."

Stile was not wholly satisfied with this, but realized that
this was another device of the animals to help him. They
wanted to be in on the action. "I expect to deal with Red in
Proton," he said. "My magic is stronger than hers, in
Phaze, so she is unlikely to cross the curtain before settling
with me. Do you all take care of yourselves."

"Indeed," the Lady agreed. "And thee of thyself, my
love."

How glad he would be when this was over, and he could
love her without restraint. But that had to wait, lest he void
his Oracular guarantee.

Neysa pointed the direction of Red. Then Stile returned
across the curtain to Sheen, drove a distance parallel to the
curtain, recrossed, and got a new bearing. Now he was able
to triangulate. It seemed Red was near the spot she had
halted before, when he intercepted her and leaped over her
car. She must have a secret place there.

They drove there, at moderate speed, so that Neysa
could pace them easily. If Red tried to step across the
curtain again, she would be in immediate trouble. Of
course her amulets could destroy Neysa and the Lady Blue,
so Stile still didn't want them participating in the conclu-
sion. But they could certainly watch from a safe distance.
At least they would know the outcome as soon as it hap-
pened. And perhaps the Lady's presence represented a
guarantee for Neysa, since the Lady could not bear him
any son if she died at this stage. The Lady should survive,
and would hardly allow Neysa to perish in her stead.

The direction was east. They avoided individual domes
and slowed as they neared the spot. It would have been
fun, touring the desert like this, comparing the landscape
to that of Phaze, if the mission weren't so serious. There
were crevices and mounds and the depressions where lakes
might once have been. Where they could be again, if the
Citizens ever developed the interest to restore the planet
instead of depleting it. But that was a hopeless notion; Citi-
zens cared nothing for the external environment. In fact
the very hostility of it gave them additional control over
the system, for no serf could flee outside.

There was nothing where Red was supposed to be. Sand
and low sand dunes covered the entire area.

They sought the nearest fold of the curtain. Stile crossed.
Mare and Lady were there. Stile obtained two more point-
ings, narrowing down the location precisely. Red was not
in Phaze, but in the equivalent spot in Proton was a bunker,
a room set below the level of the ground. It was filled with
amulets; obviously a cache of Red's.

But these amulets would not work in Proton. The cur-
tain passed through this spot, but it was dark beyond it.
Stile would have to cross it to find out what was there.

Neysa blew a negative note. Red was in the dark be-
yond. She could surely see Stile, since he was here in the




302 Blue Adept

lighted frame. She could be holding a sword high in both
hands, waiting to decapitate the next person who crossed.
A simple enough trap.

So Stile avoided it. He removed himself some distance,
crossed to Proton, and explained the situation to Sheen.

"It is surely a trap," she agreed. "She means you to
come to her. Don't chance it."

"I'm not going to let her escapel She'll never come out if
I just leave her alone."

Sheen opened her chest compartment and brought out the
laser-cutter. "Make a hole, drop in a stun-capsule."

That seemed appropriate. Stile started the laser. Quickly
the hole formed. Soon it broke through the steel ceiling of
the bunker. Then he dropped in the capsule. There was a hiss
as it activated, and a puff of the gas emerged from the hole.

"I heard something in there fall," Sheen said. "Now for
the periscope." She brought out the tiny device. It was
electronic, and needed no solid extension into the hole; its
perceptor-unit was mounted on an almost invisible thread
that dangled down.

It showed the Red Adept sprawled naked on the floor of
her miniature fortress, an old-fashioned dueling pistol in
one hand, an amulet in the other. Had she planned to force
the amulet on him at gun-point? If so, she had been amaz-
ingly naive.

"I am suspicious," Sheen said. "There is no entrance
here in Proton; she uses Phaze as access. She expected you
to enter that way. There could be an automatic weapon set
to cover the curtain."

"Yes. We had better force entry from here."

They set about it. Sheen had several construction bombs,
and used them to blast away the sand and rip open a man-
sized aperture in the wall of the bunker. Then she entered
first.

"No automatic weapon," she reported. "Still, I think
you'd better stay clear."

"The hell with that," Stile said, walking down the sand
embankment. "I can't have the ladies doing everything for
me."

"But we can't be sure this was the extent of the trapl It's
too simple; even I could have worked out something more

Blue Adept                    303

sophisticated, and I have no creative imagination. At least
let me search the premises—"

"You do that. I'll tie up Red." Because Stile found he
could not kill her, this way. Now when she was uncon-
scious. Funny how she had allowed herself to be gassed,
when she must have heard the laser-drill.

He leaned over the body, not squatting, because of his
knees. Sheen commenced her inspection of the bunker.
Something nagged him, but he couldn't place it at the
moment. "I won't touch that amulet, certainlyl"

Abruptly, Red moved. Her head turned to cover him,
and her pistol whipped up. She was not unconscious after
all!

Stile hurled himself to the side as the gun went off. Had
he been squatting, as a normal man would have done, he
could have been fatally caught; the gun was aimed for the
heart of a squatting man. As it was, the bullet slammed
into his left thigh.

It was a bad hit. Now Stile exerted his trance-control.
He let himself fall backward while clapping both hands to
the wound. The pain was terrible, but he was bringing it
under control, while he slowed the pulsing eruption of
blood. He could not afford to lose consciousness; he could
bleed to death rapidly. The major artery had been nicked
or severed; he would need a surgeon's prompt attention.

Meanwhile Sheen launched herself at Red. Pistol and
amulet flew wide and Red was hurled against the wall.

But then Red righted herself and hurled Sheen away,
with inhuman strength. "This is a roboti" Sheen cried. "A
machine, like mel"

"True," the Red-figure said. "I bear this message for
Stile: make haste away, midget, for at this moment the
Red Adept is launching an explosive drone vehicle tuned
to the bullet in you. How much damage the drone does
depends on your location when it catches you."

They heard the noise of machinery moving, some dis-
tance away. Something was rising from another bunker.
"Run, Blue!" the robot continued, "Suffer the joys of the
chase, rabbit. Message ends." And the robot went dead.

