"Nay," the Lady said. "We are not in immediate danger. Thou canst conjure in food while we await the unicorn's return."
Stile did not feel easy. For one thing, he could not afford to wait indefinitely; he had promised to return to Proton at a specified time, and that time was near. For another, he did not trust the Translucent Adept to let things be; the man knew he could not long keep another Adept captive. He might even now be preparing some more threatening measure. It would be no easier for him to devise a way to destroy Stile than it was for Stile to find a safe escape; they were at an impasse at the moment. How long would that last?
But he hardly had time to worry before the move came. Monstrous pincers forged down from above, closing inexorably on the net. Each section was six feet in diameter, rounded, with a horny surface on one side. No physical way to resist that mass! Stile readied his transformation-spell.
"Wait!" the Lady cried. "That is the giantess!"
Of course! How could he have failed to recognize her colossal fingers? Clip had brought the one creature capable of lifting the net!
The giantess' fingers closed on the net, while Stile and the Lady herded Hinblue as far to one side as possible, avoiding the central pinch. The tremendous rocky fingernails caught in the ropes. The hand lifted-and the net came up. They were hauled up with it, through the water to the surface, and swung across to land.
Now, too late, it occurred to Stile that he could have done this himself, conjuring a sky hook to lift them all free. Or he might have summoned superpowerful cutting pincers to sever individual strands. Under the pressures of the moment, he had not been thinking well. He would have to school himself to perform better under magical pressure.
Here, beyond the Translucent Demesnes, Stile's magic could overcome the enchantment of the net directly. The strands melted and flowed into the sand, freeing them at last.
"I thank the giantess," Stile said, his voice booming through a conjured megaphone.
"I owe thee for my thimble," she boomed back. "Thank thy friend for showing me the way." She turned and strode northeast, toward the demesnes of the giants. She hummed as she went, making a sound like distant thunder.
Clip was there in natural form, having arrived unobtrusively. "I do thank thee, unicorn," Stile said sincerely. "Again thou hast gotten me out of mischief. I would do thee some return favor."
Clip shifted to man-form. "My sister Neysa bid me look after thee in her stead. She loves thee, and I love her. Say no more, Adept." He shifted back.
Stile said no more. Clip was certainly fulfilling his commission! Most unicorns would not tolerate a human rider at all and had little use for Adepts. Stile had won the respect of the Herd Stallion, so was permitted to ride a unicorn-yet Clip's service was more than that of a mere steed. No friend could have done more. There would have to be a repayment of some sort. He would continue to ponder the matter in off moments, seeking what was suitable.
There was now the matter of the Translucent Adept. Stile decided, with a certain inner regret, to let that be. He had intruded on the Translucent Demesnes, and the Adept had not discriminated against him. Stile had won sufficient victory by escaping the net. To attack another Adept at this point would be to initiate trouble, rather than reacting to it.
He looked ahead. They were on the island of the West Pole. It was pleasant enough, with deciduous trees scattered across gently rolling pasture. Small flowers bloomed randomly, and a number of shrubs bore fruit. A person could live fairly comfortably here without much labor.
The curtain continued west. They followed it — and suddenly, three miles in from the beach, they were at the West Pole. It was marked by a big X on the ground.
Stile looked down at it. "That's it?" he asked, disappointed.
"Didst thou expect perchance a palace?" the Lady inquired with a smile.
"Well, yes, or something spectacular. This X on the ground — how do we know this is really the spot?"
"Because the curtains intersect here, my love." She stood on the X and pointed north-south with her arms. "Here is the other curtain. It proceeds at right angles."
Stile looked carefully. There it was — another curtain, like the first, crossing at the X. He spelled himself across, and found himself on a barren elevation of Proton. Holding his breath, he strode to the east-west curtain and willed himself across. He was back in Phaze. The two curtains were similar, except for orientation.
"And from here thou canst sight along them, to see that they are straight," the Lady said.
Stile stood on the Pole and sighted east. The line was absolutely straight; all the meanderings they had traveled now seemed to be distortions of the land of Phaze and the land of Proton. Interesting perspective!
Curious as to how far this went, he conjured a powerful telescope, one based on the macron principle, and oriented on the line again. It went straight for what might be thousands of miles, until the focus found the backside of a standing man. That man was holding an object to his eye.
"Oh, no!" Stile exclaimed. "That's me!" And he kicked up one foot, verifying it. "This line does not even acknowledge the curvature of the planet!"
"Of course not," the Lady said. "Phaze is flat."
"But Phaze has the same geography as Proton — and Proton is a sphere. How can that be?"
"Phaze is magic; Proton is scientific."
Stile decided to let that wait for further thought. Another problem had occurred. "This is a telescope I'm using — I didn't think — I mean it's a scientific instrument. It shouldn't work here in the magic frame."
"Methought thou didst know," the Lady said. "The West Pole is the juxtaposition of frames. Magic and science both work, on this spot. That is what makes it worth visiting."
"Juxtaposition," Stile repeated, intrigued. "Could both selves of a person meet here, then?"
"Methinks they would merge here, and separate again when they moved away from the Pole, but I know not for sure."
"Science and magic merging at this particular juncture! I wonder if this is the way the universe began, with everything working both ways, and somehow the frames began separating, like cells dividing or surfaces pulling apart, so that people had to choose one or the other, never both? Like matter and anti-matter. Except for a few anchorages like this. This is special!"
"Aye," she agreed. "Methought thou wouldst like it. Many impossible tricks of science are possible here."
Stile sighed. "Now we have reached our destination. Our time is up, our honeymoon over, and I must return to Proton for a stint of Citizenship."
"Our time is not up," she said. "Merely held in abeyance. Our honeymoon will endure as long as we permit. Conjure me a small residence here, and I will await thy return."
"But the hostile signals, the dire warnings — suppose something should happen during mine absence?"
"Methinks the hostility was directed more at thee than at me. I should be safe enough. But with Clip and Hinblue to guard me, I shall surely not want for protection."
"Still, I want to be sure," Stile said, pacing a small circle about the Pole. "Too much has threatened, and thou art too great a treasure to risk." He pondered. "If the West Pole permits science, could I set up a holographic pickup and broadcast unit, to reach me in Proton-frame? Would it transmit thine image successfully?"
"We can find out," she said.
Stile worked out a spell and conjured a standard Proton unit of the type used for projections originating outside the domes. He set it up and got it running; it could handle all that was visible from this point. Then he conjured an oxygen mask and crossed into barren Proton farther east, carrying a conjured receiver. It worked well enough; a globe formed in air and he looked into it to see the view of whatever direction he faced. He spun its orientation and caught the circular panorama as if turning in place at the West Pole. He halted it in place when he spied the Lady Blue standing beside the grazing Hinblue.