Split Infinity (5 page)

“You can accept me as I am—because I am a robot,” Sheen said, seeming amazed. “Because I am less than you.”

“Now I think we understand each other.” Stile put his arm about her and brought her in for a kiss. “If you want me on that basis—“

She drew away. “You’re sorry for me! You raped me and now you’re trying to make me like it.”

He let her go. “Maybe I am. I don’t really know all my motives. I won’t hold you here if you don’t want to stay. I’ll leave you strictly alone if you do stay, and want it that way. I’ll show you how to perfect your human role, so that others will not fathom your nature the way I did. I’ll try to make it up to you—“

She stood. “I’d rather be junked.” She crossed to the vid screen and touched the button. “Game-control, please.”

Stile launched himself from the couch and almost leaped through the air to her. He caught her about the shoulder and bore her back. “Cancel call!” he yelled.
 
Then they both fetched up against the opposite wall.

Sheen’s eyes stared into his, wide. “You care,” she said. “You really do.”

Stile wrapped both arms about her and kissed her savagely.

“I almost believe you,” she said, when speaking was possible.

“To hell with what you believe! You may not want me now, but I want you. I’ll rape you literally if you make one move for that vid.”

“No, you won’t. It’s not your way.”

She was right. “Then I ask you not to turn yourself in,” he said, releasing her again. “I—“ He broke off, choking, trapped by a complex pressure of emotions.

“Your wilderness jungle—the wild beasts are coming from their lairs, attacking your reason,” Sheen said.

“They are,” he agreed ruefully. “I abused you with the printout. I’m sorry. I do believe in your conscious-ness, in your feeling. In your right to privacy and self-respect. I beg your forgiveness. Do what you want, but don’t let my callousness ruin your—“ He couldn’t finish.
 
He couldn’t say “life” and couldn’t find another word.

“Your callousness,” she murmured, smiling. Then her brow furrowed. “Do you realize you are crying, Stile?”

He touched his cheek with one finger, and found it wet. “I did not realize. I suppose it is my turn.”

“For the feelings of a machine,” she said.

“Why the hell not?”

She put her arms around him. “I think I could love you, even unprogrammed. That’s another illusion, of course.”

“Of course.”

They kissed again. It was the beginning.

In the morning. Stile had to report to work for his employer. Keyed up, he did not even feel tired; he knew he could carry through the afternoon race, then let down—with her beside him.

Sheen stayed close, like an insecure date. The tube was crowded, for employment time was rush hour; they had to stand. This morning, of all mornings, he would have preferred to sit; that tended to equalize heights.
 
The other passengers stood a head taller than Stile and crowded him almost unconsciously. One glanced down at him, dismissed him without effort, and fixed his gaze on Sheen.

She looked away, but the stranger persisted, nudging closer to her. “Lose yourself,” she muttered, and took Stile’s arm possessively. Embarrassed, the stranger faced away, the muscles of his buttocks tightening. It had never occurred to him that she could be with so small a man.

This was an air tube. Crowded against the capsule wall. Stile held Sheen’s hand and looked out. The tube was transparent, its rim visible only as a scintillation.
 
Beyond it was the surface of the Planet of Proton, as bright and bleak as a barren moon. He was reminded of the day before, when he had glimpsed it at the apex of the Slide; his life had changed considerably since then, but Proton not at all. It remained virtually uninhabitable outside the force-field domes that held in the oxygenated air. The planet’s surface gravity was about two-thirds Earth-norm, so had to be intensified about the domes. This meant that such gravity was diminished even further between the domes, since it could only be focused and directed, not created or eliminated.

The natural processes of the planet suffered somewhat.

The result was a wasteland, quite apart from the emissions of the protonite mines. No one would care to live outside a dome!

On the street of the suburb-dome another man took note of them. “Hey, junior—what’s her price?” he called. Stile marched by without response, but Sheen couldn’t let it pass.

“No price; I’m a robot,” she called back.

The stranger guffawed. And of course it was funny: no serf could afford to own a humanoid robot, even were ownership permitted or money available. But how much better it was at the Game-annex, where the glances directed at Stile were of respect and envy, instead of out here where ridicule was an almost mandatory element of humor.

At the stable. Stile had to introduce her. “This is Sheen. I met her at the Game-annex yesterday.” The stableboys nodded appreciatively, enviously. They were all taller than Stile, but no contempt showed. He had a crown similar to that of the Game, here. He did like his work. Sheen clung to his arm possessively, showing the world that her attention and favor were for him alone.

It was foolish, he knew, but Stile gloried in it. She was, in the eyes of the world, an exceptionally pretty girl. He had had women before, but none as nice as this. She was a robot; he could not marry her or have children by her; his relationship with her would be temporary. Yet all she had proffered, before he penetrated her disguise, was two or three years, before they both completed their tenures and had to vacate the planet.
 
Was this so different?

- He introduced her to the horse. “This is Battleaxe, the orneriest, fastest equine of his generation. I’ll be riding him this afternoon. I’ll check him out now; he changes from day to day, and you can’t trust him from normal signs. Do you know how to ride?”

“Yes.” Of course she did; that was too elementary to be missed. She would be well prepared on horses.

“Then I’ll put you on Molly. She’s retired, but she can still move, and Battleaxe likes her.” He signaled to a stable hand. “Saddle Molly for Sheen, here. We’ll do the loop.”

“Yes, Stile,” the youngster said.

Stile put a halter on Battleaxe, who obligingly held his head down within reach, and led him from the stable. The horse was a great dark Thoroughbred who stood substantially taller than Stile, but seemed docile enough. “He is well trained,” Sheen observed.

