Free Split Infinity by Piers Anthony Page B

“Stile, why did you miss your appointment for surgery?”
    “Sir,” Stile said, surprised. “I—regret the disturbance, the damage to the facilities—“
    “There was no disturbance, no damage,” the Citizen said, giving him a momentary stare. Stile realized that the matter had been covered up to prevent embarrassment to the various parties. The hospital would not want to admit that an isolated pair of serfs had over- come four androids and a doctor, and made good their escape despite an organized search, and the Citizen did not want his name associated with such a scandal. This meant, in turn, that Stile was not in the trouble he had thought he was. No complaint had been lodged.
    “Sir, I feared a complication in the surgery,” Stile said. Even for a Citizen, he was not about to lie. But there seemed to be no point in making an issue of the particular happenings at the hospital.
    “Your paramour feared a complication,” the Citizen corrected him. “An investigation was made. There was no threat to your welfare at the hospital. There will be no threat. Will you now return for the surgery?”
    The way had been smoothed. One word, and Stile’s career and standing would be restored without blemish.
    “No, sir,” Stile said, surprising himself. “I do not believe my life is safe if I become able to race again.”
    “Then you are fired.” There was not even regret or anger on the Citizen’s face as he faded out; he had simply cut his losses.
    “I’m sorry,” Sheen said, coming to him. “I may have protected you physically, but—“
    Stile kissed her, though now he held the image of her breasts being carried like platters in her hands, there in the hospital. She was very good, for what she was—but she was still a machine, assembled from nonliving substances. He felt guilty for his reservation, but could not abolish it.
    Then he had another regret. “Battleaxe—who will ride the horse, now? No one but I can handle—“
    “He will be retired to stud,” she said. “He won’t fight that.”
    The screen lit again. Stile answered again. This time it was a sealed transmission: flashing lights and noise in the background, indicating the jamming that protected it from interception. Except, ironically, that this was an interception; the machine had done its job better than the caller could know.
    It was another Citizen. His clothing was clear, including a tall silk hat, but the face was fuzzed out, making him anonymous. His voice, too, was blurred. “I understand you are available. Stile,” the man said.
    News spread quickly! “I am available for employment, sir,” Stile agreed. “But I am unable to race on horseback.”
    “I propose to transplant your brain into a good android body fashioned in your likeness. This would be indistinguishable on casual inspection from your original self, with excellent knees. You could race again. I have an excellent stable—“
    “A cyborg?” Stile asked. “A human brain in a synthetic body? This would not be legal for competition.” Apart from that, the notion was abhorrent.
    “No one would know,” the Citizen said smoothly.   “Because your brain would be the original, and your body form and capacity identical, there would be no cause for suspicion.”
    No one would know—except the entire self-willed machine community, at this moment listening in. And Stile himself, who would be living a lie. And he was surely being lied to, as well; if brain transplant into android body was so good, why didn’t Citizens use that technique for personal immortality? Quite likely the android system could not maintain a genuinely living brain indefinitely; there would be slow erosion of intelligence and/or sanity, until that person was merely an-other brute creature. This was no bargain offer in any sense!
    “Sir, I was just fired because I refused to have surgery on my knees. What makes you suppose I want surgery on my head?”
    This bordered on insolence, but the Citizen