"Sheen!" Stile cried. "Carry me to the curtain. They can
help me there, and the drone can't cross—"

304 Blue Adept Blue Adept 305

"The amulet!" Sheen cried. "It is the bulletl"

"The bulletl" Stile echoed. Now the full nature of this
terrible trap was apparent—and he had almost fallen into it
despite the warning the Lady Blue had brought. If he
crossed with the bullet in him, it would animate into the
basilisk, and he would be dead before he could utter a
spell. But if he did not cross—

Now they heard the released drone, cruising across the
sand toward them. There could be enough explosive in that
to blow up a mountain.

Sheen stooped to pick him up. She carried him to their
unicycle and set him in the seat and flung the safety har-
ness around him while Stile clung to consciousness and to
his leaking thigh. Then she jumped in herself and started
the motor.

The drone-car was rounding the bunker, picking up
speed. Sheen accelerated away at right angles to its path. In
moments they were traveling seventy kilometers an hour,
leaving the drone behind. This was not a particularly fast
velocity for travel on a surfaced road, but across the desert
landscape it seemed horrendous. "We'll have to get the
bullet out before we take you to a doctor!"

"How can we get it out without a doctor, especially if we
can't stop?" Stile gritted. He was not in the most reason-
able of moods at the moment, as he fought to keep blood
and body consciousness together. The rough riding did not
help.

"I'll summon one of my friends to intercept us."

"Summon one to blow up the drone!"

"They won't do that. It would attract attention to their
nature. But one will help you and depart. Then the drone
won't matter."

"Not to rush you," Stile said. "But I can only hold on
here a short while. I'm in partial trance, suppressing the
circulation to my leg, but the wound is bad and I'm slowly
losing control. My last reserves are depleting."

"I know the experience," she said. "We'll stay right be-
side the curtain, so you can cross the moment we get the
bullet out. Then you'll be able to use magic to—"

"I can't heal myself with magic."

"The Lady Blue will find some other Adept to help you,
I'm sure. Perhaps the Lady Yellow—"

"Yellow is no ladyl She is an old crone." But he was
being querulous in his adversity. Yellow probably could
help. He remembered how the Lady Blue had won her
favor by starting the applause at the Adept pavilion. The
Lady Blue was good at that sort of thing.

Sheen guided the unicycle to the curtain. Stile perceived
it now with remarkable clarity. Had it intensified, or was
his current state of pain-blocking trance responsible? It
hardly mattered; he could see across as though it were an
open window.

The unicycle was handily outdistancing the drone at the
moment—but in Phaze Neysa was having trouble keeping
up. The terrain was more varied there, with trees and
streams and bushes obstructing her route. "Slow it. Sheen.
Neysa is wearing herself out—and I'll need her there the
moment I cross."

Sheen slowed—but then the drone gained, cutting into
their lead. This was worrisome; that lead was their margin
of safety. In addition the landscape was getting rougher.
They were heading generally west, curving north with the
curtain, back toward the major cluster of domes. On the
prior trips they had maneuvered comfortably around the ob-
structions of boulder, dune, crevasse and ridges. But the
curtain crossed these heedlessly, and this made the drive dif-
ficult. Sheen had to skid along awkward slopes, bounce
through gullies, and plow through the mounds of sand.
The drone suffered also—but it was squat and sturdy with
broad wheel-treads, and it kept on going. The hazards of
this chase would shake apart the unicycle before they
stopped the three-wheeled pursuer.

Neysa, meanwhile, was encountering problems in Phaze.
Stile watched her helplessly, as Sheen guided the unicycle
along the curtain, now one side of it, now the other, caus-
ing his view to shift about considerably. The unicorn could
handle the irregularities of the terrain, but there were also
creatures in the way. She had to charge through a colony
of demons, and in a moment they were in pursuit like so
many drones, eager for unicorn flesh. Neysa could have
escaped them easily if she had not been staying close to the




306 Blue Adept Blue Adept 307

curtain, and if she had not had to worry about the security
of the Lady Blue. Or she could have turned to fight them,
putting them to flight with a few well-placed skewers—had
she not had to keep up with Stile's vehicle. Now the de-
mons were popping up everywhere from crevices in the
rock, cutting her off. They were grinning; they knew they
had her.

Neysa blew a desperate summons on her horn. Stile
could hear the sound, faintly, across the curtain, even as he
rode in the same channel Neysa ran in, overlapping her
without any tangible evidence of it. He could only actually
see her when the curtain was between them so that he
could look through it, and that happened only in snatches.
The curtain was a funny thing, something he would have
to explore more thoroughly some day and come to under-
stand. Like the Oracle, it was a phenomenon that seemed
to have no origin and no reasonable explanation; it merely
existed, and was vital to communication between frames.

Again Neysa sounded. The call resounded across the
wilderness. The demons growled in laughter; sound could
not hurt them. Stile wished he could cross over and help
out with a spell—but that notion was folly.

Then a ranging werewolf, summoned by the horn, spied
them. He bayed. His oath-friend was being molested. This
was why they were patrolling the curtain; they had been
warned of this danger. Their numbers were thinly spread,
because the convoluting curtain traversed a tremendous
amount of territory, but their keen perceptions made up
the difference.

The bays of other wolves responded. Suddenly they were
converging, their sounds approaching at a gratifying rate.
In moments they were in sight, and leaping with savage
glee and righteous anger at the demons. One thing a were-
wolf lived for—a good fight in a good cause.

Now the predatory laughter of the demons turned to
rage at this interference. But soon it turned to fear, as
more and more members of the wolfpack closed upon
them, lips peeling back in the terrifying grin of attack as
they cut in between demons and unicorn.

Neysa ran on with a single note of gratitude, still carry-
ing the Lady Blue, still pacing Stile. The sounds of, the

battle grew loud, then faded behind. The demons had
chosen the wrong creature to attack, this time.

