"I think that is why the Oracle bade me organize the creatures of Phaze," Stile said. "First they rescued me from enchantment; now they will enable me to move the Phazite. I want to shape it into a great, perfect ball and roll it across the curtain by brute, physical force."

"Aye, Adept, that may be best. But others will bar thy progress if they can."

"This may be like a big earthball game," Stile said, remembering the final key word of his Tourney poem. Earth. "I will try to balk the magic of the enemy Adepts, with the help of Sheen and the book of magic, while my friends help push the ball across the near side of the curtain, through the breadth of the zone of juxtaposition, and across the other side into Proton. That is how it works, isn't it?"

"Aye. Cross from one frame on one side, to the other on the other. That can be done from both sides, but always the full juxtaposition must be traversed, for it be but the interior of the divided curtain."

"So where the curtain divides, the people reunite!" Stile exclaimed, feeling his wholeness again.

"For the moment it be so. But when the deed be done, all will be separate forever."

"I know," Stile said sadly. "I will be forever confined to mine own frame, this lovely world of magic but a memory. And mine other self, the true Blue Adept, will know no more of modern science." He felt the surge of interest and regret in his other self. To Blue, the things of science were as novel as the things of magic were to Stile. "We do what we must do," Pyreforge said. "We some times like them not."

"Can the elves get the Phazite to the surface here?" Stile asked. "I can conjure in whole troops of creatures to push it across the juxtaposition."

"Nay, the other Adepts have closed the conjuration avenue, perceiving thy likely intent if thou dost survive. Thine allies must march here."

"But I came by conjuration!"

"Thou must have come from some place hidden from Adept perception, then."

"I did," Stile agreed. "I should have notified my allies before I came here. Perhaps I can make a sign for them in the sky-"

"And attract every enemy instantly," Pyreforge said. "Best to start it quickly."

Stile sighed. There always seemed to be so many constraints on his application of magic! His other self shared the sentiment; it had always been thus. Magic was not the easy answer to every problem.

He went outside and surveyed the landscape, looking down into the great plain to the north. He could see where the curtain had expanded, straightening as it went. The zone of juxtaposition now reached well into the plain. The domes of the civilization of Proton were coming into view, with their teeming Citizens, serfs, and machines. He had an idea. He returned to Pyreforge, inside the Mound.

"Have thy minions push the ball out of the northern slope of the Purple Mountains, while I fetch special help. I can use Proton equipment to shove it onward."

"Do not Citizens control the machines?" the old elf asked.

"Aye, they do," Stile agreed regretfully. "All but the self willed machines. They will be using the heavy equipment against us. Let's hope my Phaze friends are alert, and will a.s.semble here without specific summoning." A little fore sight would have facilitated things greatly, but he had been distracted by things like being transformed into a fish. So much had happened so rapidly so recently! Pyreforge showed the way to the Phazite. It was some distance east, for many of the tribes of elves had labored to a.s.semble it centrally. Apparently they had been at work on this project far longer than Stile had been in Phaze, knowing the crisis was coming. The Little Folk had known much they had not advertised, and thus avoided early sabotage by the enemy.

As he walked. Stile felt an odd wrenching within him, followed by a kind of desolation. There was the sound of a fading flute, a single note that was somehow beyond the compa.s.s of ear or mind, yet encompa.s.sed something fundamental in the cosmos. In a moment he realized what had happened; he had crossed beyond the juxtaposition into Phaze proper, and the two souls could not integrate in a single frame. Blue had departed, and must now be back in the harmonica. How empty this body felt! At length they arrived in a large cavern, not unlike the one of Xanadu, but whose walls were dark rock. There were evidences of extensive tunnelings and laborings and many tracks of carts indented in the ground, as well as spillage of ore and oil.

There in the center was a perfect sphere of Phazite. This could not have been shaped in the past few minutes; it had to have been done this way long before Stile had arrived. The ball was about six feet in diameter, the size of an earthball.

An earthball. Again Stile remembered the Game, in which such a ball was pushed by teams across one goal line or the other. The Game Computer had given him the term "Earth," the last of the supposedly random terms; now the relevance was dear.

"Solid Phazite?" he asked, awed by the reality. In Pro ton this would be worth so much that his mind balked at attempting the calculation.

