Split Infinity by Piers Anthony Page B

Camouflage?
    Stile had no good answers. He finally put himself into a light trance, attuned to any other extraordinary events, and rested.
    “Stile,” someone called softly. “Stile.”
    It was Sheen, back at last! Stile looked down the hall and spied her, walking slowly, as if she had forgotten his whereabouts. Had she had another brush with a charged machine? “Here,” he said, not loudly.
    She turned and came toward him. “Stile.”
    “You lost the pursuit,” he told her, standing in the crate so that his head and shoulders were clear. “No one even checked. But there is something else—“ Her hand shot out to grab his wrist with a grip like that of a vise. Stile was strong, but could not match the strength of a robot who was not being femininely human. What was she doing?
    Her other hand smashed into the crate. The plastic shattered. Stile twisted aside, avoiding the blow despite remaining inside the crate; it was an automatic reaction. “Sheen, what—?”
    She struck again. She was attacking him! He twisted aside again, drawing her off balance, using the leverage of her own grip on him. She was strong, but not heavy; he could move her about. Strength was only one element in combat; many people did not realize this, to their detriment.
    Either Sheen had somehow been turned against him, which would have taken a complete reprogramming, or this was not Sheen. He suspected the latter; Sheen had known where he was hiding, while this robot had had to call. He had been a fool to answer, to reveal himself.
    She struck again, and he twisted again. This was definitely not Sheen, for she had far greater finesse than this. It was not even a smart robot; it was a stupid mechanical. Good; he could handle it, despite its strength. Ethically and physically.
    Her right hand remained clamped on his left wrist, while her left fist did the striking. Holding and hitting!   If any of those blows landed squarely, he would suffer broken bones—but he was experienced in avoiding such an elementary attack. He turned about toward his left, drawing her hand and arm along with him, until he faced away from her, his right shoulder blocking hers.   He heaved into a wraparound throw. She had to let go, or be hurled into the crate headfirst.
    She was too stupid to let go. She crashed into the crate. Now at last her grip wrenched free, taking skin off his wrist. Stile scrambled out of the wrecked crate.   He could junk her, now that he knew what she was, because he knew a great deal more about combat than she did. But he couldn’t be quite sure she wasn’t Sheen, with some override program on her, damping out most of her intellect and forcing her to obey the crude command. If he hurt her—
    The robot scrambled out of the crate and advanced on him. Her pretty face was smirched with dirt, and her hair was in disarray. Her right breast seemed to have been pounded slightly out of shape; a bad fall from the wraparound throw could account for that. Stile backed away, still torn by indecision. He could overcome this robot, but he would have to demolish her in the process. If only he could be sure she wasn’t—
    Another Sheen appeared. “Stile!” she cried. “Get under cover! The squad is—“ Then she recognized the other robot. “Oh, no! The old duplicate-image stunt!”
    Stile had no doubt now: the second Sheen was the right one. But the first one had done half her job. She had routed him out and distracted him—too long. For now the android squad hove into sight, several lumbering giants.
    “I’ll hold them!” Sheen cried. “Run!”
    But more androids were coming from the other end of the hall. It seemed the irate Citizen no longer cared about being obvious; he just wanted Stile dispatched. If these lunks were also powdered with stun-dust or worse—
    Stile charged down the hall and lunged into the matter-transmission curtain, desperately hoping it would work for him. The androids might follow—but they could be in as much