Sheen continued to guide the unicycle. She handled it
with desperate skill. Now a dome lay across the curtain.
They had to skirt it—but when they intercepted the curtain
again, Neysa was there, thin jets of fire issuing from her
nostrils. She was overheating, but would not allow herself
to fall behind. The Lady Blue clung to her, riding with
consummate skill, watching out for other hazards, guiding
Neysa into the best channels with little advisory nudges,
not directives. The unicorn had charge of the run, but the
Lady was able to devote more attention to the route. Neysa
was concentrating increasingly on the single effort of main-
taining the pace; she no longer lifted her head to survey the
course. She trusted the Lady's guidance. Stile knew exactly
how it was; he had raced the marathon in times past, and
had reached the stage where nothing existed except his
agonizing pumping legs and the called course-corrections
of friends. Vision itself became expendable.

Stile was struggling similarly now. His hands were soak-
ing in blood. His consciousness was slowly slipping. He
was panting with the sheer effort of keeping flesh and spirit
together. Flesh and spirit—had that been a premonition,
that Tourney Game? He had succeeded then—but this
struggle was harder, with more dependent on it. Still the
drone pursued.

He saw snatches of scenes across the curtain, hills, then
a river. Neysa had to ford it, her hot hooves sending up
gouts of steam as they touched the surface. Then it grew
deeper and she swam, falling behind. She could not shift to
firefly and wing across it, because of the Lady Blue. The
unicycle was traversing the dry bed of that river.

Then the curtain curved down toward the south again,
past the caves of the vampire bats, back across another
arm of the river at the ruins of the Red Demesnes. Other
unicorns were running with Neysa now, clearing the way.
Bats were flying, spotting problems, getting them allevi-
ated. A dragon was taking a snooze across the curtain;

faced by six charging unicorns, it hastily vacated the spot.
Little Folk of the daylight kind stood aside to let the
strange procession pass. The grueling run went on.




308                    Blue Adept

All for him. Stile realized with pained gratitude. All the
unicorns, werewolves and vampires extending themselves
to their limits just to help him preserve his life. Neysa,
running herself to destruction. Could it be worth it? Now
her hooves were glowing red; her very flesh was burning
up. She left a narrow trail of smoke where her passage had

ignited the leaves of the forest floor.

Then a new vehicle closed with the unicycle. It locked
on, matching the pace exactly. Machine arms reached out.
Sensors traveled down Stile's body, touching his gory leg.
Anesthetic came. Germicidal radiation flared. There, at the
bouncing velocity of the chase, the robot surgeon removed
the bullet, patched the torn artery, stitched and bound the
wound while simultaneously injecting Stile with artificial
blood matching his type. It retouched the nerve block on
that leg so that no pain returned. Then the arms and tenta-
cles retreated, the other vehicle disengaged, and went its
own way with a parting warning: "Protect our interests!"
—tell no one in Proton how he had been helped.

When Sheen's friends chose to render assistance, they
did so with enormous precision and effect. Stile knew he
could not go to any hospital now; he had sworn not to
betray the self-willed machines, so he had to conceal the
nature of this surgery from the Citizens. But that was easy
enough to do; he no longer needed surgery.

Still, he was near to unconsciousness. His human re-
serves had been depleted, and neither surgery nor artificial
blood could take the place of rest. Sheen steered the uni-
cycle to the curtain. Neysa made a final desperate effort,
caught up, and galloped directly along it. The unicycle
slowed to accommodate her. The drone closed in rapidly.

Now unicorn and unicycle were superimposed, separated
only by the frames. "Do iti" Sheen cried. Stile willed him-
self through.

He fell across Neysa's hot back. The Lady Blue flung
her arms about him, clasping him, her healing hands al-
ready helping. He was safe at last!

Across the curtain. Sheen's vehicle accelerated. She had

the bullet now. The drone followed her.
Stile, relieved, lost consciousness.

CHAPTER 12

Dance

Round Ten was getting into rarefied territory. Only twenty
players remained, eighteen of whom had suffered one loss.
The losers of this Round would receive a five-year tenure

bonus.

Stile had another liability to go with his bad knee: the
healing thigh. The bullet-amulet had lodged in his bone,
holing the artery in passing. The damage, while bad, had
not been as bad as it could have been, but he had depleted
his vital resources and suffered near-shock. The Yellow
Adept had provided a potion that multiplied his healing
rate tenfold. Still, nature needed time to do the job, and he
had been able to rest only ten hours before having to
return for the next Game. He was not in ideal shape.

Sheen had led the drone back to Red's bunker and tossed
the bullet in. That had been that. She reported, objectively,
that it had been a most impressive explosion, that tore
open a hidden second chamber where the Red Adept had
hidden. Unfortunately Red had not been there at the time.
She had vanished from the scene during the drone-chase,
and Stile had not thought to get another fix on her during
his brief recovery period.

As a result of all this assistance and attention by the
several ladies of the frames. Stile was free of immediate
threats to his welfare and was able to play the Game—but
he really intended to stay out of the PHYSICAL column.
Sheen was taking good care of him, but she could not help
him there.

His opponent this time was a man of his own ladder:

nicknamed Track, age 35, the running champion of the
over-30 category, and no slouch at other track events. Stile
could not have beaten him at running, jumping or swim-
ming even when in shape, and in his present condition it




-."                    Blue Adept

310

would have been hopeless. But Track was comparatively
weak in MENTAL and had virtually no artistic awareness.
So this should be an easy win for Stile—if he kept it out of

PHYSICAL and CHANCE.

As luck would have it. Stile got the letters. He could not

eliminate the physical column.

He considered rapidly. NAKED was absolutely out.

TOOL was not good; Track was excellent at bicycle racing,
tennis, billiards and other such sports. MACHINE was a
little better; Track was less secure in things like motorcycle
racing, while Stile was expert, and his thigh would interfere
only minimally. ANIMAL—Stile was of course the cham-
pion horse racer. He could no longer flex his knees prop-
erly for best effect, but his basic skill and experience and
rapport with horses remained. This was his obvious choice.

Therefore he did not take it. He went for TOOL instead,
hoping to catch Track sneaking in MENTAL. 2D would
have put them into animal training, and Track had an

excellent touch with the circus whip.

