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 Proton!”
“Takes more than nakedness to be part of Proton-frame,” Stile said gruffly. “Thou’rt full of mischief, unicorn.” 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 accustomed 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 absences would become too obvious, and that could make mischief. “I have not encountered you before. Does Sheen treat you well?”
“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 geographical!
Stile sat down at the table the robot had left. A game of cards—solitaire—was laid out. If the robot did not experience 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
As he stood naked, Neysa shifted into naked girl-form, embraced him, kissed him, and laughed. “I am like Proton!”
“Takes more than nakedness to be part of Proton-frame,” Stile said gruffly. “Thou’rt full of mischief, unicorn.” 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 accustomed 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 absences would become too obvious, and that could make mischief. “I have not encountered you before. Does Sheen treat you well?”
“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 geographical!
Stile sat down at the table the robot had left. A game of cards—solitaire—was laid out. If the robot did not experience 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
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