"NAY, PAPA! I AM too old to need one to guide and ward

me!"

 

Rod shook his head. "When you're fifteen, maybe—

maybe. But even then, you won't be old enough to take

care of an eight-year-old little brother—nor a ten-year-old,

for that matter. Not to mention a thirteen-year-old sister."

 

"I am ten already!" The little girl jammed her fists on

her hips and glared up at him with a jutting chin.

 

Rod turned to her, suppressing a smile, but Gwen was

already chiding gently. "Mayhap when thou art fourteen

years aged, my sweet, and thy brother Magnus is sixteen,

I'll dare leave the others in thy charge. Yet now..." She

turned to Big Brother. "... thou art but twelve."

 

" Tis a worthy age," Magnus declared. "Assuredly might

I care for myself." He turned back to Rod. "Many another

boy of my age doth already aid his father in plowing, and..."

 

"Other boys your age are pages, and taking squire lessons

from the local knight." Rod nodded. "But in both cases,

please notice the presence of an adult—and those boys

aren't taking care of little brothers and sisters!"

 

"Enough of such chatter!" A foot and a half of elf stepped

up beside Rod's knee, arms akimbo, frowning up at the

four children. "Be still and heed me, or 'twill be much the

worse for thee!"

 

Rod had a fleeting vision of coming home to four little

frogs in nightshirts and nightcaps. The children fell silent.

Glowering and truculent, but silent. Even though the small-

 

4              Christopher Stasheff

 

est of them was twice Puck's size, they all knew that the

elf's idea of fun could be more devastating than their par-

ents' notion of punishment.

 

"Thy parents do wish to take an evening to themselves,"

the Puck rumbled, "to think of naught but one another's

company. The coming-together that this allows them is as

much to thy benefit as to theirs—and well thou knowest

that they could not thus rejoice in one another's company,

an they were continually concerned over what mishaps might

befall thee. Yet my biding with thee will allow them as-

surance sufficient to ease their minds from care, for the

space of an evening."

 

By this time, four sets of eyes were cast toward the

ground. Cordelia was drawing imaginary circles with her

toe. Rod didn't say anything, but he eyed the elf with re-

newed respect.

 

"Bid them good night, then," Puck. commanded, "and

assure them thou wilt cheerfully bide in my care till they

return."

 

Reluctantly, and with ill grace, the children came up,

one by one, for a quick peck on the cheek and a perfunctory

hug, for Cordelia and Gregory, and a manly handshake, for

Magnus and Geoffrey (but with a peck on the cheek for

Mama).

 

"Go thy ways, now," Puck said to Rod and Gwen, "and

concern thyselves not with the fates of thy children. I war-

rant their safety, though a full score of knights ride against

them—for a legion of elves shall defend!"

 

"Not to mention that you, yourself, could easily confound

a dozen." Rod bowed in acknowledgement. "I thank you,

Puck."

 

"Bless thee, Robin." Gwen hid a smile.

 

Puck winced. "I prithee, lady! Be mindful of my sen-

sibilities!"

 

"'Tis myself who doth bless thee," Gwen assured him.

"I did not invoke any Other. Yet do I thank thee, too. Sprite."

 

"'Tis ever my pleasure." Puck doffed his cap with a

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING       5

 

flourish, and bowed. "Ever, when the lady's so beauteous.

Go thy ways, now, free of care—and hasten, ere the gloam-

ing surrenders to Night!"

 

They followed his advice. Rod closed the door behind

them, and they walked five steps down the path, counting

under their breaths. Then, "Six," Rod said, and, "seven..."

 

On cue, four small faces filled the window behind them,

with cries of "God e'en!" "Good night. Mama!" "Well betide

thee!"

 

Rod grinned, and Gwen answered with a pursed smile.

They waved, then turned and strode off down the path.

 

"We're lucky," Rod reminded her.

 

"Indeed." Gwen sighed. "But 'twill be pleasant to have

some few hours to ourselves once more."

 

They wandered into the twilit forest, with his arm about

her, she with a dreamy, contented smile, he just contented.

 

"And wither wilt thou carry me away, my lord?" she

murmured.

 

Rod smiled down at her. "I ran into a little old lady who

was trying to haul some firewood home on her back—and

having very rough going, stumbling and cursing, and need-

ing to put it down every ten feet or so. So I let her ride

Fess, and I carried the wood as far as the crossroads where

her son was going to meet her. She thanked me a lot and,

favor for favor, took me on a short detour and showed me

a little glade with a beautiful mini-pond." He heaved a sigh.

"I swear I never knew there was something so pretty, so

close to home—except, of course, the ones who are in it."

 

She looked up at him, amused; but he saw the dreaminess

behind the smile, and shook a finger at her. "Now, don't

you dare try to tell me it's just like the days when we were

courting! We only got to know each other in the middle of

a minor civil war."                        ^

 

"Aye; yet did I bethink me of the days thereafter."

 

"Right after the war, we got married."

 

She snuggled her head up against his chest. "'Tis what

I did mind me of."

 

 

 

 

6              Christopher Stasheff

 

Rod stared at her for a moment. Then he smiled, and

rested his cheek against her head.

 

Suddenly the woodland path opened out. The branches

swung away, and they found themselves gazing at a perfect

pool, its waters like a gem. Terraced rocks came down to

its edge, festooned with flowers. Branches arched over it

like a sheltering dome.              *

 

Gwen drew in a breath. "Oh, 'tis beautiful!"

 

Then she saw the unicorn.

 

It stepped out of the shadows at the edge of the pond to

lower its dainty muzzle to the still water, drinking.

 

Rod held his breath, but even under the spell of the

moment, his mind automatically registered the fact that the

water must be extremely pure, if a unicorn was willing to

drink it.

 

Then the silver beast lifted its head, to look directly at

them.

 

Gwen gasped in wonder. Then, slowly, she moved around

the pool, entranced.

 

Rod followed right behind her, scarcely daring to breathe.

 

As Gwen drew close, the unicorn stepped back. Gwen

hesitated.

 

"Sorry, dear," Rod murmured.

 

"I will never regret," she answered softly. "But, my lord,

there is not only wariness in those eyes—there is imploring.

Could it need our aid?"

 

"Sought us out, you mean?" Rod frowned—then stiff-

ened, as alarm bells went off in the back of his mind.

"Gwen—even on Gramarye, unicorns don't exist..."

 

Gwen shook her head. "Be mindful of witch-moss, my

lord. On Gramarye, aught that an old aunt may imagine the

whiles she doth tell a tale, can come into being, an she be

a witch unknowing."

 

But Rod didn't answer. He was gazing about him with

every sense open, alert for the slightest thing out of place,

his awareness widening to encompass the whole of the glen,

the patterns of light that the sunset painted on the shrubbery,

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING       7

 

the rustling of leaves, the whisper of leather, and the slight

chink of metal behind him...

 

He whirled about, sword whipping out; the pike smashed

past his shoulder and into the ground. "Look out!" he cried,

but even as Gwen turned, another cudgel cracked into her

skull. She crumpled, and Rod howled with rage, full ber-

serker madness. The glade about him seemed to darken with

the hue of blood. He bellowed as he leaped forward, chop-

ping with a sword that burst into flame. His opponent leaped

back, eyes alight and wary, but without fear.

 

His buddies closed in from three sides. Rod knew there

was one behind him, too, and he let a glance of his rage

dart backward. Flame burst, and somebody screamed. Rod

parried a blow from the center man while he glared at the

thug to his left. The man slammed back against a tree and

slumped to the ground, but the man to his right stepped in,

and swung down hard. A crack echoed through Rod's head,

filling the world with pain. Through the red mist, he felt

himself swaying. He swung his arm with the movement,

slashing, and the thug fell back with a howl, a red line

beginning to widen across his cheek. But Rod had forgotten

his back; rope hissed and burned across his neck, and yanked

his feet out from under him. A soft body plummeted against

him, knocking the breath out of him. Then they were drag-

ging, bumping, over rough ground, and he realized, dazed,

that the body was Gwen. He howled and slashed at the net

around them, but his sword caught in the ropes. He tugged

at it in fury, hearing somebody call, "We have them! Now—

heave! Two meters more!"

 

Rod struggled frantically to get his feet under him. What-

ever lay at the end of those two meters, he wasn't going to

like.

 

Then, through the mesh, he saw it—a jury-rigged thing

of telescoping legs, framing a triangular arch that showed

only a blaze of sunlight, harsh on his eyes. He recognized

the transdimensional gate that had taken himself and his

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

8             Christopher Stasheff

 

family to the alternate universe of Tir Chlis, and he bellowed

in rage and panic, channeling every ounce of it at the

 

gadget....

 

He was an instant too late. The net cut into his back,

 

heaved up, and shot through, just as the contraption behind

him burst into flame.

 

Sickened, he struggled against the ropes, got his feet

under him, and surged up to stand. He thrashed the net off

him, and whirled about, wild-eyed.

 

In every direction, as far as he could see, grassland swept

away to the horizon. The air was filled with the fragrance

of growth, and the sunshine enveloped him with warmth.

It wasn't very far up—which was easy to tell, because the

land was flat as a chessboard. He turned, staring, amazed

at the silence, all the more vivid for the few faint bird-calls

and the murmurings of insects. The land rolled up behind

the net, up and up to a high ridge. Everywhere, everywhere

was grass, waist-high.

 

It wasn't Gramarye.

 

Rod glared about him, powerless to do anything about

it. They'd been very neatly caught, he and his wife....

 

Fury transformed into horror. The ambush had been ad-

mirably planned; they'd knocked Gwen out in the first few

moments. But how far out? He dropped to one knee, clawing

the net away from her, cradling her head in the crook of an

elbow, patting her face, caressing it, slapping very gently.

"Gwen! Come to! Wake up—please! Are you there? Wake

up!" He poised his mouth in front of her lips, felt for breath,

and relaxed with a sigh. She was alive. Everything else was

secondary—she was alive!

 

Belatedly, he remembered his psi powers—not surpris-

ing, since he'd only had them for a year or two. He stilled,

listening closely with his mind—and heard her dream. He

smiled, insinuating himself into it, asking her to wake, to

speak to him—and she did.

 

"Nay, I am well now," she murmured. '"Twas but a

moment's discomfort...."

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING       9

 

"A little more than that, I think." Gently, Rod probed

the side of her head. She was still; then, suddenly, she

gasped. Rod nodded. "Goose egg already—well, a rob-

in's—but it'll be a goose egg."

 

She reached up to touch the spot tenderly, then winced.

"What did hap, my lord? I mind me thou didst turn, with

a war-cry..."

 

"A gang of thugs jumped us. They knocked you out on

the first swing—and they had me outnumbered. Caught us

up in a net, and dragged us through a dimensional gate."

 

She smiled. "A net? Nay, I must needs think they did

find thy skill too great for them."

 

"Why, thank you." Rod smiled down at her. "Of course,

there's also the possibility they were under orders not to kill

us—and fighting is more difficult when you have to knock

somebody out, but not kill him."

 

Gwen frowned. "Why dost thou think they abjured slay-

ing?"

 

"Because they used cudgels, not pikes. But, when they

couldn't take us alive, they settled*for kidnapping us out of

our own time and place." Rod frowned, looking around.

"Which means there should be somebody around, waiting

for a second try."

 

"Aye, my lord. If they wished us alive, they must needs

have had strong reason." She gazed up at him. "What is

this 'dimensional gate' of which thou didst speak? I catch,

from thy mind, memories of Tir Chlis."

 

Rod nodded. "Same type. But how'd they know where

to waylay us? That gate had to be set up ahead of time."

 

"The crone," Gwen murmured.

 

Rod smacked his forehead with the heel of his hand. "Of

course! The whole thing was a setup! She didn't really need

my help... she was a Futurian agent!"

 

"They knew thou wouldst not refuse to assist one in

need."

 

Rod nodded. "So good old helpful me gave an old lady

a hand, and she bit it! Told me right where to go—and set

 

 

 

 

10 Christopher Stasheff

 

up her trap." He shook his head. "Remind me not to do

anyone any favors."

 

"I would never wish that," Gwen said firmly. "Yet in

future, let us beware of all gifts."

 

"Yeah—we'll open them under water." Rod looked

around, frowning. "Wonder what alternate universe they've

shanghaied us into this time?"

 

A ululating cry slashed through the air, and thirty purple-

skinned fur-kilted men rose up out of the tall grass a hundred

yards away.

 

Rod and Gwen stared.

 

A spear arced through the air, to bury its head in the

earth half a meter from Rod's feet.

 

Rod snapped out of his daze. "Wherever we are, we ain't

welcome. Run, dear!"

 

They whirled and charged, Gwen gathering up her skirts.

"Our abductors could at the least have sent a broomstick!"

 

"Yes, very careless of them." But Rod chewed at the

inside of his lip. "Still, maybe you had the right idea there,

dear. Let's try it and see. Ready?" He slipped an arm around

her. "Up we go!"

 

They leaped into the air. Rod put all his attention into

staying up; the natives became secondary, dim and distant.

They rose up a good twenty feet.

 

"Turn," Gwen suggested.

 

Rod banked, worrying about the "why" later. Until he

got good at this game, he'd have to let Gwen do the steering.

 

She had novel ideas. They swooped back toward the

natives like avenging furies.

 

The savages screeched to a halt, partly from surprise,

mostly from alarm. Good little victims weren't supposed to

attack.

 

"Attempt a war-cry," Gwen advised.

 

Rod grinned, and let out a whoop that would have shamed

all the rebels in Dixie.

 

That was a mistake; it gave the savages something fa-

 

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING      11

 

miliar. They snapped out of their shock and closed ranks in

front of the flying Gallowglasses.

 

"Wrong tactic," Rod decided. "Hold tight." He thought

up hard, and soared way high over the savages' heads,

thoroughly out of bowshot. Then they swung down.

 

"Wherefore so low, my lord?" Gwen asked.

 

"Just in case I run out of lift."

 

Gwen blanched. "If we are going to strike the earth, my

lord, I would prefer not to fly so swiftly."

 

"Don't worry, babe, I can stop on a dime. Of course, it

doesn't do the dime much good...."

 

The ground rose up beneath them. They rose with it,

too, of course—and the whooping barbarians were growing

smaller very quickly, behind them. Up, and over the rise—

and the savages disappeared below the curve of the ridge.

 

"Surely they must be the half of a mile behind us, now,

my lord," Gwen protested. "Will they not have given up

by now?"

 

Rod nodded. "If you say so, darling. I just hope they

were listening."

 

They slowed, and dropped gently to the ground. Gwen

smiled as her heels touched earth. "Thou dost progress

amazingly in thine use of thy powers, my lord."

 

"Oh, you know—just practice." But Rod felt a thor-

oughly irrational glow at her praise. "I must say, though,

I'm surprised it didn't put more of a shock into our hunters."

 

"Aye." Gwen frowned. "What manner of men were they?"

 

"Oh—just your average barbarians."

 

"But—they were purple!"

 

"The human race is amazing in its diversity," Rod said

piously. "On the other hand, you never know—the color

might wash off in a good rain."

 

Gwen stared. "Dost'a mean they do paint themselves

from head to toe?"

 

Rod nodded. "Not exactly unknown. In fact, if it weren't

for the color, I'd guess we were on the Scottish side of

 

12            Christopher Stasheff

 

Hadrian's Wall in a country called Great Britain, about 100

A.D."

 

"Were there truly such?" she asked, wide-eyed.

 

"Sure were, dear—check any history book, if you can

find one. Painted themselves blue, in fact." Rod frowned.

"Of course, that theme has been pretty well pict over by

now...."

 

Clamoring howls drifted down the wind again.

 

Rod's head snapped up and around.

 

Over the ridge they came—purple, waving spears, and

howling like the Eumenides.

 

"Time to hit the woad!" Rod caught Gwen around the

waist again.

 

"Not so high this time, an it please thee, my lord."

 

"Anything to please, my dear." Rod frowned, concen-

trating. The scenery seemed to dim about him, and they

rose just to the tops of the grain.

 

"Forward," Gwen murmured.

 

They shot straight ahead, faster than a speeding spear

(just in case).

 

"They may not be much on technology, but they've got

Terrans beat all hollow on perverse perseverance."

 

'"Tis even so. How long can they endure?"

 

Rod looked back, letting the natives' style percolate

through the filters of his concentration. "Let's see—they're

doing a lope, not an all-out run.... Hey, those guys aren't

even trying! Not really."

 

"Scandalous. How long can they maintain such a pace?"

 

Rod shrugged. "As long as we can, I'd guess."

 

"And how long is that, my lord?"

 

Rod shrugged again. "I just had dinner. Six or seven

hours, at least." He looked down at Gwen. "Any particular

direction you wanted me to go?"

 

She shook her head. "All bearings are equal, when thou

knowest not thy destination."

 

Rod nodded. "I can sympathize with that; I was young

once, myself."

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING      13

 

She glanced up at him. "Thou art not greatly anxious,

my lord."