It didn't work. It came up IB. Tool-Assisted Physical

Games.
But Stile outmaneuvered him in the subgrid, and the

Game came up Bubbles. This was about as delicate as a

physical game could get.
They blew soap bubbles with straws, and wafted them

across a measured alley. Scoring was by volume, distance
and time—to get the greatest volume of bubble across a set
distance within the time limit. Stile had the fine touch here;

his bubbles were only of medium size, but were durable,
while Track's larger ones tended to pop before completing

the distance.

Stile won the Game. It had been his gridding skill, once

more, that had done it. They shook hands and parted, and
the crowd of spectators applauded. This had hardly been a
bruising or dramatic Game, but the stakes were high
enough to make it interesting to all. With five more years
of tenure to look forward to. Track was not hurting badly.

Stile managed six more hours accelerated healing in
Phaze before reporting for Round Eleven. Now the total
number of contestants was down to eleven, with only one
remaining undefeated. The losers of this Round would re-


Blue Adept

311

ceive a prize of ten years tenure. One thousand and thir-
teen had now been eliminated from the Tourney.

Stile's opponent was another Citizen, this time a young
one—about fifteen years old. Stile was pretty sure he could
prevail on most games of skill, but still did not want to risk
the physical ones. This time he had the numbers, so put it
into MENTAL; there he would have no disadvantage.

The Citizen, surprisingly, selected ANIMAL. So it was
2D, the one Stile had played to avoid last time. When they
gridded it down to the specific, they settled on Mixed-Spe-
cies Communication.

Each player had three untrained animals: a dog, a cat
and a rat. Each player had all-purpose animal snack treats
and an electronic goad: positive and negative inducements.
The task was to get all three animals to traverse a set maze
without touching any of them. The first player to succeed

would be the winner.

The animals, of course, were at first more interested in
pursuing or escaping each other than in doing intellectual
tricks. Careful management was required. The goad was
adjustable, creating pain in the systems of whatever animal
it was tuned to, ranging from mild to paralyzing; the cats
learned very quickly not to attempt to pounce on the rats,
because of the mysterious agony that balked them. But the
inducement of a positive act was more difficult than the
suppression of a negative one. The snacks could not be
used to lead the animals; they could only be presented as
rewards for proper behavior. This was confusing to the

creatures.

There was a series of "locks" in which, by the design of

the layout, two animals were necessarily together briefly
before passing into the next stage of the maze; that was
what really put it into the MENTAL column. The reward
of food could lure the animals into the first lock, and the
goad could prevent them from attacking one another, since
they tended to repeat what had been positive before and
avoid what had been negative. But the overall strategy of
placement and movement and incentive was what counted
in causing the animals to respond most positively.

Again, Stile's experience and rapport with animals paid
off. He completed the course while the young Citizen was

still trying to get his cat to join his growling dog in the
lock, instead of pouncing on the rat. Had he brought the
rat to the lock first he would have been more successful;

either of the other animals would have joined it willingly.
Stile had brought rat, cat and dog through in that order,
and by the time they finished all three were eager to con-
tinue moving forward. The Round was Stile's.

Funny, how these important later Games seemed to be
getting less consequential in actual play. Stile's first Round
Game, Football, had been his toughest; this last one his
easiest. But the luck of the grid often produced such

anomalies.
Again he returned to Phaze for a night's healing and

rest. It was the Yellow Adept who tended him, in her
natural old-woman form. She had the potions and experi-
ence to handle it, and she represented no temptation for
him to abridge his Oracular guarantee, as might have been

the case with the Lady Blue.

Why was Yellow doing this? He was in hock to her
again, and was getting to like her quite well as a person. It
was as if his need brought out her better traits. Maybe she
liked being part of a team, doing something worthwhile,
earning the appreciation of others. It was something that

few Adepts experienced.

The child Brown Adept also paid him a visit to wish him
well. It seemed she felt a certain retroactive guilt for the
use of a golem in the prior murder of Blue, and wanted to
make an amend. Things were looking up.

But until he eliminated the Red Adept, nothing was
settled. She must have been busy setting up new traps
during the period of his convalescence. Then Sheen re-
ported that Red had shown up in the Tourney. She too had
made it to the rarefied Rounds, with a single loss. If both
Red and Stile continued winning, they would eventually

come up against each other there.

It happened in Round Twelve. This was hardly coinci-
dence, at this point. Only six contestants remained, one of
them undefeated. The bonus to the loser this time was
twenty years tenure—a full extra term.

Stile's thigh was now almost healed, and he had the
incentive of his oath of vengeance. He was ready for Red.

This was one situation she could neither escape nor cheat.
By beating her here he would not only deny her Citizen-
ship, he would wash her out of the Tourney—and since
her murders of Hulk and Bluette had now come to Citizen
attention, thanks to the investigation of Bluette's Em-
ployer, she would be denied the bonus tenure. She would
be exiled.

Stile pondered the meaning of this. He had wanted to
kill her—yet his oath was merely to "make an end" of her.
The Oracle had not predicted killing either; it had said
Blue would destroy Red. Did exile constitute destruction?
Perhaps. The Citizens had fairly sophisticated mechanisms
to ensure that no exiled person ever returned to Proton; no
worry about that aspect. At any rate, the more Stile con-
templated the prospect of coldly killing another human
being, the less he liked it. He simply was not a murderer.
So if this was the meaning of oath and Oracle, he would
accept it with a certain relief.

Red's position was different. She needed to kill Stile.
Because if he washed out of the Tourney at this point, he
would have twenty years as a tenure serf to plot her de-
struction, assuming she made it through to Citizenship. He
would have his power base on Phaze, where he would be
safe from her mischief, and could locate her and make
forays at any time. The powers of Citizenship were great,
but eventually he would get her, and they both knew it. So
she needed more than victory in the Tourney.

There were ways to kill in the Games. The competitions
were designed to be as safe as possible, but a person could
have heart-failure during extraordinary physical exertion,
or an anesthetic dart in pistol-dueling could be accidentally
contaminated with a legal but lethal drug, or equipment
could fail at a critical moment. She would surely try to
arrange something like that, though it was prohibitively
difficult under the experienced eye of the Game Computer.
Stile, in turn, would try to prevent any such accident.

There was little delay at this stage, since the Game facili-
ties now had to support only three Games. The audience
for each would be huge. Stile was spared the unpleasant-
ness of having to converse with his enemy. They proceeded
immediately to the grid.

