Part 17 (1/2)
”So you agree to bet.” Stile looked around. ”Does any one have a coin with head and tail, similar to those used in Tourney contests?”
Another Citizen nodded. ”I am a numismatist. I will sell you a coin for your clothing.”
Now Stile was surprised. ”My clothing has already been committed.”
”I'm calling your bluff. I don't believe you plan to strip, so I figure you to arrange to win the toss. If you win, I get your clothing as due rental for the coin.”
”But what if I lose?”
”Then I'll give you my clothing, in the spirit of this nonsense. But you won't lose; you can control the flip of a coin. All Gamesmen can.”
”Now wait!” the headdressed Citizen protested. ”I want a third party to flip it.”
”I'll flip,” Waldens said. ”I'm objective; I'll be happy to see anyone naked, so long as it isn't me.”
Stile smiled. ”It might be worth the loss.” For the coin loaning Citizen was especially portly. ”Very well. I will rent your coin.”
”This grows ever more curious,” Waldens remarked. ”What is this fascination we seem to share for nakedness in the presence of Stile's lovely robot mistress?”
”Fiancee,” Stile said quickly.
Now the other Citizen smiled. ”Maybe we should all strip and ask her opinion.”
Sheen turned away, blus.h.i.+ng. This was sheer artifice, but it startled the Citizens again; they were not used to robots who were this lifelike. ”By G.o.d,” one muttered, ”I'm going to invest in a harem of creatures like her.” Stile accepted the coin. It was a pretty iridium disk, comfortably solid in his hand, with the head of Tyrannosaurus Rex on one side and the tail of a dinosaur on the reverse. Stile appreciated the symbolism: iridium had been a.s.sociated with the extinction of the dinosaurs, and of course the whole notion of coinage had become a figurative dinosaur in the contemporary age. Iridium, however, remained a valuable metal, and numismatics was popular among Citizens. He pa.s.sed the coin over to Waldens. ”How do we know Waldens can't control the flip too?” another Citizen asked suspiciously. They were taking this tiny bet as seriously as any other.
”You can nullify his control by calling the side in mid air,” Stile pointed out. ”If you figure him to go for heads, you call tails. One flip. Agreed?”
”Agreed.” The Citizen with the headdress seemed increasingly interested. He was obviously highly curious as to what Stile was up to.
Stile was sure the Citizen's inherent vanity would cause him to call heads, as a reflection of self-image, so he hoped Waldens would flip it tails. The coin spun brightly in the air, heading for the tiled floor.
”Heads,” the Citizen called, as expected. He hardly seemed to care about the outcome of the bet now; he was trying to fathom Stile's longer purpose. The iridium coin bounced on the floor, flipped, rolled, and settled tails. Victory for Stile! Stile held out his hand for the hat, and the Citizen with the coin held out his hand for Stile's clothes. All the rest watched this procedure solemnly. Even Sheen had no idea what Stile was up to.
Stile removed his clothing and stood naked, seeming like a child among adults. He took the hat and donned it, arranging it carefully to conceal his hair and complement the lines of his face. Then, with covered head and bare body, he marched to a holo unit set in an alcove. It was a small one, capable of head-projection only, available for emergency use. Any demand by a Citizen was considered emergency.
”Cirtess,” Stile said crisply to the pickup. The device bleeped faintly as it placed the call. He knew the self willed machines were tapping in, keeping track of him without interfering.
The head of a female serf formed in the cubby. ”Sir, may I inquire your ident.i.ty and the nature of your call?”
”I am Stile,” Stile said, rippling an aristocratic sneer across his Ups. ”I merely wish to inform your employer that a line-maintenance crew is about to operate on his premises. The maintenance is phony, and the crew is other than it appears. There is nothing wrong with that line. I believe Cirtess should investigate this matter personally.”
'Thank you, sir,” the serf said. She faded out.
”Now that's something!” Waldens exclaimed. ”You warned him you were coming! Do you have a death wish?” Stile removed his hat, but did not seek new clothing. He took the wheeled machine and started down the hall.
”Aha!” Waldens exclaimed. ”Of course he would know how to emulate a serf! But Cirtess won't let a serf intrude, either, especially when he's been warned by a Citizen that something's afoot.”
”We shall End out,” Stile said. ”You may watch me on the general pickup system to verify whether I succeed. Serfs, come along.” He moved on toward the dome entrance.
