Unicorn Point (12 page)

He dived into the vat. The froth was thin at the top, but thickened below, so that it sustained him and brought his body to a halt well clear of the bottom. He stroked until he was upright. There was Sheen, facing him with a hat fashioned of foam.

“Ha, woman!” he cried, and ducked below the bubbly surface. Sheen screamed again as he caught her ankles and dumped her down.

Now they were both below the surface, out of sight. But it was possible to breathe here, by sucking air between the teeth to strain out the bubbles. Sheen of course did not need to breathe, except when she needed air for speech.
 
“Hold still, creature!” he cried for the benefit of the audience that peered closely at the heaving surface of froth.
 

“Is that an order, sir?” she replied defiantly. There was laughter from above; of course it wasn’t an order, in a game like this.

“Now I’ve got you—oops!” Obviously she had slipped out of his grasp. It was almost impossible to hold on to a person in this slippery stuff. Both remained out of sight.
 
Sheen screamed again, signaling that he had caught her again.

“Spread your legs, wench!” he ordered.

“Spread them yourself, sir!” More delighted laughter from above; the audience could picture exactly what was happen ing.

“If you don’t, I’ll tickle you!”

There was a pause. Then, hesitantly: “Where will you tickle me, sir?”

“Maybe on the feet.”

“That’s all right.”

“Then maybe on the knees.”

“The knees? I think I can handle that.”

“Then maybe the thighs.”

A pause. “I’ll survive it somehow.”

“How about the belly?”

“Oh, no, not the belly! Anywhere but there!”

“Anywhere?” His voice was quivering with suggestion.

“Uh—just where else did you have in mind, sir?”

“WHERE DO YOU THINK, WENCH?”

“I’ll spread my legs!”

“Too late! I’d rather tickle you. Just let me get my finger in there—“ She screamed yet again, piercingly. The laughter from above was almost overwhelming.

What the audience did not realize was that the activity under the whipped gelatin was quite different from that suggested by the dialogue. Sheen opened a breast-cabinet and brought out heavy makeup materials. She applied paint to his hair, wherever it occurred, changing it to match her own. She put green contact lenses into his eyes, so that they also matched hers. She removed both her breasts and fastened them to his body with flesh-colored adhesive, and applied pseudoflesh to his hips and buttocks. She used more of it to cover his genitals and mold them into a mound like hers.
 
This was feasible because her midsection was larger than his; there was room for layering. Soon Blue resembled her so closely that only a careful inspection would give him away.
 
Meanwhile, instead of tickling her—it was difficult to tickle a robot—he was helping her to assume his form. He removed her hairpiece and put on one that resembled his hair. He used a special pen to draw lines on her legs that made them look thinner and more muscular. He used pseudoflesh to thicken her waist. He removed her ears and substituted a set she had brought that resembled his. And he applied to her crotch a prefabricated unit of pseudoflesh that was cast in the shape of his male genitals. Then he smoothed out her now-flat chest, and painted a few hairs. The double transformation was complete.

At this point they were grunting suggestively, as though engaged in heavy activity, while the audience above quieted, striving to overhear and interpret what was occurring. All sex was free on Proton, and serfs indulged at will (or the will of their Citizen employers), but again the concealment enhanced the fascination. Blue made a final, satisfied groan, and they were quiet.

Then Blue stroked upward through the froth so that his head broke the surface. “Well, I didn’t get tickled!” he said in his best emulation of Sheen’s voice.
 

“Liar!” Sheen called from below, in his voice. “You got well tickled inside. If you haven’t had enough—“ Blue looked alarmed, and clambered out of the vat. Patches of lather covered portions of his body, making it more difficult for anyone to tell that he was not a naked woman. He hurried out, as if afraid the Citizen was about to call him back for another round.

“It’s better when they resist,” his voice came from behind, as Sheen broke the surface in his likeness. “Next time, translucent gel!” The audience applauded. The serfs had seen far less than they thought, and were convinced they knew what had happened below. A majority of the males now had erections. There would be a mass sex orgy the moment Sheen, as Citizen Blue, gave leave for general use of the vat. It was significant that none of the women was trying to leave early.
 
He hurried to the connected shower stall, and quickly rinsed the foam from his hair and body. Sheen, in the guise of the Citizen, would have a portable shower brought in, and the serfs would gladly operate it and the dryer, and help her back into his blue cloak. Then she would take his transport back to their suite.

He had to smile. Sheen was a machine, but what a machine! She did things so well. He trusted her absolutely, and yes, he did love her.

He emerged from the shower, stood in the dryer a moment, and departed the premises without attracting undue attention.
 
He walked down the hall to a public transport, got on, and rode across the city. When he reached the far side he got off, then took another transport, glancing around as if to see whether anyone was following. Reassured, he proceeded to the jetport and boarded a flight to the dome of Gobdom. This took a while, and he sat absolutely still and straight, in the manner of a robot who had tuned out, not snoozing in the human manner.

At Gobdom he walked around as if on business, checking again for any pursuit. When there seemed to be none, he boarded a flight to Anidom.

He knew he was being watched, and that his exchange with Sheen had not fooled the eyes that were following him. They would be equipped with sensors that read beneath the surface, fathoming his fleshly nature, and Sheen’s robotic nature. The serfs had surely been deceived, but not the Citizens. Still, it was a good ruse, for it had a reasonable chance of making the Citizens think that he was trying to conceal his activity.
 
Indeed, the exchange would have been effective, had ordinary lenses been used; the best ones were considerably more expensive than the standard ones, and required far more sophisticated application. But for this all-important purpose, he knew the best was being brought into play.
 