 

"No, not really. These guys haven't invented anti-aircraft

guns yet.... How about you? Worried?"

 

"Nay." She leaned back in his arms with a peaceful sigh.

 

Vivid skins and violent yells erupted over the horizon in

front.

 

Rod stared. "How'd they get around there so quickly?"

 

"Nay, 'tis a different band. These are stained yellow-

green."

 

"Chartreuse, I think they call it—but you're right." Rod

frowned. "I don't feel like attacking again. Shall we?"

 

Gwen nodded. "Turn, an't please thee, my lord. I have

no wish to shed blood."

 

They banked around in a 180-degree turn—just as their

previous pursuers came over the rise behind.

 

"Turn, and turn again." Rod veered ninety degrees. "Pilot

to navigator. Setting course perpendicular to angle of pur-

suit. To the vector go the broils."

 

Gwen glanced back. "They do join forces in pursuit of

us, my lord."

 

"Too bad." Rod scowled, "I was hoping they might take

time out to fight each other."

 

"United they ran," Gwen sighed. "Why did we turn to

the left, my lord?"

 

"I'm a liberal."

 

"Wherefore?"

 

"Why not? Since I don't know where I'm going... Say,

what's that coming over the rise ahead?"

 

"More savages," Gwen answered.

 

"That's a good reason for a turn to the right." Rod veered

through a U-tum. "What color of paint were these boys

wearing, dear?"

 

"Orange, my lord."

 

Rod shuddered. "What a color scheme! Y' know, if any

more of them show up in front of us, we're going to be

boxed in."

 

14 Christopher Stasheff

 

"I prithee, do not speak of it my lord."

 

"Okay, I won't. I'll just get ready to climb. You sure

you can't fly?"

 

Gwen shook her head. "Without a broomstick, I cannot."

 

"Union rules," Rod sighed.

 

A spear arced over his head and buried itself in the grass

ten feet ahead. Rod watched it go by. "Maybe it's just as

well you're next to me. With their marksmanship, you're

better off with the target."

 

Gwen watched another spear arc overhead—by a good

twenty feet. "I think they do not regard us highly as enemies,

my lord. Certes, they cannot have sent picked troops to fight

us."

 

"Everyone here is a Pict troop. Would you mind a little

more speed, dear?"

 

"Certes, I would welcome it." Gwen glanced behind her.

"The air is clear of spears, my lord."

 

"Okay, now!" Rod thought hard, and they shot ahead

through the grass as though the ghost of Caracatus were hot

on their heels. The yells diminished behind them, very

quickly. But they boosted to howling level.

 

"Well, we're out of the trap," Rod sighed, "unless some-

thing comes up over the next rise."

 

They swung up and over the rise—and saw a clear,

straight plane sheering across the horizon.

 

"A wall!" Gwen cried.

 

"It can't be!" Rod stared. Then he frowned. "How close

can parallel universes get? Gwen, I'm taking care of the

flying chores; you do a little mind-reading and see what

language the people behind that Wall are speaking."

 

Gwen's eyes lost focus for a moment, then cleared. "They

do speak our tongue, my lord."

 

Rod's frown deepened. "Odd... but the Roman con-

querers weren't the only ones to build walls. There were

the Chinese—and, come to think of it, several of the planets

in the Terran Sphere, during their frontiering days..."

 

"I think I ken thy meaning...."

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING      15

 

"I'll explain it when we're not being chased. See anything

resembling a gate?"

 

"Yonder, my lord." Gwen pointed. "Timbers."

 

A dark rectangle in the stone, lintel and leaves.

 

"Yeah, that. That's where we head for. Wonder what this

place is like?"

 

"We shall discover that directly," Gwen murmured.

 

The gate zoomed up at them.

 

"Pretend you're running." Rod started pumping his legs

like a veteran miler. Gwen gathered up her skirts and tripped

merrily along beside him.

 

Rod dropped the flying power and dug in his heels,

plowing to a stop right at the gate, and hammered on the

huge oaken leaves with his fist. "Hey! Help! Open up! Let

us in! Tear! Fire! Foes!' Especially the Toes' part!"

 

He stopped and listened. Silence, total silence—except

for the howling behind them, which was showing a definite

Doppler shift—the approaching kind.

 

Rod stepped back and scanned the top of the wall. "Some-

thing's wrong here. I don't see any sentries."

 

Gwen frowned, her eyes losing focus. "They are there,

my lord. Yet they feel great caution."

 

"Why? Just because they've never seen us before, and

this whole thing could be a ploy to con them into opening

their front door." He cocked his head to the side. "Come

to think of it, I suppose I do look a little like Ulysses...."

 

"Mayhap, my lord, but canst thou not convince them of

our honesty?"

 

"How about the direct approach?" Rod wound up a leg

and slammed a kick at the middle of the doors. "Hey! We're

being chased by wild Indians! Open up in there! Let the

cavalry out!"

 

"Cease your pounding, you panicking prat!" bellowed a

voice overhead.                          '"'

 

Rod stepped back and looked up.

 

A scowling, fleshy man in a loose shirt, with an unshaven

jaw, and a surly hangover glowered down at them. He pressed

 

16 Christopher Stasheff THE WARLOCK WANDERING 17

 

a hand to his head. "There, that's better. You were splitting

me head open." And he disappeared again. "Good idea!"

Rod yelled. "Come back here and let us in—or I will split

it open, and not just by yelling!"

 

"You'll have to wait till we finish the hand," the voice

growled faintly from above. Several other voices snarled

agreement.

 

"But... but... but..." Rod gave up and turned his at-

tention to his wife. "What kind of an outfit is this?"

 

"We are accompanied, my lord," Gwen murmured.

 

Rod whirled and looked behind him.

 

A long line of multi-colored men was drawn up at the

skyline, leaning on their spears, watching.

 

With a gnashing groan, the gate opened. The man who

had spoken from the wall above stood in the opening, grin-

ning. "Full house," he announced."My pot."

 

"It's considerable." Rod eyed the man's midriff. He looked

on up to a rum-blossom nose beside a livid scar, topped

with a black thatch. The shirt was white, or had been. The

belt underscored the midriff, holding up green uniform pants

which were tucked into black boots (in crying need of a

shine).

 

"Well," he growled, "don't just stand there gawking.

Come in, if your need's so frantic."

 

"Oh, yes." Rod shut his mouth and stepped through the

gateway, his arm carefully around Gwen.

 

The slob's eyes lit at the sight of her, but he waved a

hand in signal to someone on top of the wall anyway. The

gate started to swing shut, and the man waved at the savages

just before it closed. A great oaken bar, about of a size to

fit the huge iron brackets on the inside of the gate, lay on

the ground nearby, but the slob ignored it. He turned back

toward them, and caught sight of Gwen again. Interest

gleamed feebly through the hangover, and he looked her up

and down. Gwen flushed, and glared at him.

 

Rod cleared his throat loudly.

 

The slob looked up at him and saw the glare. The hang-

 

 

over struggled with lust, and lost. The slob grumbled, by

way of a face-saver, "Where'd you get the fancy clothes?"

 

"Where'd you get the booze?" Rod countered.

 

Caution flickered in the man's eyes, and they turned

opaque.

 

"Well, ye're in," he grunted, and turned away.

 

Rod stared. "Hey, wait a minute!"

 

The slob stopped, threw a despairing glance to the heav-

ens, and turned back. "What now?"

 

"Where are we supposed to go?"

 

"Wherever you want to," the slob grunted, turning away.

 

Rod stood a moment, gaping.

 

He shrugged and turned back to Gwen. "Might as well

follow him, I suppose."

 

"We might, indeed," she agreed, and they turned to climb

the long, sloping ramp that led to the ramparts.

 

As he climbed the ramp, he noticed that it was poured

plasticrete. So was the Wall. Weathered, and buttressed with

props here and there, but plasticrete nonetheless. "Well, so

much for the Romans," he muttered.

 

"My lord?"

 

"This stuff is plasticrete," he explained. "It wasn't even

invented until about 2040 A.D. So we can't be in Roman

Britain—that was a good sixteen hundred years earlier."

 

"I have no knowledge of this." Gwen frowned."'Tis for

thee to say. In what world would we be, then?"

 

Rod rubbed his chin, looking around him. "We might—

just might—be in our own universe, Gwen. No, not Gra-

marye, of course—another world, circling another sun."

He looked down at her. "It couldn't be Terra, of course."

 

"What is 'Terra'?"

 

For a moment, Rod was galvanized. That a Terran human

should not even know the name of the planet that gave birth

to her species... ! But he caught himself, remembering that

Gramarye had never exactly been strong on history. In fact,

its inhabitants didn't even know there were any worlds other

than their own.

 

 

 

 

18

 

Christopher Stasheff

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING

 

19

 

"Terra is the world your ancestors came from, dear—

the planet that all human beings ultimately came from. It's

the home world of our kind."

 

Gwen was silent for a moment, digesting that.

 

As she did, they came out onto the top of the Wall. The

ramparts stretched away before them, dwindling into the

distance, a concrete channel cutting four feet down into the

plasticrete.

 

A group of men knelt and squatted around a fire near the

top of the ramp. Like the slob, they wore white shirts, green

trousers, and black boots—but most of them had green

jackets, too, fastened up to the throat. Their sleeves held

insignia—or patches of lighter color, where the emblems

had been. Uniforms, Rod realized, and right after that,

They're soldiers!

 

Gwen's eyes widened; she was listening to his thoughts.

 

They didn't seem to be very well-disciplined soldiers,

though. Either that, or there wasn't any war going at the

moment. Rod heard the rustle of cards and the click of

chips.

 

The soldiers looked up, saw Gwen, and looked harder.

 

She smiled, politely but firmly.

 

Something like a hungry purr arose from the soldiers.

The nearest, a sergeant, rose to his feet. He straightened

up to eight inches taller than Rod, and about four inches

wider, three-quarters muscle, the rest fat. He had an ugly

face and a leering grin, and a possessive manner as he

stepped towards Gwen.

 

Rod raised a hand, palm out. It jarred against the man's

chest, jolting him to a stop. He looked down at Rod's arm

in surprise. He pushed against it tentatively a few times,

then said in disbelief, "It holds!" He gave Rod a nod of

approval. "You're well enough muscled for such a small

fellow, ain't you?"

 

"Why, thank you." Irony in Rod's smile. "Now, just step

back to the game, why don't you?"

 

The other soldiers watched, buzzard-eyed.

 

The sergeant grinned wickedly and shook his head."Bear

ye not too rawly, lad." He took in Rod's doublet and hose.

"A juggler, belike, or a clown. Well, leam then, lad, that

women be property common on the Wall."

 

He turned away to Gwen, batting Rod's arm out of the

way.

 

It didn't bat.

 

Rod tightened his hold on the man's jacket. "Now, just

go on back to the game. Sergeant. Be a good fellow."

 

"Poor manners for a guest," the slob growled from the

sidelines.

 

"Poorer manners for a host," Rod retorted, "trying to

rape a guest's..."

 

"Rape??!!?" The big soldier stared.

 

He threw back his head, roaring laughter, then doubled

over, clutching his belly. "A woman on the Wall, needing

rape!"

 

"They couldn't," the slob explained. "They come, oh,

quite willingly, yes."

 

Rod lifted and shoved; the big soldier staggered back a

few steps, still laughing. Rod stepped back, too, relaxing

into a crouch. "This one," he said grimly, "doesn't."

 

The soldier quit laughing abruptly, and sobered into a

narrow-eyed glare.

 

"Teach him manners. Thaler," the slob growled.

 

My lord, Gwen's thoughts said in Rod's head, there are

loose stones on the ground nearby. I might...

 

No! Rod thought back. You want to start a witch-hunt?

The natives could handle seeing us fly—their culture still

believes in magic. But these boys are civilized! They have

to kill things they don't understand! Aloud, he said, "You

can pick up the pieces with the first-aid kit."

 

Thaler's eyes crinkled with amusement. He laughed once,

twice, chuckled, roared laughter, and fell to the ground,

doubled over, clutching his belly, howling mirth...

 

... and shot up like a spring, still laughing, his head

crashing up under Rod's jaw.

 

 

 

 

20

 

Christopher Stasheff

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING

 

21

 

Rod fell back against the ramparts.

 

Thaler waded in, fists hammering.

 

Rod swiveled his head around under the man's fists and

dived to the side, flipping over onto his back.

 

Thaler snarled, and came after him.

 

Rod shoved hard, his whole body lashing out in a kick

that should have caught Thaler under the jaw, heel to chin.

 

But Thaler ducked under the blow, then leaned back,

lashing out with the side of his foot at Rod's chin. Rod

sidestepped, hooked his heel behind Thaler's calf, jerked,

and saw the edge of Thaler's hand swinging straight at the

 

bridge of his nose.

 

Rod managed to duck enough for the chop to crack across

his forehead instead, and went reeling back stunned; not

only by the blow, but also by a horrifying realization: Thal-

er's chop was the first half of a two-blow series that ended

in:

 

Death.

 

They really didn't like strangers here.

 

Thaler's hand slammed down again, in a chop that would

have crushed Rod's larynx; but he rolled to the side at the

last second, and Thaler's hand cracked into the plasticrete.

He howled with pain, and Rod rolled up into a crouch,

punching at the solar plexus with stiffened fingers. But

Thaler saw the blow coming, and rolled back just enough

to take most of the impact out of it. What was left was

enough to stiffen him with agony for a moment—and the

moment was all Rod needed.

 

He followed the punch with a series of quick blows that

Thaler just barely managed to block, retreating as quickly

as he could. Rod got just a touch too confident, let his right

foot lead just a little too far—and Thaler's knee snaked

around Rod's, and a fist the size of a comed-beef brisket

 

slammed into Rod's ear.

 

The sky reeled, and the plasticrete struck under him,

hard; but he tucked his chin in, and his head didn't hit too

hard.

 

As the world circled past, he noticed the sole of Thaler's

boot coming down. He grabbed the foot, twisted, and threw.

Thaler hopped back, howling and flailing for balance.

 

Rod gathered himself into a ball, rolled to his feet, and

saw the same damn foot coming at his face again.

 

Now, Thaler didn't look as though he were apt to win

any IQ prizes, but he did look very experienced—so he

couldn't be dumb enough to try the same trick a second

time, when it hadn't worked once already. So Rod caught

at the foot, but stayed alert for a trick—and sure enough,

there came the fist, swinging down at the back of Rod's

neck.

 

Rod let go of the foot, took a half step forward, and

straightened up hard, both fists over his head.

 

They caught Thaler right under the jaw.

 

Thaler swayed, glassy-eyed.

 

Rod stepped back and swung a haymaker uppercut.

 

Thaler's head snapped back, and his feet snapped up,

and his whole body slammed down flat on the plasticrete.

 

Rod stood, panting, a little wild-eyed, looking around

him, woozy, head splitting with pain, but alert for anyone

else to start swinging.

 

But they stayed where they sat, glowering up at Gwen,

and nursing their jaws.

 

Rod looked up at her, incredulous.

 

Gwen glared about her in indignation. They have no sense

of honor, my lord! They would seek to molest me whiles

thou didst defend me!

 

In spite of his aches, Rod couldn't help grinning. He

pitied any man who had tried to lay a hand on his sweet

wife. "What did you do to them?"

 

"Only a slap for each, my lord."

 

A slap with its force multiplied by telekinesis. Rod

guessed. He was surprised none of the men were heading

for the hospital.

 

"Most excellently done," said a cool, amused voice.

 

Rod looked up, startled.

 

 

 

 

22            Christopher Stasheff

 

A tall, slender young man leaned against the outer wall.

His uniform was crisply pressed, and he wore a cap with a

polished black visor. His sleeves were bare of insignia, but

his shoulder boards were decorated with tiny brass razors.

 

Obviously an officer.

 

He turned his head, inclining it toward the slob. "Ser-

geant."

 

"Sir." Incredibly, the slob came to attention.

 

"You are out of uniform, and what you do have is more

fatigued than fatigues. And your personal grooming doesn't

 

exist."

 

"Yes, sir." Then, defiantly, "At least I'm here."

"Indeed you are—so you've only a dozen demerits, not

 

fifty."

 

The slob winced. "Sir! That's me whole next paycheck!"

"Are you paid so little? My, my. But courage, old chap—

a little extra spit and polish can win it back for you, over

the next few months." He turned away, and stepped up to

nudge Thaler with a boot-toe and a smile. "Poor chap. But

what can you expect, really?"

 

At last, the officer turned to Rod. "You're really quite

 

skilled, you know."

 

Rod shrugged. "Just a little special training. Your, ah,

discipline, is rather, shall we say, remarkable."

 

The officer shrugged. "It's actually not bad at all, when

you consider that our Wolmar was a prison planet, up 'til

nine years ago. Nearly everyone here is a convict of one

 

sort or another."