The Citizens turned on the little holo unit, crowding around it. Stile knew they would follow his every move. That was fine; he wanted them to have no doubt. He led his party to the Circle-Tesseract emblem. Cirtess' dome adjoined the main public dome closely; an on ground tunnel about fifty meters long extended between the two. The communication line was buried beneath the floor of the tunnel.
Two male serfs stood guard at the tunnel entrance. They snapped to alertness as Stile's party approached. One barred the way. ”This is private property.”
Stile halted. ”I'm on Citizen business,” he said. ”I'm tracing an important message along the communication line.”
”Have you my employer's permission to pa.s.s?”
”He knows we're coming,” Stile said. ”I expect him to attend to this personally. Now give me room; I don't have all day.” He pushed on by, trundling the machine. Uncertain, the serf gave way. No mere serf braved the premises of a Citizen without authorization; this line tracing had to have been cleared. But the other serf was already buzzing his dome. ”Work crew of four claims to be on Citizen business,” he said.
Stile walked on, not waiting for the answer. Mellon, Sheen, and the machine-tending serf followed. They all knew they could be cut down by a laser at any moment; Citizens had short fuses when it came to serf intrusions, and there was a laser lens covering the length of the tunnel. But Stile was gambling that Cirtess would investigate before firing. Why should an illicit crew intrude so boldly on his premises? Why should there be advance warning? Wasn't it more likely that someone was trying to make mischief for a legitimate work crew? But the maintenance computer would deny that any crew was operating here at this time, so it was phony. It simply didn't add up, unless it was a practical joke. In that case, Cirtess would want to discover the perpetrator. To do that, he would have to observe the work crew and perhaps interrogate it. It was unlikely that Stile, himself would be recognized in this short time; the Amerind hat had completely changed his face, and in any event, the last thing anyone would think of was a Citizen masquerading as a serf. At least this was Stile's hope.
No laser bolt came. Stile reached the end of the tunnel, pa.s.sed another serf guard who did not challenge him, and traced the buried cable on through a foyer and into a garden park girt with cubistic statuary. The Tesseract motif, of course; Citizens could carry their symbolic foibles quite far.
In the center of the garden, beside a fountain that formed odd, three-dimensional patterns. Stile came to the buried cable nexus. He oriented the machine on it. There was a buzz; then an indicator pointed to the line leading away, and a readout gave the coding designation of the new cable. He had accomplished his mission and won his bet.
But when he looked up, there was a Citizen, flanked by a troop of armed serfs. This was Cirtess; Stile knew it could be no other. ”Step into my office. Stile,” the man said brusquely.
So the game was up. Stile turned the machine over to its regular operator and went with the Citizen. He had not actually won his bet until he escaped this dome intact with the machine; or if he had won the bet, but lost his life, what he had gained?
Inside the office, with privacy a.s.sured, Cirtess handed Stile a robe. Stile donned it, together with sandals and a feather hat. His subterfuge had certainly been penetrated. ”Now what is the story?” Cirtess inquired. ”I think you owe me the truth.”
'I'm tracing a two-month-old message,” Stile said. ”Your personnel would not permit entry to a necessary site.”
”Of course not! I'd fire any serf who let unauthorized persons intrude.”
”So I had to find a way through. It has nothing to do with you personally; I simply have to trace that message to wherever it originated.”
”Why didn't you tell me this by phone? I am not unreasonable when the issue is clear, I might have permitted your mission, for a reasonable fee.”
”I happen also to need to increase my fortune.”
Cirtess nodded. ”Could this relate to the several Citizens who huddle in the serf lavatory, spying on your progress?”
”They gave me fifteen-to-one odds on a kilo of Protonite that I couldn't make it. I need that sort of advantage.”
”So you called me to rouse my curiosity, so my serfs wouldn't laser you out of hand?”
”Also so as not to deceive you,” Stile agreed. 'I do not like deception, outside the framework of an established game. You were not properly part of our game.”
”So you inducted me into it. A miscalculation could have resulted in your early demise.”
”My life has been threatened before. That's one reason I'm tracing this message; I believe its source will offer some hint of the nature of my nemesis.”
Cirtess nodded again. ”And the Citizens were willing to give better odds because of the factor of danger. Very well. I appreciate cleverness, and I'm as game for a wager as anyone. I will let you go without objection if you will wager your winnings with me.”
”But my winnings will be fifteen kilos of Protonite!”
”Yes, a substantial sum. I can cover it, and you must risk it. Choose your bet now-or I shall see that you lose your prior bet by not completing your survey. I can legitimately destroy your tracer machine.”
”You play a formidable game!” Stile exclaimed. ”You're forcing me to double or nothing.”