"An isotope of the dense mineral formed in rare, peculiar processes of creation," the old elf agreed. "In the science frame this would be described as the semi collapsed matter formed in the fringe of a certain variety of black hole in a certain critical stage of evolution. This explains why it is so rare; very little of it escapes the site of its origin. It is fifty times the density of water, unstable in certain conditions, sublimating into pure energy that is more than the sum of its present ma.s.s because of the unique stresses of its creation. Thus it may be used for the economical propulsion of s.p.a.ceships-or the more versatile applications of magic in a frame where magic is normally much less intense."

"From the fringes of black holes," Stile repeated, amazed at the information the elf had. To reside in a magical frame was not necessarily to be ignorant of science! "I'll bet it's scarce! No wonder phenomenal force is bound up within it, like a really tightly coiled spring. How much is here?"

"In Proton, Protonite has been mined at the controlled rate of approximately one metric ton a year, for three hundred years, with nine tenths of it exported, the rest reserved as Citizen wealth. To equalize the frames, we must replace half of three hundred metric tons. This ball of Phazite weighs near one hundred and seventy of our tons, the equivalent."

"I don't want to wait until my allies locate me," Stile said. "My enemies may arrive at the same time. I will need some help moving that thing, if I am not to employ magic."

"We will help, within our demesnes. We have numbers and levers."

Stile brought out his map of Phaze, which had survived all his adventures in the magic way such things had. He had wondered how unicorns managed to carry things while shifting into forms such as hawks and fireflies; now he had carried map, clothing, and harmonica while swimming as a fish. He still didn't know how it was done.

"The simplest thing would be to roll the ball due north across the central region, which is relatively level, until we pa.s.s the north aspect of the curtain. Somehow I don't think that will work."

"Thine enemies be alert. At some point they will discover thy location. Then will all their resources be brought to bear in opposition,"

"That's the nature of the game." Stile agreed. "Both teams push on the earthball, and the one with more power and/or better strategy prevails. The problem is, I'm not sure we have more power or better strategy."

"I can help," Sheen said.

"Yes, I'll take all the help I can-" He looked at her, startled. "When didst thou arrive?"

She smiled. "Just now, when the curtain caught up with thee. Didst thou not notice it?"

Stile, distracted by the wonder of the ball of Phazite, sixty times the ma.s.s of his record Proton personal fortune, had not noticed. Now he realized that he had heard the Flute again, at the fringe of his consciousness, and that his experience had broadened as his other self rejoined him. He also realized that Sheen could not cross the curtain, this side, without going back into Proton; to go all the way into Phaze, she would have to proceed past the north part of the curtain, then double back. Best for her simply to remain in the zone of juxtaposition, using the superspells of the book of magic to overcome the interference-enchantment of the enemy Adepts.

"So the curtain is still expanding," he said. "I had somehow thought it had stabilized."

"Nay, it be unstable," Pyreforge said. "Only the ultimate skill of the Foreordained expands it, and his power be at its limit. The boundary flexes back and forth, some what like the winds of a changing day. The ma.s.s of many people can move it a short distance, as it were pushing it. Our elves did push it across just now so that thy friend could join thee."

"And here is Trool," Sheen continued. "His troll friends are making a tunnel through hills for the boulder, so we will not have to roll it uphill."

"I do not plan to roll it uphill! I'll roll it along the contour."

"And the Lady Brown is marching her golems here to push."

Stile looked at Trool. "Glad I am to see thee! Thou hast survived thine ordeal in good order, it seems. It is not every person who is restored from stone."

"It was an eyeblink," the troll said. "One moment I stood in the tunnel; next was I in the hall of the Oracle. I knew not thy metal golem was an enchantress."

"Women of any type have secret talents; hers manifested during your eyeblink," Stile said. "Thou, too, dost have ability. We saw thy figurines. Are all trolls sculptors?"

"Nay," Trool said, embarra.s.sed. "I have gone mostly apart from my kind, and in the lonesome hours do I entertain myself with idle shapings. It is of no import."

"Art is of import," Stile said. "Many creatures can do conventional labors; few can fashion raw material into beauty. Phaze can be made prettier by thy efforts."

"Nay, I am ugly," Trool demurred. "I have no aspirations, now that mine onus is done."

His onus had been to save Stile three times. Surely the good troll would not accept any reward, but Stile disliked the notion of departing this frame without returning some suitable favor. Something began to develop in his mind, an improbable connection.