 

Rod stood stiff with shock, partly at discovering all these

soldiers were criminals, and partly from the name of the

planet. He didn't know that much about it, but he remem-

bered it from his history books. After all, he was an agent

for the Society for the Conversion of Extra-Terrestrial Nas-

cent Totalitarianisms, and before they'd sent him out search-

ing for Terran-colonized planets whose governments were

shaping up to become totalitarian, they'd told him a little

about all the colonies that had been out of touch while PEST

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING      23

 

ruled the Terran Sphere. Wolmar had been one of them—

one of the furthest from Terra. And it had stayed a prison

until PEST cut it off from contact, and supply.

 

Which meant they were in their own universe, after all,

but five hundred years before either of them had been born.

 

Gwen had been listening to his thoughts, of course. She

stepped closer to him, clinging to his arm. He was glad; he

needed the contact. Suddenly, their cozy little cottage seemed

much, much farther away, and the wind of loneliness blew

about their souls.

 

Thaler rolled over with a groan, opening his eyes to a

painful squint. The officer looked down at him, shaking his

head and clucking his tongue. "Intolerable, sergeant! Two

unarmed civilians, seeking our protection—and what do

their rescuers do? Attack them!"

 

Thaler sat up with a groan. "He wasn't unarmed. Lieu-

tenant."

 

The lieutenant glanced at Rod's sword and rolled his eyes

up. "That oversized toothpick? Don't be ridiculous, man!

Report to your quarters until your hearing!"

 

Thaler blanched, but he managed to keep looking bel-

ligerent as he struggled to his feet and turned to go. As he

passed by, he gave Rod a quick glare of hatred. Rod watched

his retreating back, deciding that he always wanted to know

when Thaler was around.

 

He turned back to the lieutenant, relaxing a little. Thaler's

resentment was what he'd have expected from any sergeant

talking to a fuzz-cheeked lieutenant—but this lieutenant

wasn't extremely young anymore, and he bore himself with

the self-confidence that can only come with experience.

There was something about him, the way he held himself,

that said he didn't need to rely on military rank to enforce

his orders.

 

"My apologies. Sir and Madam." He bowed courteously

to Rod, and a bit more courteously to Gwen. "I beg you to

pardon that outburst. Please be assured of your welcome,

regardless of what you have witnessed here."

 

 

 

 

24 Christopher Stasheff

 

"Why, thank you." Rod inclined his head in return, won-

dering why the lieutenant hadn't stopped the fight. Maybe

because it didn't look as though anyone was apt to be killed.

"Thou art most considerate." Gwen dropped a small curtsy.

The lieutenant's eye held a gleam, but he buried it quickly.

Rod gave him points for self-discipline—and wondered if

it was really from self. "May I have your names, sir and

 

madam?"

 

"Rodney Gallowglass." He was tempted to use his real

name, "d'Armand," but decided against it. He caught Gwen's

hand. "And this is my wife, Gwendylon."

 

Gwen looked up at him in surprise, and he heard her

unspoken thought: Wherefore didst thou not use thy title?

 

Other countries, other customs, he answered silently.

People like this are as likely to resent a lord as to honor

him.

 

"Lieutenant Corrigan, at your service." The young officer

clicked his heels and bobbed his head. "Now, Citizen Gal-

ti  lowglass, I would appreciate your explaining to me the

presence of our honored antagonists." He nodded toward

the outside of the main gate. Rod looked down, and saw a

crowd of Wolmen, chanting the same word over and over

again. With a shock. Rod realized it was, "Justice! Justice!

Justice! Justice!"

 

"Not that they're unwelcome, you understand," Stuart

explained, "but 1 would like to know the issue I'm going

to be discussing."

 

"I'm afraid I don't really know," Rod confessed. "We

were just standing there in the middle of the plain, minding

our own business, when they came up over the ridge and

started chasing us."

 

"Ah." The Lieutenant nodded. "A simple question of

remuneration, no doubt. If you'll excuse me, I'll go discuss

the issue with them." He bowed slightly with a click of the

heels, and turned away.

 

Gwen's voice sounded in Rod's mind: Is he noble, then?

 

No, Rod answered. / don't think anyone here is. But

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING      25

 

someone has to do the jobs that the lords would do, if they

were here—and he's been given that kind of authority. About

as much as a knight.

 

By what right did he claim it?

 

Training, Rod answered, knowledge and intelligence.

Sometimes even experience.

 

The great gates swung open, and the young officer stepped

out to confront the wild savages.

 

He crossed both arms, fingertips touching his shoulders,

and bowed slightly. One of the yellow-green men stepped

forward, and returned the gesture.

 

"I think it's a salute," Rod muttered.

 

The lieutenant's words carried clearly. "I greet you,

Scouting-Master."

 

The Scouting-Master returned the salute. "Have-um sun-

filled day. Lieutenant."

 

"The sentiments are appreciated." The lieutenant's voice

switched into crispness. "But though I am honored by your

presence, I also wonder at it. For how long have noble

warriors been attacking civilians?"

 

"Them not so civil. Them flew!"

 

"As I would, if I saw your valiant warriors pursuing me.

Why did they?"

 

The Scouting-Master grinned, and his warriors chuckled.

"Not for real. Just good fun."

 

"Fun!" Gwen gasped.

 

"Well, be fair." Rod shrugged. "It was, kinda, wasn't

it?"

 

"Indeed?" The lieutenant's voice had become distinctly

chilly.

 

The Scouting-Master's grin widened. "We could see-um

was couple greenhorns. Why not have good time with-um?"

 

The lieutenant gave a wintry smile. "No harm intended,

eh?"

 

"None." The Scouting-Master frowned. "But them have

no business outside Wall! Them not traders!"

 

"A p.pint well-taken, I must admit. Still, I cannot help

 

26            Christopher Stasheff

 

but think your mode of contact was something less than

 

honorable."

 

The natives scowled, muttering to one another, but the

 

Scouting-Master only shmgged. "Could've done much

worse, within-um rights. Could Shacklar gainsay?"

 

The lieutenant was silent a moment, then heaved a sigh.

"The General-Governor would say that no lasting harm was

done, so no hard feelings should last."

 

Rod frowned. 'General-Governor?' Didn't they have that

 

the wrong way around?

 

"Even so." The Scouting-Master's forefinger stabbed up-

ward, and his smile vanished. "Agreements hold. Me file-

um complaint—formal! For trespassing!"

 

The lieutenant stood still for a moment, then sighed,

pulled out a pad and began writing. "If you must. However,

these two are civilians. That will necessitate a meeting with

 

the General-Governor."

 

"Sound great." The Scouting-Master grinned. "Him al-

ways serve good coffee." He turned to his warriors, making

shooing motions. "Go patrol again!"

 

"Boring," one of the warriors grumbled.

 

"Want-um soldiers stamp-urn all over planet?" the

Scouting-Master snapped. "Besides—good for-um! Build-

 

um character!"

 

The warrior sighed, and the troops turned away. The

Scouting-Master turned back, a grin spreading over his face

again. "We go see Shacklar now, hm?"

 

The lieutenant ushered them into a thirty-by-thirty office

with large windows (outside, Rod had noticed steel shut-

ters), a desk at one end, and several padded armchairs at

the other. All the furniture had a rough-and-ready look about

it, as though it had been built out of local materials by an

amateur carpenter. But it was made out of real wood. Rod

thought that implied status, until he remembered that wood

was cheaper than plastic on a frontier world. The floor was

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING      27

 

polished wood, too, most of it covered by a plaid carpet,

woven of orange, purple, chartreuse, and magenta fibers.

Rod winced.

 

The man who sat behind the desk seemed out of place.

He was in full uniform, bent over paperwork, but was sur-

prisingly young to be top kick; he couldn't have been much

more than forty. He was lean, lanky, brown-haired, and the

face that looked up at them as they came in was mild and

quizzical, with a gentle smile. There was some indefinable

air of sophistication about him, though, that made him seem

incongruous with his rough surroundings.

 

He is a lord, Gwen thought.

 

She just might be right. Rod realized. Maybe a younger

son of a younger son?

 

"General Shacklar," the lieutenant informed them, "the

Governor."

 

Well. That explained the inverted title.

 

The General rose with a smile of welcome, and came

around his desk toward them. The lieutenant snapped to

attention and saluted. The General returned his salute and

stopped in front of the native, crossing his arms and bowing.

"May your day be sun-filled, Scouting-Master."

 

"And yours," the native grinned. "Coffee?"

 

"Of course! Lieutenant, will you serve, please?" But, as

the young officer turned away, the General stopped him

with an upheld palm. "A moment—introductions?"

 

"Certainly, sir." The lieutenant turned back to them.

"Master Rod Gallowglass and his lady, Gwendylon."

 

"Charmed." The General took Gwen's hand and bowed.

She smiled, pleased.

 

The lieutenant stepped away toward the coffeepot.

 

"I don't remember your arrival." The General gave Rod

a keen glance,                          -^

 

Rod had a notion this man knew every single person who

arrived on his planet—especially if he was, well, basically,

warden. Of a planet-wide prison. And Rod and Gwen

 

 

 

 

28

 

Christopher Stasheff

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING

 

29

 

weren't exactly inconspicuous. "We were, uh, stranded,

General. Landed out in the middle of the plains. No way

to get back home."

 

Shacklar frowned. "I don't recall any report of a distress

signal."

 

"We couldn't transmit." So far. Rod hadn't really told

any lies. He hoped it would last.

 

It did. Shacklar gave him the keen glance again; he was

definitely aware of the holes in the explanation; but he

wasn't about to push them. "My sympathies. Just this mom-

ing, was it?"

 

"Soon after dawn," Gwen explained. "We had scarcely

collected ourselves when these..."

 

She hesitated, and Shacklar supplied, "Wolmen. That's

what they call themselves. Their ancestors were counter-

culture romantics, who fled Terra to live the life of the Noble

Savage. They invented their own version of aboriginal cul-

ture, based largely on novels and screenplays."

 

Well. That explained some of the more bizarre aspects.

 

"I take it they discovered you almost immediately, and

began to chase you?"

 

"Aye. We did fly from them."

 

Rod stiffened. Did she have to be so literal?

 

Yes, she did, now that he thought of it. When the Wolman

talked about them flying, now, Schacklar would assume he

was speaking metaphorically. Very clever, his lady. He

glowed with pride.

 

Fortunately, the General didn't notice. He shook his head

sadly. "Most unfortunate! My deepest regrets. But really,

you see, by the terms of our agreement with the Wolmen,

no colonist is supposed to be outside the Wall unless he's

on official or commercial business, so you can understand

why they would react in so precipitous a manner. And, truly,

they did no harm—only enforced their rights under our

treaty."

 

"Aye, that is easily understood." Gwen shrugged. "I

cannot truly blame them."

 

"Most excellent." Shacklar beamed. "Now, if you'll ex-

cuse me, I must hear what the Scouting-Master wishes to

say."

 

He turned away. Gwen turned to Rod, speaking softly.

"Doth he say that these people but play at being savages,

my lord?"

 

"No—but their ancestors did, so now they're stuck with

it. But I get the feeling there was a real war when the Terran

government decided to use this planet for a prison. Appar-

ently they didn't consult the Wolmen first—and they re-

sented it. Forcibly." He shrugged. "Can you blame them?"

 

The General had turned now, facing them again. "The

Scouting-Master understands your predicament, but none-

theless charges you with trespassing." He sighed. "Actually,

he's shown a considerable amount of forbearance in this

matter. He could have taken any number of more or less

lethal measures against you, rather than merely herding you

to the Wall, as he did."

Herding?

 

Gwen, did you know we were being herded?

Nay—yet now, I can See it clearly enough.

The General frowned, concerned. "What's the matter,

old man? Hadn't you guessed you were being driven?"

 

"As a matter of fact, I hadn't." Rod found himself smiling

back in spite of himself. "Uh, ah—General, please convey

my apologies and great thanks to the Scouting-Master."

 

"Oh, you may convey them yourself, in just a moment!

But, ah—" Shacklar looked down at the carpet, rubbing the

tip of his nose with a forefinger. "I wouldn't truly recom-

mend it. A simple apology and expression of thanks—no,

the Scouting-Master would take it as a sign of weakness."

 

"Oh." Rod pursed his lips. "I see. Exactly what form

should the apology take?"

 

"Precisely, Master Gallowglass." The General smiled

warmly. "It's always a pleasure to deal with a man who

understands the true nature of diplomacy!"

 

"Does he want his diplomacy in gold, or Terran bills?"

 

 

 

 

30

 

Christopher Stasheff

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING

 

31

 

"Gold would be pleasant, but I'm sure I.D.E. kwaher

bills will suffice." The General smiled sadly. "However,

I'm afraid P.E.S.T. bills would not be acceptable; the Wol-

men don't have much faith in them."

 

"I understand." Rod smiled. "Primitive cultures tend to

 

be conservative."

 

"Indeed." The keen glance again. "Well! In this case,

the apology should consist of, ah..." Shacklar slipped a

small leather-bound pad out of his pocket and flipped it

open. "... five hundred kwahers."

 

Rod stared. "Five... hundred..."

 

Is the amount so great, my lord?

 

Not unless you don't nave it. How are you at turning

 

lead into gold, dear?

 

A sudden, faraway look came into Gwen's eyes.

 

The General was watching them carefully, but with his

gentle smile. "I take it you find yourselves temporarily

embarrassed?" The General smiled. "We can certainly ar-

range a temporary, interest-free loan. Master Gallowglass.

There is a Bank of Wolmar, and it's solvent at the moment."

 

"Oh, no! Money's never a problem with us. Uh—is it,

Gwen?" Rod reached into the purse that hung at his belt.

It held only a few Gramarye coins. The silver in them would

be perfectly negotiable, but it might be a little difficult to

explain Tuan's and Catharine's portraits.

 

"Nay, money was never our care," Gwen agreed, giving

him a sidelong glance. "Indeed, it hath been so long since

I have seen it, that I quite forget the look of it!"

 

Rod froze.

 

He swallowed, hugely. Of course, Gwen couldn't know

what I.D.E. bills looked like; she had never seen any money

 

but Gramarye's.

 

Come to think of it. Rod didn't know what they looked

like, either. The I.D.E. government had fallen five hundred

years before he was born. "On second thought, General, I

think I will take you up on that offer. Could you let me

have, say, a twenty-kwaher bill for, oh, about two minutes?"

 

The General frowned, but reached for his wallet. "At

least the interest won't be prohibitive." He passed Rod the

bill.

 

"Thanks very." Rod handed it to Gwen. "Yes, money.

That's money, dear."

 

Gwen stared, thunderstruck. "Paper, my lord? This is

money?"

 

"Uh, yes, dear." Gwen had never seen anything but coins,

of course, medieval cultures having a rather elemental view

of economics. "That's money. Here, anyway." Rod forced

a grin. "Uh, sorry. General. We're not used to, ah, using

cash, you know how it is."

 

"Credit cards." The General nodded with understanding.

Rod would've hated to shatter his illusions.

 

"Now, I just had some, right here." Rod fumbled in the

purse again; it was still mostly empty.

 

"My lord," Gwen murmured, "I cannot..."

 

"That's okay, dear, just try." Rod patted her hand. "Never

know just how much you can do, until you give it a try ...

I know... I had..." Rod dug in the purse as though it were

a ten-mile pit, a bead of cold sweat trickling down his brow.

 

Something rustled.

 

His fingers touched paper. Lots of paper.

 

He drew it out slowly, with a grin of relief. "There we

are, General, twenty-five twenty-kwaher bills." He plucked

the original from Gwen's numbed fingers. "Oh, and the one

you loaned us, of course."

 

The General's eyes widened slightly, but he accepted the

cash without comment.

 

"I don't like to carry large denominations," Rod ex-

plained.

 

"But I thought you said..." Shacklar clamped his lips

shut. "No, really. Not my affair at all..." He gave Rod the

keen glance again. "Don't you find it troublesome to carry

so many bills about?"

 

"Well, yes," Rod admitted, "but there wasn't time to

have them changed."

 

 

 

 

32            Christopher Stasheff

 

The General squared the bills into a neat stack. "I take

it you left home in a bit of a hurry."

 

"You might say that, yes."

 

The General turned to step over to the lieutenant and the

Scouting-Master, who broke out in an ear-to-ear grin and

hurried over to seize Rod's hand, pumping it. "Glad you

 

one of the good guys!"

 

"Oh, my pleasure," Rod murmured. "Thanks for under-

standing."                         /

 

"Sure, sure! Come outside Wall again, anytime!" The

Scouting-Master crossed his arms and bowed, then turned

away to the door the lieutenant was holding, licking his

thumb and counting the bills. "Nice chasing you!"

"Anytime." Rod waved, feeling slightly numb.

The lieutenant closed the door behind him with relief.

Rod turned back to the General, shaking his head. "Funny

how underdeveloped societies always leam the same aspect

 

of our culture first, isn't it?"

 

"Quite." The General turned away, going back to his

 

desk. "Well! At least that's done!"

