Out of Phaze

“I wish you would tell me why!”

“When I tell thee, thou willst be angry with me, and that I seek not.”

“I promise I won’t be angry! I just want to know.”

But she shook her head, knowing better than he. “Methinks thou wouldst be more comfortable in clothing,” she said in a moment. “It be the custom here.”

He realized that she was correct. To go naked in a culture where clothing was the norm was not sensible. He would have to suppress his natural aversion to misrepresenting his status, and become a normal person of this frame, at least until he learned how to return to his robot body. Likewise, he could not afford to presume too much on the fact that she had seen Bane in a state of sexual excitement when young; obviously Fleta was no such playmate now.

Suddenly he realized why he was having trouble controlling his reactions: he was in a living body! He breathed, he had a heartbeat, he had to eat and drink and eliminate—of course he reacted sexually too! This was not, he now understood, entirely voluntary; when a stimulation came to him, his body reacted even when he did not wish it to. He had assumed that he would have no special interest in sex until he chose to, as was the case in Proton, but the sight of Fleta’s wet and moving anatomy had bypassed his intellect and made his body react. Thus his surprised embarrassment. The circuits of living creatures were to an extent self-motivating.

No wonder the folk here wore clothing! Not only did it prevent unwanted stimulation, it concealed unwanted reaction.

“I’ll wear clothing,” he agreed. But still he wondered: if Fleta was, as she said, flattered rather than embarrassed by the evidence of his reaction, why did she say that j there should be no such action between them? If they had done it as children, and they were not related (and why had she found that notion so hilarious?), why was it wrong now? Were they promised to other partners? Yet she had not said that; she acted as if there were some more fundamental reason why nothing serious between them was possible. And she feared he would be j angry when he learned.

He cast about, looking for something that could be fashioned into clothing. All that he could see that had any such prospect at all was the large leaves of some trees. Well, they would have to do.

Fleta helped him gather some good leaves. Then they used his axe to make slits in a vine, and passed the stems of the leaves through, with long-stemmed leaves overlapping short-stemmed ones, forming a kind of skirt. They wrapped the vine about his waist, and the leaves hung down to cover him to an extent.

But already there was another problem. His shoulders were turning red. “Sunburn!” Fleta said. “I forgot—thy kind suffers from that; it be another reason you wear clothing.”

His kind? Wasn’t her kind the same?

“I suppose we could make a collar to suspend a shirt of leaves,” he said, not enthusiastically. As it was, the leaves brushed constantly against him, stirring awareness of a region he preferred to tune out.

“Mayhap thou couldst conjure some cloth.”

He tried: “I’ll be wroth, without some cloth,” he sang, visualizing an enormous bolt of cloth.

He got a fragment of cloth about the size of a Citizen’s handkerchief.

He grimaced. “And if I try it again, I’ll get a thread or two,” he muttered. “It never works the second time.”

“Mach! That be it!” Fleta exclaimed. “Ne’er did I hear Bane use the same spell twice!”

“Good for only one shot,” he said, gratified by the revelation.

“Canst try the same, with other words?”

“Why not?” He pondered a moment, then sang: “Cloth: I implore, bring me some more.” He visualized an even larger bolt.

And the fog swirled, and deposited twice as much of the same type of cloth as it had before.

Now they understood the system. Mach invented a number of rhymes, garnering needle and thread and more cloth so he could sew a shirt. Fleta seemed to have no knowledge of sewing. He found that variation of melody also facilitated the conjurations, and that he got more of what he visualized if he built up to it by humming a few bars first. He was learning to be a magician!

It was close to midday by the time they were ready to travel. Mach had considered trying a spell to move them directly to the Blue Demesnes, but decided not to; he would probably drop them in the swamp instead. If the magic was going to foul up, let it foul up on details that didn’t affect their living processes!