"If thou didst have the power of an Adept, what then would be thine aspiration?" The troll shrugged in the ungainly manner of his kind. "I have no use for power. For generations my kind has abused what powers it had, and on that history do I turn my gnarled back. All I crave is a little rock to tunnel in, and time to fashion mine images in stone, and perhaps a friend or two. The life of a troll is not much. Adept." Not much, indeed! Stile decided to experiment.

"I shall grant thee power, for a time, so that thou canst help me now. I must devise a route to roll this ball of Phazite and must avoid the enemy forces that oppose this motion." He turned to Sheen. "Thou hast surveyed the book of magic?"

"Aye," she agreed.

"Canst thou give Trool the powers of flight, invisibility, and resistance to hostile magic?"

She looked surprised. "That and more. But-"

"Do it."

"But, Adept!" Trool protested. "I am a troll!"

"Methinks I misjudged trolls once. Thou hast helped me three times; now I beg thee to help me again, though no prophecy requires thee."

"Certainly will I help thee! But-"

Sheen did something obscure. Trool paused as if experiencing something strange.

"Try thy talents," Stile suggested.

"I can not fly!" Trool said, rising into the air. He looked down, astonished. "This is as impossible as turning invisible!" He faded from view.

"Thou hast bequeathed dangerous power to such a creature," Pyreforge said gravely. "He can leave thee and go abroad to do harm, answerable to no one."

"Power corrupts some less than others," Stile said. "Trool has shown his constancy, and I am giving him leave to show it more. Sheen has more power than any other person now, yet she is unchanged."

"I'm not human," Sheen said. "I am as I am programmed to be, regardless of my power. Only living things are corruptible."

"Yet with the magic of that book," Pyreforge pointed out, "thou couldst become alive. The power thou hast shown be but an inkling of the potential."

"Yes," she agreed. "I perceive that potential."

"There are spells to give true life?" Stile asked, amazed. "Thou didst tell me to survey the complete book," she reminded him. "I found things hardly to be imagined."

"But the problem of souls," he protested. "That is handled the same way the flesh is. A baby is started from the substance of its parents. A baby's soul starts as a piece separated from the souls of its parents. It's like taking a brand from a fire to make a new fire; once a piece of fire is separated, it develops its own individuality. So I don't need anyone else's soul-just a piece of soul, which can grow into the body."

"But a piece of whose soul?" Stile asked. Sheen, alive-would it make a difference? He wasn't sure. Part of her personality was her knowledge of her own inanimate nature.

"The Lady Brown has offered me a piece of hers," Sheen said diffidently. "She feels responsible for me, since she animated me in Phaze."

"We're wasting time," Stile said, not wanting to wrestle with personal considerations at the moment. "Where's Trool?"

"I am here. Adept," Trool said, appearing. "I have surveyed the course. Thou canst not proceed northward, for that the Adepts have set dragons there to guard against pa.s.sage. They know not where thou wilt go, or if thou truly art alive, but they are watching everywhere. When the ball begins to move, they will converge. The course must go west, avoiding the dragons."

"We'll start west, then," Stile decided. Now the elves appeared in force. They cranked open the wall to show a great rent in the mountain. The sun shone brightly outside, but these were light-tolerant elves, able to work by day. Pyreforge bade a hasty parting and retreated to the comfortable shadows; he could no more tolerate the direct glare of the sun than Trool could.

"Trooll" Stile exclaimed. "How could-?"

"I gave him a spell of automatic shade when I restored him," Sheen said. "I may be metal, but I do profit from experience. The sun can't touch him now." Relieved, Stile watched the elves. The Little Folk applied their levers diligently, and the ma.s.sive ball started to move. One hundred and fifty metric tons was a great weight, but the ball was perfectly balanced and the levers were skillfully applied. Once moving, the ball continued, its ma.s.s giving it formidable momentum. Then it started rolling grandly downhill, and the elves got out of the way. The ball coursed down, up the opposite slope, and down again, neatly following the general channel Stile had determined for it, leaving a concave impression. But then it veered slightly, and he saw that it was going to strike a large pine tree. That could be disaster; probably the ball would crush the tree to the ground-and in the process be deflected off the route. Possibly the tree would resist, bouncing the ball back. Certainly a lot of useful momentum would be lost. This was going so smoothly he didn't want to interrupt it.

So he sang a little spell. The tree wavered into insubstantiality just before the boulder reached it, then became solid after the Phazite had pa.s.sed through. "I'm not sure you should have done that. Stile," Sheen said. "The enemy Adepts are highly attuned to your magic."