 

"Yeah. Nice to have it over with, isn't it?" Rod grabbed

Gwen's arm and made for the door. "Thanks for straight-

ening things out for us. General. If there's anything we can

 

ever do for you..."

 

"As a matter of fact," Shacklar murmured, "you could

 

answer a few questions...."

 

Rod's body jerked as his feet stopped and his shoulders

 

tried to keep going. He glared at Gwen.

 

"We must observe the rules of courtesy, my lord."

"Next time just stop me with a word, okay?" Rod turned

 

back. "Why, sure. General. What kind of questions did you

 

have in mind?"

 

The General's mouth was pinched at the corners with

 

hidden amusement.

 

Rod frowned, noticing something he'd missed before.

 

He stepped up to the General's desk, peering at Shacklar's

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING

 

33

 

corps insignia. It was the staff of Aesculapius. "You're a

doctor!"

 

"Psychiatrist, actually." The General smiled. "Surely that

is an appropriate profession for the chief administrative of-

ficer of a former correctional colony?"

 

"Uh ... yeah, I guess it is." Rod frowned. "I just wasn't

expecting anything so logical."

 

"I'm not certain it was, in its genesis." Shacklar's smile

hardened. "But I do think it's worked out for the best. I've

quite a sense of purpose here."

 

"Yeah, I can see that you would have." Rod straightened,

clearing his throat. "Well! About those questions. Gen-

eral ..."

 

"Yes, indeed. Would you mind telling me how you came

to be shipwrecked on Wblmar?"

 

"No, not at all." If I can think of it.

 

Shacklar looked up over steepled fingers. "Touch of am-

nesia?"

 

"Oh, no, no," Rod said quickly. "Not amnesia, really;

 

it's just that, uh..." He took a deep breath and began

improvising at top speed. "Uh, I know this is going to sound

strange, but, uh ... we were on our way to a costume ball,

aboard a passenger liner from, uh..." He tried to remember

a ship that had disappeared without a trace, about the end

of the I.D.E. era. He could only think of the most famous

one, and cursed mentally, then followed it with a quick

thought-apology to Gwen. "We were on the, uh, Alfreda,

outbound from Fido—you know. Beta Canis Minor's fourth

planet—on our way to Tuonela, the fifth planet of 61

Cygni..."

 

"But you never attained your destination?"

Rod nodded. After all, the Alfreda had left Fido with a

remarkable number of famous people aboard, but had never

been heard from again. That gave Rod scope for consid-

erable poetic license. "We felt this huge lurch—horrible, I

wound up with caviar all over my doublet—and the crew

 

34 Christopher Stasheff

 

started hollering for all of us to get into suspended-animation

pods, and aimed us at random, hoping we'd strike Terran-

colonized planets sooner or later."

 

"Which, fortunately, you did." Shacklar pulled out a pipe

and clasped it high on the stem, hiding his mouth; but the

comers of his eyes crinkled.

 

"So here we are," Rod finished. "Our pod landed out in

the Wolmen's territory, and... uh... you... don't... be-

lieve me..."

 

"No, I didn't say that at all." The General leaned forward

to prop his elbows on his desk.

 

"But it's the best entertainment you've had all week?"

 

"All year, in fact." Shacklar smiled warmly. "They don't

have tales like that on the 3DT any more."

 

"Well, if you doubt my word, you can check the records.

The Alfreda did disappear en route from Beta Canis Minor

to 61 Cygni..."

 

"Yes, I remember the incident well; there were so many

politicians aboard that it was quite a scandal." Shacklar gave

him an amiable smile. "That much, at least, is quite true,

I'm certain. As to the rest of it, though... Ah, well, I'm

not one to press. Master Gallowglass. We rather make a

policy of not being too insistent about a man's past, on

Wolmar. However, I do appreciate the finer aspects of nar-

rative creativity. I was especially impressed with the piece

about the costume ball."

 

"Oh, yes! She's supposed to be Nell Gwynn, and I'm,

uh—Cyrano de Bergerac!"

 

"And I'm the King of England," Shacklar murmured,

fighting a smile. "But as I say, a man's past is his own

affair, on Wolmar. No one is here without a reason, and it's

generally one that he'd rather weren't known." He shrugged.

"Of course, in my own instance, I'm not terribly concerned

about secrecy. Ultimately, I'm here because, in addition to

being a psychiatrist, I'm also a masochist."

 

Rod stared, then caught himself. "Oh, really?"

 

"Yes." Shacklar smiled. "Quite well-adjusted—but it does

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING

 

35

 

create certain problems within the chain of command. Here,

though, my men don't seem to care terribly."

 

Rod nodded, slowly. "I begin to understand why you

don't mind staying."

 

"There is some feeling of being appreciated." Shacklar

smiled brightly. "But the mild exhibitionism involved in

telling you that is part of my disorder, you see. I certainly

don't ask that of anyone else."

 

He leaned forward to glance at his desk readout. "How-

ever, I'm keeping you overlong; after so great a time in

suspended animation, you must be ravenous. You'll find an

excellent tavern just down the street."

 

"Uh... thanks. General." Rod managed a smile. "You've

been very helpful."

 

He turned away to the door, holding it open for Gwen.

"If there's anything we can ever do for you, just give us a

yell."

 

"As a matter of fact, there is one small thing your lady

could do for me. Master Gallowglass."

 

Rod stopped in mid-stride, a sinking feeling in his belly.

 

He turned around again. Gwen turned with him, wide-

eyed. "And how may I aid you, sir?"

 

"Slap me," said the General.

 

Rod set down a small tray, and laid a plate of boiled

sausage and buns in front of Gwen, with a tankard of ale

to flank it. "Not much, my dear, but I'm afraid that's about

the best Cholly's Tavern runs to." He sat down and took a

sip of his beer. His eyes widened in surprise. "Not bad,

though."

 

She sipped, carefully. "Indeed, 'tis not! Yet wherefore

is't so chill, my lord?"

 

"Huh?" Rod looked up, surprised. "Oh, ,yh—they just

like it that way, honey. That's all." He leaned back and

looked about him, at the unfinished boards and the rough-

and-ready chairs and tables. "Sure not what I was planning

on when I took you out for an evening alone."

 

36            Christopher Stasheff

 

Gwen smiled. "Nay, assuredly 'tis not! Yet—oh, my

lord! Tis all so new, and marvelous!"

 

"It is?"

 

"Indeed." She leaned over the table. "Yet tell me—what

mean all these strange manners and artifacts? Why do all

wear leggings, even though they have no armor to cover

them? What were those odd, bulbous engines each man did

wear at his hip, upon the Wall? And wherefore do they not

wear them in this place? How do the lights within this inn

come to glow? And where are the kegs from which they

draw their ale?"

 

Rod held up a hand. "Hold it, dear. One at a time." He

hadn't realized how strange and new the technological world

would seem to Gwen—but she did come from a medieval

culture, after all. Secretly, he blessed the fate that had brought

them to a frontier planet, instead of one of the overly-

civilized, total-technology worlds nearer Terra.

 

How to explain it all to her? He took a deep breath,

wondering where to start. "Let's begin with power."

 

"There's naught so new in that." She shrugged. "Once

thou hadst told me there were no nobles, it was truly clear

the peasant folk must needs set up orders within their own

ranks, even as those Wolmen, who did chase us this mom,

have done. Or the wild folk, who do war upon the cities—

even as the Beastmen did to our Isle of Gramarye, ten years

 

agone."

 

The time-lapse hit Rod like a shockwave. "My lord! Was

it really ten years ago?" He took a shuddering breath. "But

of course. We only had one child then, and we have four

now—and Magnus is twelve." He studied her face intently.

"You don't look any older."

 

She blushed, lowering her eyes. "'Tis good of thee to

say it, my lord—yet I do see the wrinkles, here and there,

and the odd strand of gray in mine hair."

 

"What's odd about it, with our four? But they certainly

must be rare; I haven't noticed one yet! And as to wrinkles,

I've always had my share of those."

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING      37

 

"Yet thou art not a woman," Gwen murmured.

 

"So sweet of you to notice... But back to the ins and

outs of this world we're on. Government wasn't exactly the

kind of 'power' I'd had in mind, dear."

 

"Indeed?" She looked up, surprised. "Yet assuredly thou

didst not speak of magicks!"

 

"No, no. Definitely not. I was talking about force—the

kind that makes things move."

 

Gwen frowned, not understanding.

 

Rod took a deep breath. "Look. In Gramarye, there are

four kinds of power that can do work for us: muscles, our

own or our animals'; wind, which pushes ships and turns

windmills; water power, which turns mill wheels; and fire,

which heats our houses, boils our water, and cooks our food.

And that's about all."

 

Gwen frowned. "But what of the power of a crossbow,

that speeds a bolt to slay a man?"

 

Rod shook his head. "Just muscle power, stored. When

a crossbowman pulls a bowstring, see, he's just transferring

power from his arm and shoulder into the springy wood of

the bow. But the crossbowman takes several minutes to put

that power in, by winding the bowstring back. Then, when

he pulls the trigger that releases the string, all that energy

is released in one quick burst—and that's what throws the

arrow so much harder than an ordinary bow can."

 

Gwen nodded slowly, following every word. "And 'tis

thus, too, that a common archer's bow can throw an arrow

so much farther than a man-at-arms can hurl a spear?"

 

"Why, yes." Rod sat up straighter, surprised at how quickly

she had understood. "Of course, the arrow's lighter than the

spear, too. That helps."

 

Gwen frowned. "And 'tis also that the ends of the bow

are longer than the spearman's arms, is't not? For I do note

that the longer (he bow, the farther it doth hurl the arrow."

"Why... yes," Rod said, startled. "The longer the lever,

the more it multiplies the force—and the two ends of a

bow, and a spearman's arm, are all levers."

 

38

 

Christopher Stasheff

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING

 

39

 

"And the longer bow can therefore be stiffer, but can

 

still be bent?"

 

"Uh... yeah." Rod felt a faint chill along his back. She

was understanding too quickly. "And the crossbow is more

powerful, because it's so much stiffer."

 

"But the man who doth shoot it, can bend it by winding."

Gwen nodded, seeming almost angry in the intensity of her

 

concentration.

 

"Right." Rod swallowed heavily. "Well. Uh... in this

 

world, there're other sources of power—but the most im-

portant one is the kind called 'electricity.' It's like..." He

groped, trying to find an explanation. "It's invisible, but it

flows like water. Only through metals, though. It's..."

Then inspiration struck. "It's like the force you wield when

you make things move with your mind." He waved a hand.

"Even though you can't see it, you can feel it, if you touch

the wire it's flowing through. Boy, can you feel it!" He

frowned. "Though I shouldn't say you can't see it, really.

Have you ever looked at a lightning bolt, darling? No, of

course you have! What's the matter with me?" He could

remember one occasion especially vividly—they had hud-

dled inside a cave, watching the lightning slam the thunder

about the skies. And when the storm's fury had thoroughly

dazzled them... He cleared his throat. "Lightning's elec-

tricity—one kind of electricity, anyway."

 

"Thou dost not say it," she breathed, wide-eyed. "Have

these people chained the lightning, then?"

 

Rod nodded, thrilled (and chilled) by her quickness.

"They've figured out how to make it do all sorts of tricks,

 

darling."

 

Her eyes were huge. "This glow, then, is lightning

 

leashed?"

 

"That's one way to look at it." Rod nodded slowly. "But

they use it for other things, too. Those bulbous things on

their hips—they call them 'blasters,' and they use electricity

to tickle a ruby into making a sword of light."

 

Gwen stared, aghast. Rod nodded again. "And there are

 

other things they can make it do—lots of other things. Think

of any job, darling, and the odds are these folk have figured

out a way to make electricity do it."

 

"Caring for others," said the mother, immediately.

Rod sat still for a moment, just staring at her.

Then he smiled, and reached out to take her hand. "Of

course. I should have known you'd think of the one thing

they can't do. Oh, don't get me wrong—they do have

machines that can take care of people's bodies-^ all their

physical needs; Electricity runs machines that can wash

clothes, cook food, clean houses. But to give the feeling

that somebody cares about you, that another human being

is taking care of you?" He shook his head. "No. They might

be able to come up with a convincing illusion—but

deep inside, everyone knows it's not real. Only people can

really care for people. They haven't invented a substitute

yet."

 

She gazed into his eyes for a long moment—and hers

were filled with excitement, but warmed with her prime

preoccupation — him.

 

Maybe that was why her eyes were so mesmerizing. They

seemed to fill Rod's whole field of view, inviting, crav-

ing ... "I remember the story about the monkey and the

python," he said softly.

 

"In truth?" she murmured.

 

"Yeah. I just can't figure out which one I am..."

 

A shaggy figure moved into his range of vision, far away.

Rod stared, stiffening. "Who's that, who just came in the

door?"

 

Gwen heaved a martyred sigh and turned to look. "The

soldier with the thatch of brown hair?" Her eyes widened.

"My lord! It cannot be!"

 

"Why not? We know he's a time traveller.—and don't

tell me there ain't no such thing, when I am one!"

 

"I would not have dreamed of it. But how doth he come

to be here?"

 

Rod shrugged. "As good a place as any, I expect. After

 

 

 

 

40            Christopher Stasheff

 

all, he resigned as Viceroy of Beastland two years ago."

"Aye, though Tuan cried he still had need of him."

"Yeah, that was really fun news for the Viceroy-elect.

 

Too bad it didn't reach his ears."

 

"How could it?" Gwen asked. "He had quite simply

 

disappeared."

 

The goblin face was scanning the room slowly, a massive

 

frown of its beetling brows. It saw Rod and broke into a

grin. Then its owner was hurrying across the room, hand

 

outstretched. "Milord!"

 

Half the room turned to look, and Rod thought fast to

 

cover. He plastered on a grin of his own and rose to the

occasion to grasp the proffered hand. "My lord, Yorick!"

 

he echoed. "It's good to see you!" •

 

The rest of the patrons turned back to their beers with

disgruntled mutters—no nobility, just profanity.

 

Rod slapped Yorick's shoulder and nodded toward a chair.

"Sit down! Have a beer! Tell us what you're doing here!"

 

"Why, thank you! Don't mind if I do." The caveman

pulled up a chair. "I'll bet you're surprised to see me here."

 

Rod sat down slowly to give himself a chance to recover.

Then he smiled. "Well, yes, now that you mention it. I

mean, this is a good five hundred years before you disap-

peared." He frowned at a sudden thought. "On the other

hand, it's about forty thousand years since your whole spe-

cies died off."

 

Yorick nodded. "So why not here, as well as there?"

"Aye, wherefore?" Gwen cocked her head to the side.

"How does it come that thou'rt in this place?"

 

"With difficulty," Yorick answered, "quite a bit of it. I

mean, when you didn't come back that night, your kids got

worried—but Puck managed to get 'em all to bed and to

sleep, anyway. When you hadn't shown up by mid-moming,

though, even he got worried—so he told his boss."

 

Inwardly, Rod quailed. Brom O'Berin, in addition to

being King of the Elves, was also Gwen's father—though

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING

 

41

 

nobody knew about it except himself and Rod. If Brom had

found out his daughter was missing, it was amazing that he

didn't have the whole elfin army in this tavern, instead of

one addlepated Neanderthal.

 

Gwen smiled. "And Brom did order the hue and cry?"

Yorick nodded. "Sent out a scout party of elves. With a

hundred or so of the little blighters going at it, they picked

up your trail in no time. They tracked you to a little pond,

where they found some pretty clear signs of a fight that

seemed to end with a couple of bodies being dragged some-

place, and just disappearing."

 

Rod smiled, with sour satisfaction. "Nice to know the

Futurian boys hadn't had sense enough to erase their tracks.

Overconfidence works wonders."

 

"No, they did erase 'em." Yorick turned toward Rod.

"Straightened up the grass, and everything. Can you blame

'em if they didn't stop to think how good elves are at

tracking?"

 

"Quite unfair," Gwen agreed.

 

Yorick nodded. "I swear a fly couldn't land on a blade

of grass without them being able to tell it."

 

Rod remembered how insistent Puck was about sipping

only from the flowers where the wild bee sucked—after

the bee had left, of course. "That's fantastic. But how'd

they figure out where we'd disappeared to?"

 

"The tracks just looked too much like the ones you left

the last time you vanished into thin air."

 

Rod nodded, remembering their involuntary trip to Tir

Chlis. "I always keep underestimating Brom. What'd he do

about it?"

 

"Same thing as last time—called me."

 

Rod frowned. "But you had disappeared, too."

 

Yorick shrugged. "So he told Korig. You remember him,

the big guy with the heavy jaw?"

 

"Your deputy." Rod nodded. "He knew how to get a hold

of you?"

 

 

 

 

42            Christopher Stasheff

 

"Oh, you just bet he did! Didn't think I'd leave the poor

guy completely on his own, did you? I mean, what would

happen if SPITE or VETO tried to make trouble in the

 

Neanderthal colony again?"