314

Blue Adept

Blue Adept

315

Again he got the letters. Every time he really wanted the
numbers, it seemed, the luck of the draw denied them,

Stile did not try to play for Red's weaknesses; he was not
sure what they were, in Game terms. He played for his
own strength: TOOL. He liked animals and worked well
with them, but he wanted no more android-animal football
games or dog-cat-rat games.

It came up 4A. She had gone for ART.

4A? He had selected BI

But his entry was clear; he had miskeyed. Of all the
times to do thati This carelessness could cost him the
match!

No time for recrimination. The Naked Arts related to
Singing, Dancing, Pantomime, Story Telling, Poetry,
Humor and the like: presentations before an audience.
Stile was good enough at these things; presumably Red was
too. She had probably been gridding for Sculpture in 4B;

had Stile played correctly, (hat might have come to pass.
With her life's work in fashioning amulets, she was thor-
oughly experienced and skilled at that sort of thing. Of
course he would not have let her have it; he would have
thrown it into Music. Against Clef he had been in trouble;

against Red he was pretty sure he would have a decisive
advantage in Music. But of course she would not have let
him have it, either, so they would have gridded into some-
thing else, that perhaps neither of them had much experi-
ence in, such as Writing. So he might be just as well on
here. He was versed in most of the Naked Arts, and expert
in some. If she wanted to match him in the generation of
original free verse—

But the grid turned up Dance. All right—he could dance
too. Did she have some particular specialty, like the classi-
cal minuet? He did not care to risk that; better to throw it
into a more creative form, where his imagination could
score. Not Ballet, because his thigh injury could interfere,
but perhaps something loosely related.

In the end it came to a structured free-form dramatic
dance, paradoxical as that seemed. It had a script with set
maneuvers, rather like a ballet, but within that frame the
particular interpretations were left to the players. It was

costumed; in this case it was considered that apparel was
useful for effect without being a necessary tool. NAKED
did not refer to the absence of clothing, since all serfs
lacked that; it simply meant that a particular Game could
be played without any device like a bat or computer or
hunting dog. So for this nakedness, the participants were
clothed, for the beneŁt of the audience. Stile, recently ac-
climatized to the conventions of Phaze, was able to take
this in stride. Red of course had no difficulty at all.

All in all, he felt reasonably well off.

The Computer established the script. It had a good Ele
of diverse story lines, and varied them enough so that there
were few repeats in a given year. This did mean that some
play-themes were fairly unusual, but that was all part of
the challenge.

This one was based on a tale of the Arabian Nights,
"The Afreet's Beauty Contest." Citizens tended to favor
Arabian motifs, associating with the presumed opulence of
ninth- and twentieth-century Arabian culture.

Stile had the role of Kamar Al Zaman, a bachelor
prince, and Red the part of Princess Budur, Moon of
Moons. Stile was not familiar with this particular story, but
had a foreboding about it. These Arabian tales could get
pretty fundamental. This one was obviously a romance,
and the last thing he could stomach was a Game of Love
with the enemy he had sworn to destroy. But there was no
clean way out, now.

The Computer was the Narrator and stage director. A
panel of performing-arts critics was the judge. They would
take into consideration the responses of the audience, but
would not be bound by it; it was known that audiences
often had illiterate tastes and colossal ignorances. Stile was
satisfied with this; it meant his performance would be
judged on its esthetic merits rather than on his size or
Red's appearance.

Maybe, too, he was foolishly buoyed by his last experi-
ence with such a panel, in connection with the harmonica
duet. He knew something like that was unlikely to happen
again; still...

They took their places on the darkened stage. The light




316 Blue Adept

came on in Stile's part of the set. It was not a fancy
Arabian setting, to his surprise, but a simple two-level
pseudo-stone alcove.

"Kamar AI Zaman, an Arabian prince, has been con-
fined to his chamber by his father the King because Kamar
refuses to marry any of the eligible girls of the kingdom or
any of the princesses of friendly neighboring Idngdoms.
The King wishes to ensure the continuance of the royal
line, and harbors a nagging suspicion that his son may be
gay, so has taken stringent measures to force the issue and
to conceal the situation from the public. Prince Kamar
submits to this humiliation with genteel grace. He now
does the Dance of the Unbowed Head, symbolizing his
determination to pursue his own life without regard for the
dictates of royal fashion."

Suddenly Stile liked this tale better. He could dance this
themel He believed in individual freedom and initiative—
especially since he had discovered what life was like in
Phaze. Even when an infallible Oracle set a particular fate,
man's ingenuity could shape it into something profitable.
Stile was a prince, in the terms of Phaze—and a peasant,
in the terms of Proton. His participation in the Tourney,
he realized now, was motivated by his desire to change his
status. To become a prince.

Stile danced. His archaic costume was designed for
dancing rather than for any historical accuracy. He wore
white tights that left his legs completely free, and a flowing
blue cape that flung out when he whirled. It was fun; he
developed his presentation as he did it, showing his defi-
ance of the system, his fierce will-to-succeed. It was Stile
against the frame of Proton, Stile against adversity. He
spun and leaped and spread his arms in the universal ges-
tures of defiance, and finally wound down to passivity; for
he was after all Kamar, imprisoned in the tower like a
common serf for daring to choose his own mode of living
and loving. No one could appreciate his defiance, here in
the dark tower, and this made it empty.

Except for the audience. It was large, and it applauded
vigorously when Stile finished. Maybe this was a rote-
response, clapping because that was what was supposed to
be done; but Stile hoped that he had in fact conveyed a

Blue Adept                   317

mood that all of them could understand. Serf against Citi-
zen ...

The experts on the panel made notes. It had been an
excellent dance, thematically and technically, a good start
on this role. Maybe this would work out.