"I've got to use my magic when I need it," Stile said. "I'm sorry I can't use it directly on the Phazite." He remembered he had conjured Sheen's replacement power cell before, and that was the same mineral-but that had been a tiny fraction of a gram. He could no more move this 150 ton ball by magic than he could by hand, alone. The ball crunched to a stop in the next depression. They walked along the smooth indentation path, catching up to it.

"The golems are near," Trool's voice came from the air above them.

"Guide them here," Stile said.

Soon a column of wooden men marched up. Some were small and some were large; the Brown Adept rode piggy back on one of the giants. She waved cheerily as she spied them.

"We'll get it moving!" she called. Under her direction, the wooden men set to work with a will. They were very strong, and soon they were levering the ball slowly up the incline.

Suddenly a sheet of flame flashed across the terrain. The golems cried out, and the Brown Adept screamed. The wooden men were burning. Fire was the one thing such golems feared.

"You were right," Stile said. "The enemy has located us." He started to play his harmonica, getting ready for a fire-extinguishing spell. But Sheen lifted her hand, and the fire vanished.

"You told me to memorize any spells I thought might be useful," she said.

Stile stared at the golems, who were understandably confused. One moment they had been burning; the next all was well.

"So I did," he agreed. "The sheer facility and potency of it keep setting me back. Can you protect the golems henceforth?"

"I think so. The book has an excellent section on countermagic. But if I block off Adept spells, this will stifle your magic too."

"The book magic is that strong?"

"That strong. Stile. The book is not a mere compendium of stray spells. It's a complete course-the atomic age of magic. It shows how to integrate all the modes-voice, vision, symbols, potions, touch, music-all. The Adepts of today are fragmentary magicians, severely limited. Thou also, I regret to say. None of you has done more than scratch the surface of the potential of magic. I haven't scratched the surface. There is so much more to be mastered-"

"I see. All right-block out all Adept magic here, and well talk about it while we supervise the moving of the ball."

She made a series of body motions and exclamations, concluding with a toe-sketched figure on the ground. Something happened in the air-an oblique kind of shimmer.

"The visual effect is merely to identify it," she said. "We are now secure from new spells."

The golems resumed their labor on the sphere. Slowly they moved it up the slope. "When we have a moment," Stile said, "let's see about making up a good body for my other self."

"Your other self!" she exdaimed. "Yes, of course. The book has spells to convert wood or other substance to flesh, as we did for Trool. You have Blue's soul preserved. I don't think the soul can go to that body while you are in Phaze, but when the frames separate. Clef can pipe it in, and-"

"And my other self will be restored to life in Phaze," Stile finished. "He sacrificed his life to give me the chance to enter his frame and work with the Oracle. The least I can do is give it back to him when my task is done."

"But what of the prophecy? Fhaze will not be safe until-"

"Until Blue departs it forever!" Stue finished. "In the confusion of great events, I forgot that!" He pondered, disturbed. "No, I can not be entirely governed by prophecy. I must do what I deem right; what will happen, will happen." But he remained disquieted, as did his other self.

"The body has to be crafted by hand," Sheen said. "It can't be made directly by magic, or it will perish when the magic diminishes. So we can't do it right this minute. But I won't forget to see to it before the end." She paused.

"What does Blue think of this?'^ Stile shifted to his alternate awareness. Now he had confirmation of his prior conjecture; Blue had, through a special divinatory spell, discovered what was developing and realized that the best thing he could do for the land he loved was to die. But, fearful that his sacrifice might be in vain, he had hedged. He had conjured his soul into his harmonica and given the instrument an affinity for his other self. Now he knew his act had been justified, for Stile had used the harmonica to achieve his necessary level of power.

As for having his life back in the new order, he had not expected this, and not even considered the possibility of resuming his life in Phaze. The notion had a certain guilty appeal. Yet if the presence of Blue meant ruin for Phaze, he would be better off dead. He would have to formulate some plans for a formerly blank future, knowing that he might again have to give it up if the prophecy were true. All he could do was try it and see; perhaps there would be interim tasks for him to do before he departed.

"I thank thee for thy consideration," Blue said to Sheen. "Glad am I to have facilitated thine entry here, lovely Lady Machine."

Again Sheen reacted with pleased embarra.s.sment. "There's something about the people of Phaze," she murmured.