 

"The Futurian time-travel departments." Rod nodded,

 

and made a mental note that there was still a time machine

in Beastland. One belonging to GRIPE, the democrats' time-

travel company—but a time machine nonetheless. Might

come in handy, some time. "So Korig called you?"

 

Yorick nodded. "And 1 called Doc Angus. Actually, Doc

got the message first; I wasn't in at the time. A little problem

with King Louis the Bald trying to become a despot."

 

"What'd you do about it?... NO! Strike that! Let's stay

 

with the business at hand."

 

Yorick shrugged. "Any way you want. So Doc Angus

 

did a little research."

 

Rod remembered his fleeting glimpse of the white-maned,

 

hawk-nosed, deformed little scientist—the head of GRIPE.

 

"What kind of research?"

 

"He came, he saw—and he figured you'd been con-

quered. At least long enough to kidnap you. Of course, you

could have been dead—but Doc likes to look on the bright

side. So he assumed you'd been abducted back into the

 

past."

 

Rod frowned. "Why not the future? Or an alternate uni-

verse?"

 

"Or even just a matter-transmitter." Yorick shrugged.

 

"All possible, but he checked out the time machine hy-

pothesis first, since that was the easiest for him."

 

Rod shook his head slowly, staring. "He had eight thou-

sand years of human history to cover, not to mention a good

hundred thousand of pre-history—and, for all he knew, a

billion years or so before that! How'd he do it?"

 

Yorick shrugged. "Simple. He just told his agents, all

up and down the time-line, to be on the lookout for the two

of you—and sure enough, we just happen to have an agent

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING      43

 

here on Wolmar, and he'd noticed that a pack of Wolmen

had chased in a couple of greenhorns in Tudor costumes.

So he called for help right away—and as soon as I was

done with that French job. Doc sent me to this time-locus.

So here I am."

 

"Whoa." Rod held up a hand. "One problem at a time

here. First—here? Wolmar? This insignificant little planet,

out in the Marches? Why would Dr. McAran go to the

trouble of putting an agent here?"

 

"Because it's pivotal to the rebirth of democracy," Yorick

explained. "General Shacklar knows that the only way for

anybody to survive on this planet is to get the Wolmen and

the colonists working together."

 

"I'd begun to get an inkling of that." Rod nodded. "Get-

ting two groups of people who're so different to live peace-

fully—that's an amazing accomplishment."

 

"Especially considering that they were at each other's

throats only about ten years ago."

 

Rod and Gwen both stared.

 

Yorick nodded. "Oh yes, milord. It was all-out war, and

very bloody, too. It went on for a dozen years before Shack-

lar came, without the slightest trace of mercy on either side."

 

"How'd he manage to stop it?"'

 

"Well, he had an advantage." Yorick shrugged. "Both

sides were heartily sick of it. All he had to do was find

them a good excuse, and they were both ready to stop

shooting. Of course, he didn't try to get them to lay down

their weapons—that would've been asking too much."

 

Gwen frowned. "Then this war could begin anew, at a

moment's notice."

 

Yorick nodded. "All that prevents it is the system Shack-

lar's worked out for resolving disputes."

 

"Yeah—we kind of had a taste of that earlier today."

Rod exchanged glances with Gwen. "It does seem kind of

fragile, though."

 

"Definitely. Shacklar still has a long way to go before

 

 

 

 

44            Christopher Stasheff

 

both sides are safe from each other. He's got to weld them

together into a single political entity, fully equal, and re-

specting each other."

 

"Doth he mean that Wolmen and soldiers both, must have

 

common courts of justice?"

 

"Well, having them join together in a single judiciary

would certainly help." Rod pursed his lips. "But he'd also

need some way of making them join in a single legislative

 

body."

 

Gwen frowned. "What mean these words, milord?"

 

"That's right, you're a loyal subject of Their Majes-

ties ... Well, dear, it's possible for people to make their own

 

laws."

 

"Thou dost not say it!"

 

"Oh, but I do. Of course, you have to be sure ahead of

time that everybody will agree to those laws, or they'll be

 

awfully hard to enforce."

 

'"No prince may govern without the consent of the gov-

erned,'" Yorick quoted.

 

Rod threw him a glance of irritation. "Thank you. Nick

 

Machiavelli."

 

"He wasn't so bad a guy. Just trying to be realistic, that's

 

all."

 

"Oh? When was the last time you talked to him?"

 

Yorick opened his mouth to answer.

 

"NO! I don't want to know!" Rod held up a palm. "Well,

dear, the best way to make sure the people won't object to

any new laws is to have them choose their own lawmakers."

 

Gwen just stared at him.

 

"It's possible," Yorick murmured. "I know it sounds far-

fetched, but it's possible."

 

Gwen turned to him. "Didst thou, then, have to become

 

thus accustomed to such strangeness?"

 

"Who, me?" The Neanderthal spread his hands. "My

people didn't even have laws. Everybody just sort of agreed

on everything...."

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING      45

 

"So, then." Gwen turned back to Rod. "This planet hath

no king."

 

Rod shook his head. "Just General Shacklar, on the col-

onists' side. I assume the Wolmen have some kind of a

leader, too—but I don't think they've decided to get royal

about it yet."

 

"Yet they do govern themselves?"

 

"Well, that's what Shacklar's working on. But it's been

done in other places—quite a few of them. Basically, they

choose their own king—but all he gets to do is carry out

the lawmakers' decisions. He doesn't even get to judge

people charged of crimes, or resolve disputes. There's a

system of courts and judges for that."

 

"So, then." Gwen gazed off into space, and Rod could

hear her thoughts—a train of logic tripping over bit by bit

in a long chain. "Before it could lead to revolution," she

said gently.

 

"Yes, dear. That's what I'm trying to bring about on

Gramarye."

 

She stared, and he saw understanding come into her eyes.

"Thou dost take long enow in the doing of it!"

 

"Have to." Rod shook his head. "There's no shortcut. It

has to develop out of the people themselves, or it won't

last. There're a thousand different ways of doing it, one for

each society that has developed self-government—because

it has to grow, like a tree. It can't be grafted onto a people."

 

"The grafts never take," Yorick murmured.

 

"Or they take graft, but that happens in every system

when it starts to die. In fact, that's part of what kills it."

 

"But we're in at the beginning." Yorick grinned. "It can't

be corrupted yet, because it hasn't quite begun."

 

"Amazing how much Shacklar has done, though." Rod

turned to the Neanderthal. "How's he going to wield them

into one complete political unit?"               "'

 

"How'd he do this much?" Yorick shrugged. "Sorry, Ma-

jor—I didn't have time for a full briefing; I had to just grab

 

46            Christopher Stasheff

 

what few facts I could, before I jumped into the time ma-

chine. But he will manage it, say our boys from up the

time-line, if we can fight off the SPITE and VETO agents

who're trying to do him in, and his system with him."

 

Rod stared. The Society for the Prevention of Integration

of Telepathic Entities was the Anarchists' time-travel de-

partment, as the Vigilant Exterminators of Telepathic Or-

ganisms was the Totalitarians'. The two of them were the

banes of his existence on Gramarye. "They're after him,

 

too?"

 

"Sure. Your world isn't the only one that's crucial to the

 

future of democracy, milord."

 

"But why is Wolmar so important?"

 

"Mostly because it's one of the few pockets of democracy

that's going to keep going all through the PEST centuries;

 

at least it'll keep the idea alive. But also because it's going

to be the headquarters for the educational effort."

 

Rod stared. Then he closed his eyes, gave his head a

 

quick shake, and looked again.

 

Yorick nodded. "That's why we have to have an agent

stationed here—to make sure the SPITE and VETO boys

don't get to sabotage Shacklar's system."

 

"You bet you have to!"

 

"Yet an there be one of thy folk here," said Gwen, "where-

fore can he not care for us?"

"Who said it was a he?"

 

"Why..." Gwen looked at Rod. "I would ha' thought..."

Yorick shook his head. "All we ask is that an agent be

 

capable."

 

"Then thine agent here is female?"

 

"Now, I didn't say that." Yorick held up a palm. "And

I'm not about to, either. The whole point is that our agent

has managed to establish a very good cover, and we don't

want to blow it. Stop and think about it—can you figure

 

out who it is?"

 

Rod stared at the ape-man for a moment, then shook his

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING      47

 

head. "You're right—I can't."

 

Gwen turned to gaze about them, her eyes losing focus.

 

"Uh-uh, milady!" Yorick wagged a forefinger at her. "No

fair reading minds. It's better for us all if you don't know

who it is! After all, what you don't know, you can't let

slip."

 

"So they sent in a special agent," Rod said, "you. After

all, if your cover's blown, it won't be any major tragedy."

 

"I wasn't planning to use it again, anyway." Yorick nod-

ded.

 

"Thus thou'rt come in aiding us to return to our home!"

 

Yorick kept nodding. "Going to try, anyway. I've got a

time-beacon with me. All I have to do is push the button,

and it'll send a teeny ripple going through the time-stream.

When that ripple hits the receiver in Doc Angus' head-

quarters, he'll know exactly when and where we are, so

he'll be able to shoot us all the spare parts for making a

time machine. And I'll put them together, press the button—

and voila! You'll be home!"

 

Rod frowned. "But why can't he just press a button and

pick us up? 1 mean, he shot you here without a time machine

to receive you, didn't he?"

 

"Yeah, but it doesn't work both ways." Yorick shrugged.

"Don't ask me why—I'm just the bullet. I don't understand

the gun, milord."

 

"Uh, can the 'milord' business." Rod darted nervous

glances around the room. "I don't think they'd understand

it here."

 

"Suits." Yorick shrugged again. "What do you want me

to call you?"

 

"How about, uh—'major?' They'd recognize that, and

it's legit; I'm just not in the same army, that's all."

 

"Any way you want it. Major."

 

"Thanks." Rod hunched forward, frowning. "Now, about

time-travel. Why does it only work one way?"

 

"I said not to ask me that!" Yorick winced. "What do I

 

 

 

 

48            Christopher Stasheff

 

know? I'm just a dumb caveman. But I think it's sorta like—

well, you can throw a spear, but you can't make it fly back

 

to you. Understand?"

 

"You can tie a rope to it." Rod remembered reading every

 

other chapter of Moby Dick.

 

"A rope five hundred years long? Gets a little weak in

the middle. Major. And five hundred is a short haul, where

 

I come from."

 

Rod felt an attack of stubbornness coming on. "It should

 

be possible, though."

 

"Okay, so maybe it is, but Doc Angus just hasn't figured

 

out how to do it yet. And I get the impression that no one

 

ever will."

 

"Watch out for the absolutes." Rod raised a cautioning

 

finger. "The boys up the time-line might just not have told

 

you yet."

 

"Possible," Yorick admitted, "but not probable. We're

 

both fighting the same enemies—and if SPITE saw a chance

to get the jump on VETO, you can bet they'd leap at it—

especially a jump like that! And if the VETO boys thought

they could get an edge on SPITE, they'd grab it, too."

 

"And they would both rejoice to gain advantage over thy

GRIPE," Gwen added.

 

"Oh, you betcha, lady!"

 

"Well, I guess we all have to take McAran's word for

it." Rod pushed back his chair and stood up. "Might as well

get moving on it, eh? It's going to be kind of hard, trying

to find a place in this colony where we can be alone for a

 

couple of hours."

 

"Well, more like sixteen, really." Yorick stood up, too.

 

"It takes a little time, getting the components through. Not

to mention putting them together." He turned to Gwen. "If

 

you'll excuse us, milady..."

 

"Nay, I will not." Gwen was already coming around the

 

table. "Whither mine husband goeth, I go."

 

"Oh, Don't think I can take care of myself yet, eh?" Rod

grinned. "Or don't you trust me out of your sight?"

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING      49

 

"Somewhat of both, mayhap." Gwen tucked her arm

through his. "Yet whate'er the cause, thou shalt not leave

me. Lead on. Master Yorick."

 

"Any way you want it, milady." The ape-man laid some

IDE bills on the table and turned to the door.

 

Rod eyed the money with appreciation. "You do come

prepared, don't you?"

 

"Huh?" Yorick turned back and saw where Rod was

looking. "Oh! Just the basic survival kit. Major. We have

one ready for every time and clime."

 

Rod turned away to the door with him. "Y' know, it's

kind of funny that this outlying planet would still use IDE

paper money, even after the government that printed it has

died."

 

"Why? It's not really paper, y' know, it's a very tough

plastic. It'll last forever—or a couple of centuries, at least."

 

"Well, yeah, but it doesn't have any value in itself. It's

only as good as the government that printed it."

 

"Yeah, but it still works just fine. if everybody believes

in it—and they do. Helps that it's based on energy—their

basic monetary unit was the BTU. So many BTUs equal a

kwaher—a kilowatt-hour—and so many kwahers equal a

therm. So the money supply only gets increased when there's

more energy available within the interplanetary system as

a whole."

 

"Yeah, if the government doesn't rev up the printers!"

 

"Ah, but the government doesn't exist anymore." Yorick

held up a finger. "It can't inflate the currency now."

 

"Nice bit of irony." Rod smiled. "The IDE's currency is

more sound now that the government that made it has dis-

appeared, than it was while that government was alive and

kicking."

 

"Mostly kicking, at least toward the end. I mean, they

were even doing everything they could to bump"off Cholly,

over there, just because he came up with some wild theo-

ries."

 

"Cholly?" Rod turned to stare at the barkeeper. "Mr. Nice

 

 

 

 

50            Christopher Stasheff

 

Guy himself? Why would the IDE want to kill him off?"

 

"Well, not the IDE, really—just the LORDS, the ma-

jority party that engineered the big coup d'etat, and set up

the Proletarian Eclectic State of Terra."

"Before they even came to power?"

Yorick nodded. "And SPITE and VETO are still trying

to finish the job. That's one of our agent's main jobs—

protecting Cholly and his establishment."

"What's so important about a tavern?"

"Oh, the tavern's just a front. His real establishment is

just an idea and a method, with a set of tried-and-true tech-

niques. People who need a reason for living take his method

and go out and do the same kind of work, all on their own."

Yorick grinned. "Drives PEST crazy. They keep trying to

find out how his organization works—who gives the orders,

and how they're transmitted—but there isn't any organi-

zation! Just ideas..."

 

"Sounds fabulous. What's his real work?"

"Mass education—without the masses realizing they're

being educated. Cholly is Charles T. Barman, Major."

 

Rod froze, staring at the cheery tavemkeeper. "That!?!

That is the man who created the educational system that

gave birth to the Decentralized Democratic Tribunal?"

 

"Yeah, but he's only just now doing the creating, so the

DDT's very vulnerable right at this time-locus, five centuries

before it'll be bom. If anything happens to Cholly, the DDT

'revolution' might never happen. You see why we don't

want to compromise our agent here. Don't stare, Major—

it makes you conspicuous. Shall we go?"

 

"Uh—yeah." Rod turned away, feeling numb. "Yeah,

 

sure. Let's go."

 

"Nar, let's not," rumbled the sergeant.

 

He wasn't all that big himself, but the troops behind him

filled the doorway. Rod stared, shocked—it was the slob

from the Wall that morning. Thaler's buddy. But he'd gone

through a complete metamorphosis, and maybe even a

shower. His uniform was neat and crisp, his cheeks were

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING      51

 

shaven, and his hair was combed. "Amazing," he mur-

mured.

 

Behind the bar, Cholly looked up and saw. "Here, now!"

 

he cried, and the whole tavern fell silent. "We'll have no

 

violence in this house!"

 

"That's up to him," the former slob growled. "Come

 

along to the General nice and peaceablelike, and there won't

 

be no trouble."

 

Rod frowned. "The General?"

 

"Aye. You're under arrest."

 

Rod stood very still. The sergeant grinned.

 

"Not quite what I had in mind," Yorick muttered.

 

"Wherefore are we arrested?" Gwen asked.

 

The sergeant shrugged. "That's for the general to say.

 

Are you coming peaceably, or not?" The glint in his eye

 

said he hoped "not."

 

Rod sighed and capitulated. "Sure. I always cooperate

 

with the authorities."

 

"Well, almost always," Yorick muttered.

 

"Converse with the General was enjoyable," Gwen agreed.

 

Behind her, most of the soldiers' faces broke into slow,

 

sly grins.

 

"A woman can't say anything around here without being

 

suspect," Rod sighed. "Of course, they didn't stop to think

 

what kind of a woman would find a masochistic general to

 

be pleasant company."

 

The grins vanished; the soldiers stared in horror.

Rod nodded, satisfied. "I don't think you'll have any

 

trouble around here, dear. Now we can go."

 

They might have been the dregs of military society, but

they marched very nicely—all the way down the street,

into the headquarters building. They came to a halt while

the sergeant knocked on Shacklar's door, and'"the recep-

tionist (human—it was a frontier planet; and male—it was

a military prison) officially told him he could enter. Then

they marched right into the office, and came to a stamping

 

52 Christopher Stasheff THE WARLOCK WANDERING 53

 

halt in front of Shacklar's desk.