‘Trained, yes; broken, no. He obeys me because he knows I can ride him; he shows another manner to others. He’s big and strong, seventeen hands tall—that’s over one and three-quarters meters at the shoulders. I’m the only one allowed to take him out.”

They came to the saddling pen. Stile checked the horse’s head and mouth, ran his fingers through the luxurious mane, then picked up each foot in turn to check for stones or cracks. There were none, of course.
 
He gave Battleaxe a pat on the muscular shoulder, opened the shed, and brought out a small half-saddle that he set on the horse’s back.

“No saddle blanket?” Sheen asked. “No girth? No stirrups?”

“This is only to protect him from any possible damage. I don’t need any saddle to stay on, but if my bareback weight rubbed a sore on his backbone—“

“Your employer would be perturbed,” she finished.

“Yes. He values his horses above all else. Therefore I do, too. If Battleaxe got sick, I would move into the stable with him for the duration.”

She started to laugh, then stopped. “I am not certain that is humor.”

“It is not. My welfare depends on my employer—but even if it didn’t, I would be with the horses. I love horses.”

“And they love you,” she said.

“We respect each other,” he agreed, patting Battle-axe again. The horse nuzzled his hair.

Molly arrived, with conventional bridle, saddle, and stirrups. Sheen mounted and took the reins, waiting for Stile. He vaulted into his saddle, as it could not be used as an aid to mounting. He was, of course, one of the leading gymnasts of the Game; he could do flips and cartwheels on the horse if he had to.

The horses knew the way. They walked, then trotted along the path. Stile paid attention to the gait of his mount, feeling the easy play of the muscles. Battleaxe was a fine animal, a champion, and in good form today.
 
Stile knew he could ride this horse to victory in the afternoon. He had known it before he mounted—but he never took any race for granted. He always had to check things out himself. For himself, for his employer, and for his horse.

Actually, he had not done his homework properly this time; he had squandered his time making love to Sheen. Fortunately he was already familiar with the other entrants in this race, and their jockeys; Battleaxe was the clear favorite. It wouldn’t hurt him to play just one race by feel.

Having satisfied himself. Stile now turned his attention to the environment. The path wound between exotic trees: miniature sequoias, redwoods, and Douglas fir, followed by giant flowering shrubs. Sheen passed them with only cursory interest, until Stile corrected her. “These gardens are among the most remarkable on the planet. Every plant has been imported directly from Earth at phenomenal expense. The average girl is thrilled at the novelty; few get to tour this dome.”

“I—was too amazed at the novelty to comment,” Sheen said, looking around with alacrity. “All the way from Earth? Why not simply breed them from standard stock and mutate them for variety?”

“Because my employer has refined tastes. In horses and in plants. He wants originals. Both these steeds were foaled on Earth.”

“I knew Citizens were affluent, but I may have underestimated the case,” she said. “The cost of shipping alone—“

“You forget: this planet has the monopoly on protonite, the fuel of the Space Age.”

“How could I forget!” She glanced meaningfully at him. “Are we private, here?”

“No.”

“I must inquire anyway. Someone sent me to you.
 
Therefore there must be some threat to you. Unless I represent a service by your employer?”

Stile snapped his fingers. “Who did not bother to explain his loan.
 
I’d better verify, though, because if it was not he—“

She nodded. “Then it could be the handiwork of another Citizen. And why would any other Citizen have reason to protect you, and from what? If it were actually some scheme to—oh. Stile, I would not want to be the agent of—“

“I must ask him,” Stile said. Then, with formal reverence he spoke: “Sir.”

There was a pause. Then a concealed speaker answered from the hedge. “Yes, Stile?”

“Sir, I suspect a one-in-two probability of a threat to me or to your horses. May I elucidate by posing a question?”

“Now.” The voice was impatient.

“Sir, I am accompanied by a humanoid robot programmed to guard me from harm. Did you send her?”

“No.”

“Then another Citizen may have done so. My suspicion is that a competitor could have sugarcoated a bomb-“

“No!” Sheen cried in horror.

“Get that thing away from my horses!” the Citizen snapped. “My security squad will handle it.”

“Sheen, dismount and run!” Stile cried. “Away from us, until the squad hails you.”

She leaped out of the saddle and ran through the trees.

“Sir,” Stile said.

“What is it now. Stile?” The impatience was stronger.

“I plead: be gentle with her. She means no harm.”

There was no answer. The Citizen was now tuning in on the activity of his security squad. Stile could only hope. If this turned out to be a false alarm, he would receive a reprimand for his carelessness in bringing Sheen to these premises unverified, and she might be returned to him intact. His employer was cognizant of the human factor in the winning of races, just as Stile was aware of the equine factor. There was no point in prejudicing the spirit of a jockey before a race.

But if Sheen did in fact represent a threat, such as an explosive device planted inside her body and concealed from her knowledge—

Stile waited where he was for ten minutes, while the two horses fidgeted, aware of his nervousness. He had certainly been foolish; he should have checked with his employer at the outset, when he first caught on that Sheen was a robot. Had not his liking for her blinded him—as perhaps it was supposed to—he would have realized immediately that a robot-covered bomb would make a mockery of her prime directive to guard him from harm. How could she protect him from her own unanticipated destruction? Yet now he was imposing on her another rape—

“She is clean,” the concealed speaker said. “I believe one of my friends has played a practical joke on me.
 
Do you wish to keep her?”

“Sir, I do.” Stile felt immense relief. The Citizen was taking this with good grace.

Again, there was no response. The Citizen had better things to do than chat with errant serfs. But in a moment Sheen came walking back through the foliage. She looked the same—but as she reached him, she dissolved into tears.

Stile jumped down and took her in his arms. She clung to him desperately. “Oh, it was horrible!” she sobbed. “They rayed me and took off my head and dismantled my body—“