So the Citizens thought he was trying a simple ruse to fool them, making a public show of his location and a very clever identity exchange so that no one would suspect. Now they might believe he was going to his true rendezvous. Indeed, they had a potent confirmatory hint in the crossword game he had played with Sheen. For there was a key word written therein, supposedly concealed. From the top left, slantwise down, crossing both the horizontal and vertical words: AN IDOM. The dome to which he was now going.
 
How might he have gotten this message to Nepe? They would just have to make their own conjectures. Obviously there was a way. Perhaps the child had access to a Game Grid screen, and could tune in to the game he had played long distance with Sheen. The moment she saw that slanting message, she would know, and she would be there at the appointed hour to meet him. Then they would have her.
 
Blue kept a straight face, maintaining his robotic demeanor, but internally he was smiling. The Citizens would be so sure of their victory—and so disappointed when it slipped away. For Nepe would not be meeting him here, or anywhere else. Her orders were never to meet him or contact him at all. She was entirely on her own. That way no action or word of his could give her away, no matter how closely the Citizens monitored his every eyeblink.
 
He had confidence in her, and yet he feared for her. She was so young! If only he had had another year to train her, even six months, to perfect it. But he trusted the judgment of his other self in Phaze; if Stile had concluded that the break had to be made now, that was surely the case. Perhaps things had gotten tighter in Phaze than in Proton. Probably the Adverse Adepts had been about to catch on to the true powers of little Flach, and had been planning a preemptive captivity.

Well, he was doing his part, protecting Nepe to whatever extent he could. He would dally for several hours in Anidom, poking into obscure comers, and in the course of it perform another identity switch in a seeming effort to shake any pur suit that remained. Then he would give it up and go home.
 
If the Citizens had not found her by that time, they were unlikely to thereafter.

For Nepe would be hiding in the manner they least expected: in the form of a robot. Stile could not make himself into a machine well enough to deceive the special eyes, but Nepe could. She could form her flesh into metallic hardness throughout, and function so like a robot that only a physical dissection could expose her nature. He and Agnes had drilled her on this until she had it almost perfect: the impossible identity. She might be one of the mechanical servitors the Citizens used as they searched for her. Blue himself did not know what variant she would assume, or where she would operate. His only concern now was that she hide successfully.
 
The success of this ploy depended on Nepe and Flach in Phaze. But it was also true that he loved the little alien creature, and wanted her safe even if his power and the welfare of Proton were not on the line.

His thoughts turned naturally to Phaze. Why had he never sought to make direct contact with the other frame, now that Mach and Bane had demonstrated that it was possible, and Nepe and Flach had confirmed it? He had learned that it was his continuing link with Stile, and their exchanged identities, that kept the frames from separating completely. He was a native of Phaze, living in Proton, while Stile was from Proton, and living in Phaze. As long as that was the case, the frames would be linked. Presumably if he overlapped his other self and made the effort, he could exchange with Stile, and be back in Phaze. So easy, perhaps, yet he had never even made the effort.

He knew why. It was because he preferred Proton, and Stile preferred Phaze. Blue loved Sheen, whose marvels of body and accommodation had been demonstrated today, and never wanted to leave her. Stile loved the Lady Blue similarly. Suppose they overlapped, and exchanged—and were unable to return to their present situations? The frames might be forever separated, their final link cut, and Blue would be stuck in marriage with the Lady Blue, and Stile with Sheen.
 
The Lady Blue was a fine person, but it had not worked out between them, just as it had not worked between Stile and Sheen. No, he dared not risk it, and he knew Stile felt the same. They would never contact each other direct. Not unless the salvation of the frames depended on it.
 
And if that should ever turn out to be the case—well. Blue had a little ace in the hole that might allow him to rejoin Stile without losing everything. It was so enormous a gamble that he would never risk it except as the final resort. If successful, it would still change the faces of the frames forever. If it failed—there was no telling what would happen.
 
He knew, because of the increasing parallelism of the frames, that Stile had a similar notion, to be similarly implemented. For the actions had to be together. And, because one or both of them were likely to be in straits too dire to allow direct implementation, he had set the trigger in a place no one would suspect. It could be summed up in one key word:

‘Corn.

To guarantee privacy, they held the meeting at the Translucent Demesnes, under the water near the Isle of the West Pole.
 
Tan and Tania rode in a watery bubble the Translucent Adept sent, floating over the forests and plains of Phaze at rapid velocity before descending into the sea. Tania affected the same blas6 reaction her brother did, but the truth was that she got a fair thrill from this type of travel. She could fascinate folk with her gaze, because she shared with her brother the magic of the Evil Eye, but could not perform physical magic in the manner of other Adepts. Hers was not an inferior talent, merely more subtle; when it came to questioning a resistive client, or to persuading someone, the others deferred to her. Yet she often wished for just a little of the other kind of power!

The bubble coursed through the water, brushing aside reach ing sea plants, coming at last to the hidden palace. At the entrance it landed and popped out of existence, leaving them standing dry, though the sea loomed around and above them. It was a nice effect; Translucent did things right.
 
They entered. The other Adepts were already there, having had faster magic transportation: White, who used the runes and glyphs; Yellow, with her potions to govern animals; Black, who was entirely made of lines; Orange, whose magic was of plants; Green, whose hand gestures controlled fire; and Purple, with the forces of geology. Eight of them in all, counting Tan and Tania as one, and, of course, Translucent.
 
Against them were ranged only three: Blue with his sing songs, Red with his amulets, and Brown with her golems.
 
Yet so far the three had had their way more often than not: a distressing situation, long overdue for redress. This was be cause the Red Adept, a literal troll, had the Book of Magic, the most potent single instrument in Phaze. Now their access to that Book had been cut off, precipitating the crisis.