 

The General looked up from his paperwork and smiled

warmly. "Very good. Sergeant." He saluted. "Dismissed."

 

The ex-slob stared. "But, General... these people,

they're..."

 

"Very pleasant conversationalists," the General assured

him. "I've spoken with them already this morning. I'm sure

there won't be any problem—especially with the Chief

Chief available." He nodded toward a purple Wolman who

stood beside his desk.

 

The sergeant looked the Wolman up and down, and did

not seem assured. "If'n it's all the same to you, sir..."

 

"But I'm afraid it's not." Shacklar's tone was crisp, but

polite. "That will be all. Sergeant. I thank you for your

concern."

 

The sergeant and all his troops eyed the Wolman, Rod,

and Yorick warily—and Gwen almost with alarm. But the

sergeant barked, "About/are/ For'ard harch!" dutifully. The

squad pivoted with a multiple stamp, and marched out. The

sergeant lingered in the doorway for One more glower, but

Shacklar met his gaze, and the man turned and disappeared.

 

On the other hand, he didn't close the door.

 

Shacklar ignored it. He turned to the Gallowglasses,

beaming. "A pleasure to see you again. Master Gallowglass,

Mistress Gallowglass." He turned an inquiring glance to

Yorick. "I don't believe I've had the pleasure?"

 

Rod gestured toward the ape-man. "Oh, this is..."

 

But Yorick cut him off. "Ander Thai, General. But I used

to be a comic actor with a two-bit rep company, so they

call me..."

 

"... Yorick," Rod finished. He swallowed. "Uh, Gen-

eral—has it occurred to you that you might be in a rather

dangerous position?"

 

"Outnumbered, you mean? And both of you with weap-

ons?" Shacklar nodded. "I'm aware of it, yes."

 

"It... doesn't bother you."

 

"Not particularly. I'm trusting to your honor, old boy."

 

Rod stared. Then he said, just by way of information,

"You're a fool, you know."

 

"I'm aware of that, too." Shacklar smiled up at him.

Yorick locked glances with Rod, and his thoughts were

loud. This man is vital to the future of democracy, Major.

If you so much as lay a finger on him... At which point

the mental signal deteriorated into some rather gruesome

graphics.

 

Not that Rod needed the urging. He gazed at Shacklar's

warm, open countenance, and sighed. "I never kill fools

before dinner-time; it's bad for the digestion." Ruefully, he

was remembering a few occasions when he'd played the

same gambit himself; but it had worked, he had gained

trust...

 

... and it was working again, now.

 

Shacklar wasn't the only fool in the room, he decided.

 

A faint smile touched the comers of the General's mouth;

 

he relaxed. "I don't believe you've met this gentleman—

Chief Hwun, of the Purple tribe—and acclaimed as Chief

of all the Wolman tribes."

 

"No, I don't believe I've had the pleasure." Rod tried to

remember how the salute went—crossed arms, fingers

touching the shoulders...

 

Before he could try it, the big Wolman said, "Them do-

um it—this man and woman in-um funny clothes."

 

Rod stared.

 

Then he said, "Not much on courtesy, is he?"

 

"Uh—" Yorick glanced about, then at the General. "I

know it's none of my business, but... what does the Chief

think M... Mr. Gallowglass did?"

 

Rod caught the near slip, and gave Yorick points; he'd

realized the hazards of having Shacklar think he might be

entitled to give Rod orders. "Why, trespassing^ of course,

on Wolman land." He turned back to Shacklar. "But we

cleared that up a couple of hours ago."

 

"Well, yes—but the Chief's now charging you with an

additional transgression."

 

 

 

 

54            Christopher Stasheff

 

Rod frowned. "Isn't that 'double jeopardy,' or some-

thing?"

 

"Not at all, since it's a crime you weren't charged with

 

before."

 

"What crime?"

"Murder."

 

Rod set a mug of ale down in front of Gwen, then turned

back to the bar. "Two of whatever passes for whiskey here.

 

Doubles."

 

"Done." Cholly thumped two heavy glasses down on the

bar, and upended a bottle of vaguely brownish fluid over

them. "So he let you loose on your own recognizance?"

 

"Yeah." Rod shrugged. "We just promised not to kill

anybody before dawn tomorrow, and he said, 'Excellent.

Why don't you have a look around the town, while you're

here?'... That's enough!"

 

"As you will." Cholly waited a second longer, till the

brownish fluid was almost up to the rims, then set the bottle

down. "Yer trial's tomorrow at sunrise, then?"

 

"If you can call it that." Rod frowned. "Isn't that a little

lenient, for a couple of suspected murderers?"

 

Cholly nodded. "Even here. I'd guess the General doesn't

 

think you're guilty."

 

Rod nodded. "Is he hoping we'll escape, or something?"

 

"Where to?"

 

"A good point." Rod pursed his lips. "So we're just

supposed to relax and enjoy life, huh?"

 

"That—or find evidence to clear yourselves. Hard to do

that inside a cell. yer know."

 

Rod frowned. "It is, now that you mention it. We were

planning to do something of that sort, anyway."

 

"Well, then." Cholly beamed. "The General knows his

man, don't he? Let me know where I can help."

 

"Thanks. We will." Rod turned back to the table, set one

of the glasses down in front of Yorick, sat himself down

across from Gwen, and took a hefty swallow. Then he sat

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING      55

 

very still for a few minutes, waiting till the top of his head

settled back on and the room came back into focus. When

it did, he exhaled sharply. "What do they make that out

of?"

 

"Something almost compatible with Terran biochemistry,

I'm sure." Yorick looked a little defocused himself.

 

Rod took a deep breath, then a very cautious sip. He set

the glass down gingerly, exhaled carefully, and sat back.

"Now!" He looked from Yorick to Gwen and back. "You

were both there; you heard everything I did. What was all

that about?"

 

Gwen shrugged. "We chanced to be in a position suspect

at a time when a man was slain, my lord."

 

"Yeah, but I highly doubt we were anywhere near this

'Sun-Greeting Place,' or whatever it is. Also, I don't believe

in coincidences, especially not when they're so convenient."

 

Gwen frowned. "In what way dost thou think them op-

portune?"

 

"For our enemies."

 

"I'll drink to that." Yorick lifted his mug, also his glass.

 

"You'll drink to anything." But Rod clinked glasses with

him, anyway. "Here's to the enemy—may he be con-

founded."

 

"Whoever he is." Yorick drank, then set his glass down

and leaned forward. "But I'll agree with you. Major, some-

body's definitely out to get you."

 

Rod stared. "When did I say that?"

 

"On our way from the castle," Gwen explained.

 

"Oh." Rod frowned. "Yeah, I did say something of the

sort then, didn't I?"

 

"Does he get this way often?"

 

"Off 'n' on," Rod answered; but Gwen assured Yorick,

"'Tis only when matters of great moment preoccupy him."

 

"Oh." Yorick turned back to Rod. "Is that when you get

paranoid, too?"

 

Gwen frowned."What is the meaning of that word?"

 

"Suspicious," Rod explained. "He means that I feel as

 

 

 

 

56

 

Christopher Stasheff

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING

 

57

 

though everybody's out to get me."

 

"Oh!" Gwen turned back to Yorick. "Nay; he is always

 

in that condition."

 

"But this time, he's right."

They turned in surprise; that voice hadn't been one of

 

theirs.

 

The newcomer was slender, and wore the same uniform

 

as all the other troopers, but she made it look totally fem-

inine. It couldn't have been deliberate: her blond hair was

shorter than most of the men's, cropped close and showing

her ears; but there was something in its styling, something

about the way she held herself, something in the delicacy

of her features that made her very clearly female.

 

"That's a professional opinion," she added. "They're out

 

to get you."

 

"Who?" Rod demanded; but Yorick said, softly, "What

 

profession?"

 

"Secret agent," she snapped, "spy." And to Rod, "You

should be able to say better than I can. Who'd rather see

you dead than alive? Not that it matters much; on this planet,

anybody who's getting hassled is my friend."

 

Rod just stared at her, but Gwen pushed a chair out. "Sit,

 

an it please thee."

 

The woman sat, scowling. "You've got a funny way of

 

talking."

 

Rod said, "I hate to be blunt, but—who are you?"

"I'm Chomoi Shershay—and you'd better hear the whole

 

of it. I was a government spy, up until about five years

 

ago."

 

"Five years." Rod frowned. "That was just about the

 

time of the PEST coup, if I remember..." He managed to

bite off the sentence just before he said, "... my history

 

rightly."

 

"Yeah." Chomoi nodded. "I was a secret agent for the

 

LORDS party, digging up information for them and helping

set up assassinations on some of their more outspoken ene-

mies. I knew I was helping kill people, but I never saw it

 

happen, so it didn't bother me much. I didn't think it would,

either." Her face lost expression. "But after the coup, I

suddenly found out I was part of the secret police, and the

bosses ordered my squad to go hunt down a professor." Her

mouth twisted. "He was a gentle old duffer, quiet and hum-

ble, and you could see from his house that he and his wife

took good care of each other. We yanked him out of bed in

the middle of the night, and kicked him out of his house

into a darkened floater—and he was terrified, scared stiff

but he never blamed us. Not a curse, not a word of anger,

just stared at us with those wide, frightened eyes that knew,

and understood..." She shuddered. "So they laid into him

harder, of course. Even on the way to HQ, they were work-

ing him over. It was cruel, vicious beating until he was out

cold. I was lucky—I only had to drive. But I still had to

hear it....

 

"Then we landed on top of Base Building, and I had to

help carry him inside. His face was so bloody and swollen

that I wouldn't have recognized him. We laid him out on

the table, ready for the sadists." Her face worked, then was

still. "Oh, they try to pretty it up by calling it 'interrogation,'

but it's still just plain torture. They clip electrodes on to

them, instead of thumbscrews, but agony is agony. I didn't

have to stay and watch it, but I felt soiled and debased

anyway, as though I'd been turned into something less than

human. They told me I could go back to quarters, but I

went straight to the Boss, and told him, I quit.

 

"He sat back in that plastic-walled office behind his stain-

less steel desk, and just laughed at me. Then he said, 'You

can't quit the Secret Security, Shershay. The only way you

go out, is feet-first.' 'It's a deal,' I said, and I slammed out

of his office. But I headed for the portal as fast as I could

walk. I didn't run—that would have been advertising—but

I walked very fast. He was as good as his word, though; I

saw a gunman running to intercept me as I came in sight

of the main portal. I just kept going while he pulled up and

aimed at me, then I jerked to the side at the last second.

 

 

 

 

58

 

Christopher Stasheff

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING

 

59

 

He wasted time trying to track me with the gun, then he

squeezed off a shot, but the bolt didn't come anywhere near

me. I lashed out with a kick, and caught him right under

the chin with my heel. His head snapped back, and some-

thing made a cracking sound, but I landed on the other side

of his body, and I landed running. Right out the door."

 

She paused for breath, trembling, and Yorick said softly,

"How far did you get?"

 

"About a kilometer. Because there was a courier in a

floater, just coming in. 1 kicked him out at gunpoint and

took off—but 1 just went over the parapet, and down into

the city, before they could get an intercepter after me. I was

in the Old Town—the part where the streets go this way

and that—organic, yo0 know? I ducked in there, and was

 

gone."

 

"You knew better than to stay there, though," Rod said

 

softly.

 

"Of course." Chornoi shrugged. "Not that it made much

difference. They had the cordon out by dawn, and a SecSec

force behind me, tracking. I stepped up to a food-counter,

to put down a bowl of soy-meal—and when 1 came out,

they jumped me."

 

"Hard?" Yorick asked.

 

Chomoi glared at him. "Very."

 

She turned to Rod. "But 1 healed. Oh, I was still bleeding

here and there when they hauled me up in front of the

judge—that was only a couple of hours later. And, of course,

SecSec had six witnesses who swore they'd seen me kill

that gunman; they'd never been anywhere near him, of

course. I think one of them had watched it on a security

monitor, though. Which didn't matter, 'cause they played

the recording—and the judge said, 'Re-form her.'"

 

Gwen frowned, not understanding; but Rod paled. "They

were going to wipe your brain and install a new personal-

ity?"

 

Chomoi nodded. "And if I didn't live, what difference

 

did it make? But I didn't even get that far. They slammed

me into the floater, to go to the re-form center—but we

never even lifted. There was a courier there, with a docu-

ment. Seems the whole time I'd been in front of the judge,

SecSec had been going to the Secretary -General, convincing

him that secret police were military personnel—so they

didn't bother re-forming; they just loaded me into a convict

barge, and shipped us all out to Wolmar." Her mouth tight-

ened. "It wasn't a pleasant trip. It lasted two weeks, and

only three of us convicts were women. The rest of the

soldiers tried to take turns on us." She glared at Rod. "But

three is just enough to guard each other's backs. After we

killed a couple, they held off. They tried to get the ship's

brass to tie us down, but they told us they just steered the

damn thing and made it go; we convicts were each other's

problems." She shivered. "We had to take turns sleeping,

but we got here intact."

 

"And here?" Gwen's eyes were huge.

 

Chomoi shrugged. "It's a little easier now. Oh, the other

two—when they found out how much they could make,

once the convicts were getting paychecks again—they set

up shop. They own their own houses now, and each of them

is richer than any man on the planet."

 

Gwen was pale now, and her hand trembled as she lifted

her glass, then put it down. "Yet thou didst not—how didst

thou say it..."

 

"Go into business." Chomoi nodded, eyes glittering. "But

I had to fight 'em off every day, at first—two or three in

any twenty-four hours, till I got a reputation. Now it's just

two or three a week. The ones who survive out here are

smart, though—they back off when it starts getting dan-

gerous, so I've never had to kill one."

 

"Yet do they not come at thee in company?"^Gwen whis-

pered.

 

"That's why I was sitting back there." Chomoi jerked

her head toward a table in a back comer. "I can see the

 

 

 

 

60 Christopher Stasheff

 

door, and the whole room, but nobody can come at me from

behind. They haven't tried, though." She took a sip of her

ale, but grimaced as though it were bitter. "Gotta say that

much for male chauvinism—when there're so few of us,

each one is pretty precious. Any one of them might come

at me by himself, but he doesn't want any of his mates to

see him trying."

 

"They'd string him up by his toes," Yorick said quietly.

 

"Probably for target practice." Chomoi shrugged. "Better

him than me."

 

She lifted her mug for a long swallow, then slammed it

down. "So, there you have it. I can't walk through this burg

without getting razzed, so anybody who's getting hassled,

I'm on their side. Especially women." She nodded to Gwen.

"And I think I can trust your man, because he's with you—

so why would he want me?" Her mouth twisted in self-

contempt. "Oh, don't give me that sympathetic look! I know

I'm a hot enough item." She turned and glowered at Rod.

"Maybe too hot. I want to get off this planet, so badly that

I can't think of anything else—and you folks haven't been

here before, which means you haven't been sentenced; so

you might get to leave. You might be able to spring me."

 

Rod frowned. "I thought this was a military prison.

Shacklar's just the warden. How can he have the authority

to let you go?"

 

"He can do anything he wants—now," Chomoi said,

with a mirthless smile. "PEST cut us off four years ago—

right after I got here, in fact. They claimed trade to the

outlying planets was a losing proposition—real losing, tril-

lions of therms' worth. And a prison planet was all loss—

it was much cheaper to kill the criminals. So they just

stopped trade. The next freighter in brought us the news."

 

Rod frowned. "How come there was a 'next' freighter?

I thought they stopped trade."

 

"We had a little trade going on our own, with some of

the other outlying planets—but we had no more supplies

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING      61

 

coming in from Terra, no new machinery or spare parts.

The good General-Governor made peace with the natives

just in time."

 

"Thou canst sustain thy selves?"

 

Chomoi nodded. "The Wolmen bring in the food and

fiber, and our men do the mining and manufacturing. But

the end result is, we're not a prison planet anymore—we're

a colony. And Shacklar's the Governor as well as the Gen-

eral, so he can do anything he damn well pleases with us.

If he wants to let us go, we can go—but where to?" She

waved an arm. "There's nothing out beyond that Wall but

grass—and Wolmen."

 

"He won't let you leave the planet?"

 

"Oh, sure, if he thinks one of us should be allowed to—

and if we can afford it." She shrugged. "He can't give away

free spaceships, you know."

 

Rod exchanged glances with Yorick. "Well, when the

time comes, we'll find some way to get the cash."

 

Yorick nodded. "I think the lady could be useful, Major.

Real useful."

 

"Vacuum your brain," Chornoi snapped. "I offered to

help you, not service you."

 

"Wasn't even thinking of it," Yorick said virtuously. "I

meant knowledge-help. I know the basics about this planet,

and about PEST..."

 

Chornoi"s mouth twisted. "Who doesn't?"

 

"Yeah, but, well, uh—about Wolmar. You've been here

a few years, you know the lay of the land. It always helps

to have a local on your side."