Now Stile's portion of the stage darkened. Red's illumi-
nated. Hers was a very feminine set, with draperies and
mirrors and a plush feather bed made up on the elevated
rear section of the stage, and her costume fit right in.
"Meanwhile, the Princess Budur, Moon of Moons, re-
nowned for her beauty and accomplishments in a kingdom
on the far side of the civilized world, has experienced simi-
lar difficulties. She has refused all suitors, finding none she
likes, because she prefers to marry for love rather than
prestige or convenience. Her father is furious, and has
confined her to quarters until she becomes more amenable
to reason. Now, alone, she performs the Dance of Blighted
Hope, symbolizing her unrequited longing for true ro-
mance."

Red danced. She wore a lovely red outfit with a full-
circle skirt and gems that gleamed in the lights, huge ru-
bies, making her motions sparkle. She was. Stile realized
reluctantly, a beautiful woman, well-formed and healthy.
Alone, her size was not apparent; she looked normal, as
did Stile. Her life of malice had left her physically un-
touched.

She was an excellent dancer, too. Her symbolism came
through exquisitely. She spun precisely, so that her skirt
flared out and lifted to show perfectly proportioned legs.
She made eloquent gestures of love-longing that could not
be misinterpreted; her face became radiant with hope and
pitiful with disappointment. Was she a consummate ac-
tress, or did she really feel these emotions? Stile felt un-
comfortable doubt; it was awkward to maintain his hate at
full intensity in the face of this exquisite presentation.

At last she collapsed in complete abandoned grief, end-
ing the dance. Never had Hope appeared more Blighted, or
a fate less deserved.

The audience burst into applause again. Stile realized
with misgiving that Red had outdanced him. She had con-
veyed more emotion in a more effective manner than he




318 Blue Adept

had. He was going to have to work for this Round! To
further enhance his discomfort, he realized now that if Red
made it to Citizenship, she would have much greater re-
sources than she had had before, and would not need to
remain on the defensive; she could probably hire execution
squads to dispatch him at her convenience. She did not
have to kill him here; it was sufficient merely to defeat
him. His situation was looking worse as hers looked better.

"Both Kamar and Budur strip and sleep, for it is night,"
the Narrator continued. Individual spotlights touched each
person with gray light to suggest night, leaving the rest of
the stage dark. Stile removed his costume and folded each
piece carefully, as a prince would, then stretched out on
the elevated back section of the stage, feigning sleep. There
was surely more to this Dance than this! There had to be,
for he was behind and needed to catch up.

"Now the tower in which Prince Kamar is confined hap-
pens to be haunted by a female afreet, a supernatural being
of the tribes of the jinn," the Computer Narrator contin-
ued. Stile smiled inwardly; how little the Computer knew
that in Phaze, the alternate aspect of this planet, there
really were tribes of jinn! This story could be literal, there.
In fact it could be literal here, since Phaze overlapped
Proton. Maybe the afreets were playing this out in this
same spot at this moment. If they had any way to perceive
what was happening here, without the use of the curtain....

"This afreetah has been away for the day, going about
her business of stirring up assorted mischief in human
affairs, but at night she returns. She passes through the
stone wall and enters the tower chamber, as she is invisible
and immaterial to whatever extent she chooses to be. Lo,
she discovers the sleeping Prince Kamar on her bed and is
amazed by the handsomeness of this mortal creature. She
admires him for some time, deeply regretting that he is not
her kind. Then she fiies out to tell her friends of this
wonder. She encounters a male afreet, who informs her
that he has found a mortal who is prettier than hers.
Affronted, she challenges him to a beauty contest. They
will place the two mortals beside each other and compare
them directly."

There was a pause while the lights dimmed. Stile had to

Blue Adept                    319

get up and cross the stage and lie down beside Red on her
feather bed; the afreets had carried him there, the sleeping
prince. His foreboding increased again; he did not like this
close a contact with her. But he had to follow the script;

any minor deviation would penalize him, and a major de-
viation could disqualify him. He remained beside Red in
play-sleep, wishing he could simply shove her off the
planet. His healing bullet-wound began to bother him—
psychological, but indicative.

"The two afreets study the unconscious mortals," the
Narrator said. "Each person is a virtually perfect specimen,
and the afreets are unable to determine a winner. Finally
they hit upon a scheme—let the mortals themselves decide
which one is the prettiest. The afreets will wake each in
turn and watch their reactions; the one who is least affected
will win, since that means the other must be less beautiful."

Like the harmonica contest. Stile thought; the one who
changed least, won. He was becoming curious to know the
outcome of this tale.

The light brightened so that the audience could see the
scene clearly: prince and princess sleeping naked beside
each other. This would have had no significance in ordi-
nary Proton life, but after the elaborate costumes of the
play the suggestion of intimacy was strong.

There was a moment of surprised silence. Then someone
snickered. The mirth quickly spread across the hall.

Stile knew what it was. He had experienced this sort of
thing all his life. The disparity in the size of the actors had
become apparent, now that they were together. The Com-
puter did not care, and the panel of experts could handle it,
but the audience was less sophisticated. Which was why
the audience had no vote in the determination of a winner,
here.

"The Pygmy and the Amazon!" someone said, and the
laughter swelled.

Abruptly a stasis field dropped over them all. No one
could move, on stage or in the audience, though all could
hear. Prolonged, such a field could cause bodily harm and
eventually death; for a short period it was merely uncom-
fortable, since bodily functions slowed almost to a halt.
"Single warning," the Computer said emotionlessly. "Fur-




320 Blue Adept

ther interference from the audience or inappropriate reac-
tions will result in expulsion of the audience."

The stasis lifted. The audience was now completely
sober. There would be laughter only if the script warranted
it, and no extraneous remarks. The Game Computer was a
strict taskmaster; even a few Citizens had been caught in
the stasis. They, however, made no protest; it was to their
interest to have discipline maintained.

Yet the damage had been done. The audience might be
serious, now, but the dance had become ludicrous. Stile
knew that behind those sober faces a maniacal laughter
raged.

He fought to control his own embarrassment and anger.
He drew on a device he had used long ago to reduce stage
fright. He pictured each member of the audience as a
gibbering demon, with huge pointed ears and a bare purple
bottom, scratching at fleas, and whipping a barbed tail
about to tickle his neighbors. He projected all the ludicrous
feeling onto them, away from himself. I am a man; you are
ape-things. Stare, you foolish creatures. Stew in your own
drool.

