Split Infinity

He looked again, fixing the geography in his mind for future reference. Then he spied a structure of some sort to the northeast. It looked like a small medieval castle, with high stone walls and turrets, and perhaps a blue pennant.

Very well: human habitation did exist. Yet this remained a far cry from modern technology. He liked this world very well, but he simply didn’t trust it.  Matter transmission could not exist without an extremely solid industrial base, and if that base were not here, where was it? Was this a sweetly baited trap for people like him, who were in trouble on Proton? In what manner would that trap be sprung?

Stile climbed down. His best course, as he saw it, would be to go to that castle and inquire. But first he wanted to check the region of the curtain again, fixing it absolutely in his mind so he could find it any time he wanted to—because this was his only contact with his own world, and with Sheen. This wilderness-world might be an excellent place to stay for a while, but then he would need to go home, lest he suffer exile by de-fault.

He was approaching the invisible curtain—when a man popped out of it. Friend or foe? Stile decided not to risk contact, but the man spied him before he could retreat to cover. “Hey—get lost?” the stranger called.  “It’s over here.”

“Uh, yes,” Stile said, approaching. This did not seem to be an android or robot. Abruptly deciding not to compromise on integrity even by implication, he added: “I came through by accident. I don’t know where I am.”

“Oh, a new one! I first crossed last year. Took me six months to learn the spells to cross back. Now I go over for free meals, but I live over here in Phaze.”

“Spells—to cross back?” Stile asked blankly.

“How else? From the other side you just have to will-to-cross hard enough, but from this side only a spell will do it—a new one every time. You’ll get the hang of it.”

“I—thought this was a matter-transmission unit.”

The man laughed as he walked to a tree and reached into the foliage of a low branch. A package came down into his hands. “There’s no such thing as matter trans- mission! No, it’s the magic curtain. It’s all over—but it’s not safe to use it just anywhere. You have to make sure no one on the other side sees you go through. You know how those Citizens are. If they ever caught on there was something they didn’t control—“

“Yes. I am unemployed because of Citizen manipulation.”

“Which explains why you had the will-to-cross, first time. The curtain’s been getting clearer, but still you can’t even see it if you don’t have good reason, let alone use it. Then you have to will yourself through, strongly, right as you touch it. Most people never make it, ever.” The man opened his package and brought out a crude tunic, which he donned.

Stile stared. “You wear clothes here?” He remembered the clothing-marks on the woman.

“Sure do. You’d stick out like a sore toe if you went naked here in Phaze!” The man paused, appraising Stile. “Look, you’re new here, and sort of small—I’d better give you an amulet.” He rummaged in his bag, while Stile suppressed his unreasoning resentment of the remark about his size. The man had not intended any disparagement.

“An amulet?” Stile asked after a moment. He considered himself to be swift to adjust to new realities, but he found it hard to credit this man’s evident superstition. Spell—magic—amulet—how could a Proton serf revert to medieval Earth lore so abruptly?

“Right. We’re supposed to give them to newcomers.  To help them get started, keep things smooth, so there’s no ruckus about the curtain and all. We’ve got a good thing going here; could sour if too many people got in on it. So don’t go blabbing about the curtain carelessly; it’s better to let people discover it by accident.”

“I will speak of it only cautiously,” Stile agreed.  That did make sense, whatever the curtain was, matter transmission or magic.

The man finally found what he was looking for: a statuette hanging on a chain. “Wear this around your neck. It will make you seem clothed properly, until you can work up a real outfit. Won’t keep you warm or dry; it’s just illusion. But it helps. Then you can pass it on to some other serf when he comes across. Help him keep the secret. Stay anonymous; that’s the rule.”

“Yes.” Stile accepted the amulet. The figure was of a small demon, with horns, tail and hooves, scowling horrendously. “How does this thing work?”

“You just put it on and invoice it. Will it to perform.  That’s all; it’s preset magic that anybody can use.  You’ll see. You probably don’t really believe in magic yet, but this will show you.”

“Thank you,” Stile said, humoring him.

The man waved negligently as he departed in his tunic and sandals, bearing south. Now Stile made out a faint forest path there, obvious only when one knew where to look. In a moment he was gone.