 

Chomoi shrugged. "I'm as local as they come around

here. At least I know who's who, and where the bodies are

buried—some of them, anyway. And I've spent time with

the Wolmen."

 

Gwen frowned. "How didst thou come to that?"

 

"They looked safer than the soldiers—and they were,

while I was on probation. But probation with each tribe

 

 

 

 

62            Christopher Stasheff

 

gave me a year to get my feet under me, and tuck my

emotions into place." Chomoi shrugged. "What can I tell

 

you? It worked."

 

"So," Rod mused, "you're willing to help—if we help

 

you."

 

"Yeah, if you'll help me get off the planet."

 

"If we can."

 

"Well, sure—if you can." Chomoi tossed her head im-

patiently.

 

"Of course," Rod mused, "if we do manage to get off

 

this planet, you'll make us a marked crew. I mean, PEST

has to have at least one agent here and if you leave, he'll

blow the whistle. Then you'll have an assassin hot on your

trail before you get past the first light-year."

 

"I understand that." Chomoi's tone was brittle. "I couldn't

blame you if you didn't want to take the chance."

 

Rod shrugged. "I'm not too worried about it." Especially

since we're planning to leave via time machine. "After all,

there's no danger from assassins as long as we're on Wol-

mar—and without your help, we might not live to get off

 

the planet."

 

Chomoi nodded. "I'd say that's true. You said it your-

self—that Wolman's murder was too nicely timed. It had

to be designed to put you and your wife behind bars—or

 

into an early grave."

 

"We do have enemies," Rod admitted, "and I think they

would be more interested in the 'early grave' option."

 

"We will rejoice in thine assistance," Gwen assured.

 

Chomoi gave her a peculiar look, but said, "Thanks,

lady." And to Rod, "So what've we got?"

 

Rod shrugged. "A Purple corpse." He added a bleak

smile. "Even though all Purples are present and accounted

 

for."

 

Yorick spread his hands. "That's about all the information

 

we have. Not exactly what you'd call a lot."

 

"Nowhere near enough," Chomoi agreed. "We've got to

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING      63

 

learn more before we can make any guesses about who really

did it."

 

Yorick leaned back, fingers laced across his belly, thumbs

twiddling. "Well, you're the local expert. Tell us—where

do we get more information?"

 

"At the scene of the crime," Chomoi answered.

 

"Certes, 'tis no great need," Gwen protested. "Thou hast

affairs of thine own to be about."

 

Maybe it was the word "affairs" that made the young

private redouble his efforts. "Aw, come on, Ma'am! I'm

from Braxa! We used to make our own brooms there, all

the time." He gave her a quick grin over his shoulder. "How

else'd our mamas keep the houses clean?" He turned back

to Gwen's broomstick. "See, it's just this little rope here

that's come untied. All it needs is a proper square knot.

Now, you just put your finger on it, right there..."

 

Gwen did. Of course, that necessitated bending over, and

swaying closer to the young man. He swallowed hard, and

gave the knot a jerk that almost broke the cord.

 

Behind his back. Rod was tossing a loop of rope up to

catch around one of the inch-thick spikes that studded the

top of the Wall, and beckoning. Chornoi clambered up it,

hand over hand, with Yorick right behind her. Rod came

last, and tossed the rope over the far side of the Wall. Yorick

slipped down first, then Chornoi. Rod glowered down at

the young sentry's back, then turned to leap, catch the rope,

and glide down. He landed lightly, and Chornoi stared.

"How did you do that? Without breaking your arches, I

mean."

 

"Practice," Yorick grunted. "Come on, let's get out of

here." He bolted across the open stretch of brightly-lit land,

into the shadow of a copse fifty feet away. No alarms went

off; the sentry was looking at something else at the-moment.

Rod held his breath, feeling the jealousy climb up to con-

sume him. Then a whisper and a rustle, and he whirled

 

64            Christopher Stasheff

 

about to see Gwen gliding in for a landing on her broom-

stick.

 

Chomoi turned around, did a double take. "How did you

 

get here?"

 

"I trust that young man will count himself amply repaid

 

for his kindness." Rod snapped.

 

"Husband, I prithee." Gwen laid a gentle hand on his

forearm. "What choice was there? He'd ne'er ha' trusted

 

Demoiselle Chomoi."

 

"True enough." Rod clipped off the words. "May I con-

gratulate you on a successful flirtation—I mean, diversion.

And I'll cut out that kid's liver and lights if I ever bump

 

into him again."

 

"Truly, husband, 'tis unworthy of thee." Gwen's eyes

 

were large with reproach. "Be mindful that the lad spoke

to a Gramarye witch, and, moreover, one who can cast

thoughts and feelings. Truly, the lad had no chance."

 

"In more ways than one," Rod sighed, "and you don't

need to mention your powers to explain it. I suppose I don't

have any right to be angry with him, do I?"

 

"Nay, certes," Gwen breathed, swaying close to him.

 

"But we tarry."

 

"How the hell does she know where to go?" Rod muttered

to Yorick. "Okay, so the planet has a moon or two, so we've

had light almost all the way, and when the big moon set,

she just had us wait twenty minutes till the other one rose.

But even with it, I can scarcely see twenty feet in front of

 

me!"

 

"Well, / can see fine." Yorick grinned. "You Sapiens

 

have just gone soft, that's all. Too many millennia of lighted

 

streets."

 

"What's she?" Rod grumbled. "A Neanderthalette?"

Yorick shook his head. "Not a good enough build. Kinda

scrawny, y' know? And the face is kinda flat and angular.

But I think she's a nice kid underneath it all."

 

Actually, Rod had been thinking that Chomoi was a clas-

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING

 

65

 

sical beauty—or would have been, if her face hadn't been

constantly pinched with hostility. And her body was any-

thing but "scrawny." However, he could understand why

she wouldn't measure up to the Neanderthal ideal of fem-

ininity. The comment on her interior self, though, he doubted.

"You must be seeing deeper than I am."

 

Yorick shrugged. "You Saps must be damn near blind."

 

Rod wondered if he meant that to be interpreted both

ways.

 

"Come on." Yorick stepped up the pace. "We've got some

serious catching up to do."

 

Chomoi strode ahead of them, as briskly as though she

hadn't realized she was climbing a thirty-degree slope. Fi-

nally she came to a stop, and the men huffed and puffed

up beside her, with Gwen silent at Rod's shoulder.

 

"Here it is." Chomoi waved a hand.

 

They stood on top of a ridge, oriented roughly east-west.

The moonlight showed a plain stretching out for miles about

them, unending grassland broken only by the occasional

copse and a line of stunted trees that straggled across the

prairie, marking a watercourse.

 

Rod took a deep breath. "Quite a view."

 

Chomoi nodded. "It's spectacular by sunlight, but I don't

think we can wait for that." She pointed. "There's the actual

Sun-Greeting Place."

 

A stone step rose from the ground a few feet in front of

them. Thirty feet away, an upright slab bulked large against

the night. Chomoi slipped a slender flashlight out of her

jacket and aimed it at the boulder. Its beam showed that the

top of the standing stone had been flattened from front to

back and leveled, then notched, eight deep gouges cut out

of the rock. The first, fourth, and eighth were very deep.

 

"The shamen come up here every morning to greet the

sun," Chomoi explained. "They take it in rotation. It's a

religious ritual, of course, but it has a very practical purpose,

too—every morning, the Shaman of the Day sees how close

the sun is coming to one of the big notches. The middle

 

66            Christopher Stasheff

 

one is the equinox—there're sixteen months here; the two

moons revolve eight times a year, and they rule the months

in alternation. Figure that the first groove is the winter

solstice. The sun starts there, moves down to the middle

groove for the vernal equinox, goes on to the eighth groove

for the summer solstice, then moves back to the middle

groove for the autumnal equinox, and on back to the first

 

one."

 

"New Year's," Yorick said.

 

Chomoi nodded. "And it's up to the shaman of the Purple

tribe to keep an eye on the sun. When it rises behind the

fourth notch, he goes home and tells everybody to start

planting. When he sees sunrise through the eighth notch,

he tells everybody to celebrate."

 

"A midsummer night's dream?"

 

"You could call it that," Chomoi said sourly. "Then the

sun starts to swing back, and when it rises behind the fourth

notch again, the shaman tells the tribe to get ready for

 

harvest."

 

"Then back to Midwinter, and the whole thing starts all

 

over again." Yorick knelt by the stone step. "Want to shine

 

that thing down here, Ms.?"

 

"Why not? But call me 'Chomoi,' all right? We're work-

ing together now."

 

The light gleamed on the rough stone at the base of the

slab. Yorick ran a finger across the surface, and stopped at

 

a dark blot.

 

They all stared, silent for a moment.

Then Yorick's finger went on to trace another drop, and

 

another.

 

"Blood," Rod said softly.

 

"I'm not quite equipped to run a chemical analysis,"

Yorick mused, "but I'd say that was a pretty good bet. Want

 

to scan the area, Ms. Chomoi?"

 

"Well, that's an improvement, I guess," Chomoi grunted.

She moved the circle of light slowly over the area around

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING      67

 

the stone step. The grass stood about three inches high.

 

"Nice to find out they keep it mowed," Yorick said, "but

that's about all I see."

 

Rod nodded. "Not the slightest sign of a struggle. Whoever

our hatchet man was, he was remarkably neat."

 

"Damn near inhuman," Yorick agreed.

 

"Not quite." Chomoi's lips were thin. "Some of my col-

leagues were extremely efficient. I wasn't too bad, myself."

 

Yorick looked up. "But the blood on the stone does kind

of indicate that the Wolman met the cleaver when he stepped

up here to greet the sun."

 

Rod frowned. "Yeah. So what... Oh!"

 

"Right." Yorick nodded. "Who steps up to the Sun-

Greeting Place to greet the sun?"

 

"A shaman," Chomoi breathed.

 

"But none of the shamen are missing," Rod pointed out.

 

"So what?" Yorick shrugged. "None of the Wolmen are

missing. So why shouldn't it be a shaman who's not missing,

instead of just an ordinary warrior?"

 

"More to the point," Chomoi said softly, "why shouldn't

it be Hwun? After all, he's the shaman of the Purple tribe,

and they're the ones closest to this place."

 

"No reason at all, except that Hwun is very much alive.

Far too much so, for my liking." Rod frowned. "What is

this business about Hwun being the chief chief, when he's

also the Purple shaman? I've heard of overlapping direc-

torates, but isn't this a little too obvious?"

 

"No problem there." Chomoi shook her head. "Wolman

government is basic democracy. Major—very basic. They

just sit around in a circle and discuss who's going to be

leader. And when most of them agree—well, that's who

the leader is. Every clan does it that way—and, once they've

decided on a leader, they tend to stay with him, So when

the clans gather for a tribal meeting, it's the clan headmen

who sit down to elect the tribal leader."

 

Yorick nodded. "Which means that one of the tribal chiefs

 

 

 

 

68            Christopher Stasheff

 

is going to be the national chief."

 

Chomoi frowned at him. "You had experience with this

 

kind of thing?"

 

"We were Number One. So they held a tribal meeting

 

like that to fight the soldiers better?"

 

"You have been around. But it was a national meeting—

 

all the tribes banded together for an all-out war."

 

"Makes sense." Yorick agreed. "After all, it was probably

the first time in their history that they'd had somebody to

 

fight besides each other."

 

Gwen shivered. "Must men forever be fighting, then?"

 

"Sure. How else would we get you ladies to notice us,

instead of the other guys?" Yorick turned back to Chomoi.

"This wouldn't happen to have been the first time they'd

ever banded together for anything, would it?"

 

Chomoi stared at him, then nodded slowly. "Yeah. Up

until the convicts came, they'd always been fighting each

 

other, just the way you said."

 

Yorick nodded. "Nice of you to help out that way."

 

"Yes, bringing civilization to the poor savages." Rod's

eyes glittered. "I always find unification fascinating."

 

Something in his voice made Chomoi look up with a

scowl. "Don't make any mistake. Major. It was the Wol-

men's idea to get together to fight us, not the colonists'.

Just a marriage of convenience, that's all."

 

"And as fragile as such unions usually are, I'm sure—

but one which Shacklar and Cholly have steadily been trying

 

to strengthen."

 

"Oh, that's deliberate enough, sure—and Shacklar def-

initely likes having a national leader he can deal with. But

they chose Hwun, not him."

 

"At a national council?"

 

Chomoi nodded. "The tribal leaders got together, so of

 

course they chose one of their own number. That's how

come Hwun, the Purple chief, wound up being acclaimed

 

chief Wolman chief."

 

"Makes sense." Rod nodded. "But why'd they elect a

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING      69

 

shaman instead of a general—excuse me, 'war-chief?' I

mean, how good a tactician is a pholk-physician going to

be?"

 

Chomoi shook her head. "Medicine's only part of it,

Major, only a spin-off, really. His main function is spiritual.

He's a holy man."

 

Rod shuddered. "I don't like the sound of that. Religion

and politics make a lousy combination."

 

"But it's very useful when you're trying to keep all the

factions of your people together," Chomoi pointed out.

"That's Hwun's main job. As to fighting when they went

to war, he had four generals, one for each tribe. They took

care of the tactics; he just had the final say on strategy."

 

"Neat." Rod scowled. "In fact, a little too efficient for

my liking."

 

"But his constituents can recall him at any minute,"

Yorick pointed out.

 

Chomoi gave him an irritated glare. "That's right, in

fact. How'd you know?"

 

"Y' seen one oral culture, y' seen 'em all," Yorick said.

"Not really true, but they do all have certain characteristics

in common. Government by consensus is one of 'em, and

instant recall is part of that."

 

"Instant, yes—by the most effective means available.

At least, sometimes. In fact, it has occurred to me that we

may be looking at an impeachment here."

 

Yorick shook his head. "You'd know better than I would,

but I find it hard to believe. This kind of a society wouldn't

understand that kind of sneaky killing. If somebody wanted

to challenge the head honcho, he'd just do it. In fact, the

more witnesses he had for the fight, the stronger his support

would be."

 

Rod nodded. "That sounds right. Besides, you said it

yourself, Chomoi—some of your colleagues are inhumanly

efficient. This is such a neat job that it fairly screams 'profes-

sional.'"

 

Slowly, she nodded. "Yeah. Probably well armed, too."

 

70            Christopher Stasheff

 

Rod frowned. "But he didn't use a blaster. If he had,

 

there wouldn't have been blood."

 

Chomoi shook her head. "A pro wouldn't have. Major.

This was right at dawn, remember? A blaster bolt would've

been seen. It also might have set a fire, and people would

have really started wondering." She shrugged. "Sometimes

 

the oldest weapons work best."

 

"Well, one thing's sure, then." Yorick stood up, dusting

off his hands. "It wasn't any Wolman who did this killing.

I mean, they may be pretty enthusiastic, and I'm sure they're

skillful, but when you get right down to it, when it comes

to killing people, they're really amateurs." He nodded to

Chomoi. "One of the soldiers did this—and one trained for

 

commando work."

 

"Probably." Chomoi gazed at the dark spatters on the

 

stone. "Don't sell those Wolmen short, though. They've

become very competent warriors since they started fighting

these convict-soldiers. Very competent—and they've been

developing a lot of skill with blasters, ever since Shacklar

 

took over and the truce began."

 

"I do not understand," Gwen murmured. "Why doth he

give Wolmen his weapons, when to keep them to his own

men would yield him great advantage?"

 

Chomoi shrugged. "He seems to think that if it comes

to war, the colonists are going to be wiped out, sooner or

later. We're so heavily outnumbered that our only real hope

 

for survival is peace with the Wolmen."

 

"And the only way to be sure of that," Rod said stiffly,

"is to meld the two cultures into a single, unified society."

 

Chomoi nodded. "And having all the blasters on the

soldiers' side, doesn't exactly help build Wolman confi-

dence."

 

"Maybe not." Yorick looked around. "I get the feeling

 

we're missing something. There may be evidence of a strug-

gle in the area around here—or some other kind of evidence

 

that we won't find at night."

 

"True," Rod said judiciously. "With only a flashlight,

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING      71

 

we're limited to looking at what we already suspect. We'll

have to wait for daylight to get the Big Picture, and any

clues we haven't thought of."

 

"There's a problem with that," Yorick pointed out.

"Aye, my lord," Gwen added. "We must needs be at the

Governor's great hall in the mom—e'en by dawn."

 

Rod shrugged. "So what? We already skipped town, didn't

we?"

 

"Aye, yet they did enlarge us upon our parole."

Chomoi stared. "What is she talking about?"

"She means Shacklar only let us go, because we promised

to come back in the morning." Rod's mouth tightened at

the corners.

 

"'Twould be dishonorable, an we did not return."

"Well, true, but this isn't Gramarye. Honor isn't quite

so important here."