It was not entirely effective, but it helped. He was aware
of Red shivering with suppressed resentment beside him;

this was striking her, too. To this extent, he agreed with
her.

Yet there was nothing to do except continue. Pygmy and
Amazon had a deadly serious Game to win. The panel of
judges had not laughed, and that was the critical element
of this scene. The play had to go on.

"Now the afreetah changes into a bug and bites Kamar
on the leg," the Computer said. "He wakes—"

Stile slapped his leg as if stung, and sat up. This was a
place where the audience might legitimately have chuckled,
but there was not a single gibber.

"And spies the Princess Budur, Moon of Moons, lying
next to him. Kamar is amazed; he does not realize that he
is in a far-distant place, so intent is he on this marvel. He
inspects her, touches her to make certain she is real and
not a dream-Egment, and tries to wake her. But she is
under a spell of sleep and can not be roused."

Stile went through the motions, in no way betraying his

Blue Adept                    321

preference for throttling her. She was his enemy; why
couldn't she be the size of Neysa in girl-form, so that he
did not look ridiculous in her company? Insult added to
injury. Yet at the same time he had to concede again,
inwardly, that she was a remarkable figure of a woman,
one that in other circumstances—but no, he hated her, and
could not forget that for an instant.

Then he saw the healing scar on her head, beneath her
red hair, where his rock had gashed her. He did not know
how to feel about that.

"It occurs to Kamar that this may be one of the ladies
his father has in mind for him to marry, and that this is a
device of his father's to persuade him. Kamar does not like
such strategy, but Budur is so beautiful that he is instantly
won over. He resolves to tell his father in the morning that
he is now amenable to the union. Meanwhile, he will not
soil his future wife by unfair attentions during her repose.
Kamar lies down and sleeps again."

Almost, a peep escaped from a member of the audience.
Would a virile young man actually do this, in the presence
of a lovely and sleeping young woman? Well, perhaps one
who had refrained from marrying any eligible girl because
of the principle of pursuing his own life, and who would
actually suffer confinement rather than permit his will to
be abridged. It was, at least, an ideal for the audience to
ponder. Stile felt, with a certain smugness, that he had
faced just such a test in his contact with the Lady Blue,
and had reacted similarly.

Stile lay down, relieved. It could have been much worse!
The script could have required an act of love. That sort of
thing was part of the Game—but it might have washed
Stile out of the Tourney at this point. How could he do
any such thing with his enemy, regardless of the script?

'The afreet now changes into a bug and bites the Prin-
cess Budur in a tender spot," the Computer continued. Stile
almost thought it had been about to say that the Moon of
Moons was bitten on a moon; he had to suppress a role-
destroying mirth. In tight situations, even deadly serious
ones, minor things could seem impossibly funny. "She
wakes, while Kamar remains under the enchantment of
sleep."




322 Blue Adept

Red went through the sequence. "She is amazed to find
this strange man in her bed. At first horrified, she soon
realizes that his presence has occasioned her no harm. She
is impressed; he is the handsomest man she has ever seen."
Again, there was not even the hint of a snicker from the
audience. "She concludes that her father has placed him
here, to show her what she has been missing. She is moved;

she calls herself a fool for her prior intransigence. Had she
but known! This is the kind of man she could love! She
attempts to rouse him, but he sleeps on." Stile thought Red
might shake him violently, trying to do him surreptitious
harm, but she was careful, adhering to the script. She knew
she was ahead on scoring, and had merely to maintain that
lead.

"Princess Budur, overcome by passion for the Prince,
embraces him and kisses him, pleading for him to awaken."
Even this directive Red got through, with Stile lying like a
dead man. But as she brushed his left ear with her lips, she
whispered: "I will torture thee for this indignity, foul man!
Never has thy ilk touched me before in other than combat."

She hated men! Not just him, but all meni She was a
true AmazonI That remark from the audience must have
stung her fully as much as it stung him. For her, an act of
love with a man was impossible; she considered the entire
opposite sex to be "ilk."

Yet she was a consummate actress, as so many women
seemed to be. No one in panel or audience had any hint of
her true feeling. She had a will of iron; she would do
whatever it took to win this Round. Stile could not even
play upon her anger, for the script was too specific. He was
officially sound asleep.

"Finally she gives up. She clasps him tightly and falls
asleep." Red put her left arm across his chest, snuggled
close, set her lips against his left ear again, and slowly,
methodically bit into it.

Stile could not jump or scream, for that would have cost
him more points. Yet her position was such that her foul
was not evident to the panel. She seemed to be kissing his
ear—a natural enough action for the role. Stile had to hold
himself frozen while the pain burgeoned.

Blue Adept                    323

This was, indeed, going to be a rough Game.

"This display of emotion wins the wager for the afree-
tab, for Budur showed more passion for Kamar than he
did for her. Satisfied, the afreets carry the Prince back to
his own chamber and depart. They have no further interest
in this matter."

The light dimmed, and Stile returned to his side of the
stage. His ear felt huge and throbbing, but he could not
touch it; Kamar had no reason to. He had to admit Red
had outplayed him again; she had fouled him and gotten
away with it.

This narrative was following the classic formula—boy
meets girl, boy loses girl. Surely boy would regain girl
before it was done. Stile hoped he would have opportunity
to gain the lead. It depended on the kind of dancing and
acting required. There wouldn't be more close contact with
Red for a while, at least.

"When the Prince and Princess wake in the morning,
they are chagrined to find themselves alone. Each has
fallen in love with the other, but neither knows the identity
of the nocturnal visitor. They perform the Dance of Sepa-
ration, symbolizing the pain and confusion of this mysteri-
ous loss."

Stile and Red danced together, apart; she on her part of
the stage, he on his. This was challenging; they had to
coordinate their motions, esthetically, also keeping time to
the music the Computer provided. As with the harmonica
duet, this was a test of integration as well as of individual
skill. Stile, good at this sort of thing, expected to score
well. But he had another nasty surprise.

Red seized the lead, going into a series of deep knee
bends. Stile was unable to match this, as she well knew. If
he flexed his knees that far, he would not be able to main-
tain his balance, and the pain would be prohibitive. She
might take a minor penalty for pushing the lead, but he
was suffering a major penalty for not matching her style.
Red was still gaining points.

So it continued. Red was an excellent dancer, and she
had good knees, and she played her advantage unscrupu-
lously well. She really knew how to make a man look

324 Blue Adept Blue Adept 325

awkward. She made quick shifts of figure that threw him
out of phase, but it looked as though he was the one who
had miskeyed, not her. She initiated a sequence, then ter-
minated it just as he was emulating it, making him look
stupid again. And this was all good tactic, in the Game;

when the judges saw what she was doing, they would still be
giving her points for her expertise in competition. Stile's
own considerable skill was largely eroded by his incapacity.
This Game was becoming hopeless.

They wended their way through the long quest as Kamar
searched the civilized world for his love and she longed to
receive news of him. Stile continued to lose headway.
Members of the audience were quietly vacating their places,
satisfied they knew the outcome. The Oracle, he realized,
had not promised him victory; he had merely juggled the
Lady Blue's Oracular message to ensure his survival after
this encounter. He actually had no guarantee of victory.
His oath was only an oath—vital to him, but no guarantee
of success.

Yet there had seemed to be developing purpose in his life,
however it had been shaped. The way his need to meet the
Herd Stallion had brought him and the Lady Blue to the
Little Folk, and he had acquired the Platinum Flute, lost to
the Stallion anyway, and delivered the Flute to Clef.
Maybe all coincidence, but if Clef was indeed the Fore-
ordained, then it all had meaning. Stile had been a vital
part of that chain—

A part that had ended with the relaying of the Flute.
Stile could have become surplus thereafter, no longer
needed in the chain. An actor whose part had terminated.
So Purpose was no answer. He was on his own. And in
trouble. What use to survive this Dance, if his loss of the
Game meant only that Red would have him assassinated
shortly after he sired a son for the Lady Blue?

At last the dance led Prince Kamar to Princess Budur.
He had traversed the civilized world, taking many months,
to locate her. It was to be an ecstatic reunion, as the lovers
joined after a quest that had often seemed hopeless. Stile
abhored the notion, but forced himself to carry on. What-
ever he might wish, this was evidently not to be the occa-
sion for his destruction of Red.

There were of course various definitions of destruction.
Perhaps Red was destined to win the Tourney, become a
Citizen, and destroy herself in riotous living. Yet that
would not be Stile's agency. Why would the Oracle warn
her that Blue would destroy Red, if Blue was merely one
hurdle among many to be overcome? The whole thing now
suggested a misinterpretation of the Oracle's meaning.
Where did that leave him?

With his oath of vengeance. It didn't matter what the
Oracle predicted. Stile would make an end of Red, one way
or another, and he would not return to love the Lady Blue
until he did. If he could not accomplish this through the
Game, it would have to be some other way. But it would
be. Because he had sworn. Right now he would play this
Round out as well as he could, taking his loss with the
same dignity he had taken his wins.

Yet as the dance drew to its close. Stile's case looked
hopeless. He was so far behind on points that only a figura-
tive knockout punch could salvage a win—and this was no
boxing match. How much he would have preferred that
boxing matchi Red was proceeding smoothly to a victory
that wasn't even close.

Then Stile had an idea. Perhaps he could after all score
a knockouti It would require discipline and courage that
strained the limits of his ability, and there was no guaran-
tee he could make it work. But from what he had learned
of Red's nature, it was a chance. Stile nerved himself for
it.

"And now at last the lovers are rejoined," the Narrator
said. "They rush together. Kamar takes Budur in his
arms—"

Stile had the wit to stand on the raised back portion of
the stage, so that his height almost matched Red's. Now he
concentrated, throwing himself into a half-trance. Pretend
she is the Lady Blue, he told himself. The woman you
love.

"Their expression of joy and love knows no bounds," the
Narrator continued. This was the finale.

The Lady Blue. And, almost, he made himself believe.
As they went into the concluding Dance of Rapture, Stile
threw himself into the full feeling of it, conveying to audi-




326 Blue Adept Blue Adept 327

ence, panel and Red herself the power of his passion. He
was ready to act out the full spirit of this reunion, to love
her in the dance exactly as Prince Kamar loved Princess
Budur. Internal rebellion seethed in him, but he suppressed
it savagely. He could destroy his enemy only by loving
her.

And she—had to go along with it. How could a Prin-
cess, Moon of Moons, reunited with her lost love after
extended and agonized separation, do other than accede to
his natural desire? Stile had seized the lead—and what a
lead it was!

Now the audience caught on. "Do it!" someone whis-
pered audibly, and the Computer did not react. Because
this was a legitimate conclusion of this script. What was a
dance, except the rationalization and dramatization of
human passion?

Red was not slow to catch on. Seeing herself trapped in
this interpretation, anathema to her, she broke. Instead of
kissing him, she bit him. Blood flowed from his lip. Instead
of accepting his embrace, she struck him with fist and
elbow.

The members of the judging panel began to react. Some
violence was permissible in lovemaking; was this merely an
interpretation?

"Belovedl" Stile whispered to her.

Red's face transformed to the semblance of a demon.
She caught Stile's head in her hands and shoved it hard
against the wall. Stile's consciousness exploded in sparkles,
but he offered no resistance. Furious, she threw him to the
floor. He feared a back injury, but he lay there. She started
throttling him, so angry that tears were flowing from her
eyes. "I'll kill thee! I'll kill thee!" she raged. "Thou dost
dare love me! Death be the penalty!"

She was a creature of hate, and deserved her fate. Yet
even as her maniacal fury lashed him. Stile felt regret,
knowing that she, like himself, was a victim of circum-
stance, of fate. Some unknown party had set them both up
for this cruel denouement.

As Stile sank into unconsciousness, he felt the stasis field
take hold, and knew that he had won. His difficult, desper-


ate ploy had been effective against the man-hater. Even for
victory in the Tourney, even for Citizenship, even for life
itself, she could not bring herself to submit to this ultimate
humiliation—to be loved, even in pretense, by a man. Red
had disqualified herself.