 

Gwen stared at him, scandalized. More importantly. Rod

realized with a sinking feeling in his stomach, he didn't

believe it himself anymore. "All right, all right! We'll have

to go back to town! Besides—skipping town is one thing,

but skipping the planet is entirely another!"

Gwen frowned. "What is a 'planet,' my lord?"

Chornoi just stared at her; but Rod took a deep breath

and said, "Well. A planet is a world, darling. It's not flat,

you see—it's round, like a ball."

"Assuredly not!" she cried.

 

Rod shrugged. "Okay, so don't believe me—just take

my word for it. I came to Gramarye on a 'shooting star,'

remember—and I got to see the planet from way up. Way

up—and it's round. Oh, believe me, it is round!"

 

"He's telling you the truth." Chornoi frowned, puzzled.

"I've seen planets from space, too, and they're round, all

right. Like that." She pointed at the single moon that was

still up in the sky. "It's just a very little planet. The word

means 'wanderer,' see, and you know how the moon wan-

ders; it moves all over the sky."

 

"Aye." Gwen frowned, trying to absorb the alien con-

 

72            Christopher Stasheff

 

cept. "There be others, be there not? Stars that do wander."

 

"Right." Rod nodded. "They're worlds, too. But most

of the stars, the ones that stay put—well, they're suns, just

like the one that gives us light and heat during the daytime."

 

"Can they truly be?" Gwen breathed, eyes round. "Nay,

surely not! For they be but points of light!"

 

"That's because they're so far away," Chomoi explained.

 

"Nay, it could not be." Gwen turned to her, frowning.

"For they would have to be so far distant that..." She broke

off, her mind reeling as she realized just how far away that

 

would have to be.

 

Chomoi watched her, nodding slowly. "Yes, ma'am.

 

That's how far away. So far that it takes their light quite a

 

few years to get here."

 

"Yet how can that be?" Gwen asked, looking from Rod

 

to Chomoi and back. "How can light take time to come to

 

a place?"

 

"Well—it travels," Rod said. "Believe us, honey—there's

 

no easy way to prove it. I mean, it has been proven, but it

was very hard to do, very complicated. Light travels at

186,282 miles per second. That's about six trillion miles in

a year." Gwen's eyes lost focus, and Rod confided, "Don't

try, dear. We can't really grasp the idea of a distance that

huge—not really, not emotionally. But we can be intimi-

dated by trying." He turned to Chomoi. "The nearest star

here—it wouldn't happen to be visible, would it?"

 

"Oh, yeah. It's the third star in the ban-el of 'The Blaster'—

one of our homemade constellations." Chomoi stepped up

beside Gwen and pointed. "You see those six stars, forming

a rough parallelogram—you know, a rectangle leaning side-

ways?"

 

Gwen sighted along her arm. "Aye, I see them."

 

"Well, that's the handgrip. And that line of four stars at

a right angle to them? That's the barrel. The third star in

from its end is our nearest neighbor." Chomoi shrugged.

"It doesn't really have a name—just a number on the star-

charts. The soldiers call it 'The Girl Next Door.'"

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING      73

 

"How far away is it?" Rod asked.

 

"Just under seven light-years."

 

"Dost mean..." Gwen swallowed. ".. .that the star I

see now is not truly the star? That 'tis but light that hath

left it seven years agone?"

 

"Right." Rod nodded with vigor. "We're not seeing it as

it is, but as it was seven years ago. Very right, dear. For

all we know, it could be blowing up right now—but we

wouldn't find out about it for seven years." Secretly, he was

impressed with the quickness of Gwen's understanding.

 

His wife just stared up into the night sky, lost in the

immensity of the concept.

 

"And planets," Rod murmured, "swing around and around

their sun in circles that are just a little bit egg-shaped."

 

Gwen whirled to stare at him in astonishment. "Nay—

for surely the Sun doth go about the Earth! I do see it rise

and go across the sky daily!"

 

Rod shook his head. "It just looks that way. It's the earth

that's turning^ really." He cranked with a finger. "Around

and around, like a spinning top. Stop and think about it—

if you're turning around and around, it looks as though

Yorick, there, is turning around you, when he's really stand-

ing still, doesn't it?"

 

Gwen gazed at Yorick, then slowly began to turn around

in place. After two revolutions, she said, "'Tis so." She

stopped and looked up at Rod. "Yet merely from looking,

how can I tell whether 'tis he that's moving, or I?"

 

Rod's breath hissed in. He'd known Gwen was intelli-

gent, but he was amazed by the quickness with which her

mind darted on to the next question. He stared at her, as-

tounded by her mental leap. Then he smiled weakly. "Well,

you have to have other kinds of evidence, too, dear. For

example, when we look through telesc... uh, closely at

other planets, we can see their moons going around and

around them. That explains why our own moon wanders

the way it does—it's really revolving around us. Which

makes it a pretty good bet that we're revolving around our

 

74            Christopher Stasheff

 

sun, especially after we've found out that it's a heck of a

lot bigger than any of its planets." He shrugged. "And the

 

bigger it is, the harder it pulls."

 

She stared at him for a long moment, then said slowly,

"And is it for that reason that we will have such great

difficulty in leaving this 'planet?'"

 

Rod caught his breath, staring at her. Then he opened

his mouth, breathing in, and finally said, "Yes. The planet

pulls things to it, just as the sun pulls the planet toward

 

itself."

 

"Then why doth the planet not fall into the sun?"

"Because it's going too fast. Like..." Inspiration hit.

"Like you, when you're trying to catch Geoffrey. He goes

flying past, and you grab him, but because he's going so

fast, you can't pull him in against you. On the other hand,

you're holding on tightly enough so that he can't get away,

either, so he just swings around at the end of your arm.

Now, imagine that he refuses to stop, and he just goes on

swinging around and around you, forever. And it's that same

kind of pull, like your pull on him, that attracts things to

the planet. Of course, from where we're standing, that 'at-

tracting' looks like 'falling.' We call the force 'gravity.' The

planet pulls on the object—like this." He pulled her up

against him, and wrapped his arms around her. "And it

doesn't want to let the object go."

 

Gwen smiled, her lids drooping. "Doth the object, then,

 

not also draw the planet?"

 

"You do learn fast, don't you? Yes, the object pulls, too,

 

but its pull is very weak, because it's so small. You and I,

 

now, aren't all that much different in size."

 

"Nay," she murmured, "we are well matched."

Rod was definitely losing interest in the lecture, but there

 

were people watching. "Now. Your original question was,

 

why is it so hard for the object to get away from the planet?"

She smiled up at him. "Wherefore should it wish to?"

"Can't think of a good reason, myself," Rod admitted,

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING      75

 

"but just for the sake of argument, let's assume it does. Go

ahead and try."

 

"An thou dost wish it," she sighed, and pushed against

him.

 

He loosened his arms a little, letting her move away a

few inches. "See—you have to be able to push really hard

to get away from me. And that's how people leave planets—

in flying ships that can push really hard against the planet."

 

"They're called 'spaceships,' by the way," Yorick put in.

"Don't let him baby-talk you, milady."

 

"I would not consider it," Gwen said, with some asperity.

 

"And the ship," Rod said, "has to push hard enough to

go fast enough—that's called 'escape velocity.' And when

you're up to escape velocity..." He let go, and she stum-

bled back. "... you escape. And that's how you get off the

surface of a planet. See?"

 

"Indeed." She came back, straightening her hair, the

gleam of battle in her eye. "Yet could we not build such

'velocity,' my. lord? Thou and I, together?"

 

In spite of himself. Rod took a step back. It took him a

second to realize she was talking about telekinesis. "Well..."

 

But Yorick was watching them with growing apprehen-

sion. "Uh, Major—milady—don't do anything rash!"

 

"It would be," Rod admitted. "We might be able to do

it if we pooled our forces, darling—but there's another little

problem." He coughed delicately and looked up at the stars.

"You see, we're not the only thing that the planet's holding

to itself. It's also holding the air that we breathe."

 

She stared, at a loss.

 

"About twenty miles up..." Rod pointed. "... you run

out of atmosphere. It's just empty space, without any wind,

not even a breath of fresh air—or a breath of anything, for

that matter. That's why Chomoi said she'd seen a planet

from space—because there wasn't any air there. Just empty

space."

 

Slowly, Gwen lifted her eyes to the stars again. "So much

 

76            Christopher Stasheff

 

blackness between them... Yet how can there be 'space,'

as thou dost call it, without air to breathe? Is that not the

 

'space?'"

 

Rod shook his head. "Air is a substance, too, just like

 

water—only lighter, not as dense. It covers the planet's

whole surface, but only because gravity holds it there. The

farther you are from a planet, the weaker the pull feels,

until it can't even hold air anymore. And when that happens,

when you've got space with nothing in it, we call that

'vacuum.' That means there's nothing to breathe, too, of

course—so even if we could get out there, honey, we

 

wouldn't last long."

 

Slowly, Gwen lowered her gaze to him again, but the

stars stayed in her eyes. '"Tis wondrous," she breathed.

"Nay, I shall trust thee in this, my lord. But I shall trust,

also, that together, we may find a way."

 

Chomoi shook her head in exasperation. "Don't you know

better than to put that much trust in a man?"

 

"Nay." Gwen turned to her with a smile, catching Rod's

hand behind her back. "And I trust that I never shall."

 

It was nice to know that she felt so warm about it, es-

pecially since Rod was feeling a chill run down his back

and spread out to envelop his rib cage. She had learned it

all so quickly! Everything she'd heard, she'd understood

instantly, or almost. And every single one of those concepts

was totally alien to her culture. He was beginning to dread

that she might be smarter than he was. It was one thing for

him to understand her culture, but it was entirely another

 

for her to understand his.

 

"Well, be that all as it may—space, vacuum, and es-

cape," Chomoi grumbled, "but the here-and-now is that we

need to look at this place by daylight, and you two have to

be back in town before morning."

 

"I'd say that's pretty clear. It comes down to you or me,"

Yorick said. "And, if you'll pardon my male chauvin-

ism ..."

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING      77

 

"I won't," Chomoi snapped. "I told you I've spent time

among the Wolmen. I'll be safe, believe me, especially since

I never made any bones about how much I didn't like the

way the colonists did things. The Wolmen heard about it

and began to chum up to me—oh, not making passes or

anything, don't worry about that; they've got their own

ideals of beauty, and I'm not up to their standards."

 

Rod bit his tongue.

 

"But they did cultivate me as a possible ally within Shack-

lar's camp. Not that I ever would've betrayed the sol-

diers. .." A shadow crossed Chomoi's face. "... I hope.

Hope even more that I never have to find out the hard way

... Anyhow!" She straightened, eyes flashing. "It's enough

to guarantee that I'll be safe, till I see you back in town."

 

"That's kind of odd, as diplomacy goes," Rod said,

frowning. "On their part, I mean. That kind of wily statecraft

doesn't quite square with the usual concept of the unso-

phisticated aborigine."

 

"Shacklar and Cholly have been trying very hard to so-

phisticate them, thank you," Chomoi snorted. "Cholly's

traders are really teachers in disguise."

 

"Oh!" Rod lifted his head, a few facts suddenly colliding

and yielding solutions. "So that's why he doesn't make much

money off his pharmaceuticals trade."

 

Chomoi nodded. "Something like that. His traders keep

the prices low and the payments high, so that the Wolmen

will keep coming back to talk to them. They've been doing

a very good job of giving the Wolmen a modem education—

including political science. And they begin it with Machia-

velli."

 

Rod saw Yorick open his mouth, and said quickly, "So

they know the realities of technological culture—including

back-stabbing."

 

Chomoi nodded. "And a lot of other things you wouldn't

expect them to know. But it has the advantage of letting

them take the long view."

 

 

 

 

78 Christopher Stasheff THE WARLOCK WANDERING 79

 

"Including being careful to protect a potential ally."

 

"Yes, as long as the truce holds, and it'll hold at least

until your trial is over."

 

"And thou wilt return ere then?"

 

Chomoi nodded. "I'll check out this area as soon as it's

light. I should be back on the civilized side shortly after

dawn. If I'm too late to catch you before the courtroom,

I'll drop in there." Her smile hardened. "I'll be back, don't

worry. I'll be back. You folks go on now ... What are you

waiting for? Go on, now! Go!"

 

Slowly, they turned, and began to go down the hillside.

 

"Dosta truly believe she will be secure?" Gwen asked.

 

Yorick shrugged. "I dunno—these boys are savages, even

though they're synthetic ones. What do you think, Major?"

 

"I think they're male," Rod answered, "and I think Chor-

noi knows just how much of a woman she is, regardless of

what she said about their standards of beauty."

 

"There's truth in that," Gwen agreed, "and I doubt not

she could lay low any warrior who sought to best her."

 

"Well, it'd be an even match, at least."

 

"No, not really," Yorick disagreed. "After all, she is a

 

professional."

 

Gwen turned back for a last look, concern furrowing her

brow—and froze, with a gasp.

 

Yorick and Rod turned back to look.

 

Chomoi stood at the top of the rise, stripped naked and

glowing in the moonlight. As they watched, she scooped

her fingers into a flat roundel and rubbed them over her

arm. The skin darkened.

 

"Body-paint," Yorick murmured. "Betcha it's purple,

Major."

 

"And I'll bet we'll find out tomorrow." Rod turned away,

shaking his head. "Come on, troops. Somehow, I just be-

came sure she'll be safe."

 

"As the mercury said to the water, 'Pardon my density.'"

Yorick's gaze swiveled from Rod to Gwen and back. "But

 

if we can do it this way, why that charade with the sentry

on the way out?"

 

"Why, for that Chomoi did not know we were witch-

folk." Gwen tucked her arm more tightly into Yorick's.

 

"Yeah—you know what we are," Rod reminded him,

"but Chomoi probably doesn't even believe in ESP, let alone

know we've got it."

 

"I see." Yorick nodded. "Mustn't shock the poor thing,

must we? After all, she might decide she's on the other

side."

 

"Well, her volunteering was an enormous stroke of

luck..."

 

"Sure. Now I get it. Oh, I'm quick."

 

"Indeed thou art, in regard to most matters," Gwen as-

sured him.

 

"Yeah, we all have our blind spots," Rod agreed. "Now,

as one agent to another—do you really think Chomoi will

learn anything more than we already found out?"

 

Yorick shrugged. "Hard to say. I don't really think there

was any more evidence up there at the murder site, but you

never know, do you?"

 

"True, true." Rod gazed steadily at the top of the wall.

"On the other hand, she was pretty obviously planning to

interrogate some Wolmen."

 

"Well, at least Hwun," Yorick qualified. "I mean, he

does have to come up to greet the sun tomorrow morning,

doesn't he?"

 

Rod shuddered. "That guy gives me the creeping chil-

lies."

 

"In truth, he is cold," Gwen agreed.

 

"Not what you'd expect, in a Gestalt culture," Yorick

agreed. "Not quite human, y'know?"

 

"Look who's talking," Rod grunted.

 

"Could we hold down on the racial slurs, "here?" Yorick

had the rare case of using the term correctly. "Besides, even

if he is Mr. Fishface, I'll bet Chornoi will get every ounce

of information that he's got. I mean, male is male."

 

 

 

 

80            Christopher Stasheff

 

"I know what you mean," Rod agreed, "and I don't doubt

it for a second. It's just that I don't expect there to be a hell

of a lot of information for her to get."

 

"True, true." Yorick looked towards the Wall. "The really

important information is likely to be in there—if we can

just figure out where to look for it. Now, let us think. Major,

milady—who, besides you two, might have reason to want

 

a Wolman dead?"

 

"Well, we don't have any reason to," Rod snorted. "But

 

the obvious answer is VETO... or SPITE,"

 

"Or both of them," Yorick grunted.

 

"Futurians of some kind. They tried to assassinate Gwen

and me and, when we turned out to be a little too lethal,

kidnapped us back in time as a second choice."

 

"Not too bad, either. I mean, without help, your chances

of getting back to the future are very slender."

 

"Nay! Rather, we would surely have returned, sooner or

later, to the year from which we left," Gwen objected. " 'Tis

simply that, when we did, we'd have been five hundred

 

years dead...."

 

"That is a problem, I think you'll admit. There's a definite

limit on how much fun you can have in that condition. But

it does bring up the question of why they sent you to this

 

particular here and now."

 

"Wolmar." Rod frowned. "Right after the PEST coup

d'etat." His eyes lost focus as he gazed off into space. "Nice

 

question..."

 

"And, sin that thou didst ask it, I doubt'me not an thou

 

hast an answer."

 

Yorick glanced sideways at Gwen. "Where'd you get

 

her. Major?"

 

"Just lucky, I guess.... What was your answer?"

"To make it easy to try another assassination attempt."

Yorick grinned. "The early PEST years are ideal for the

purpose. The interstellar totalitarian government is brand-

new, at its brightest strength, with plenty of agents left over

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING      81

 

from its coup, but not yet tied down to the central planets

as secret police."

 

Rod nodded, feeling numbed. "Yeah... that does kinda

stack the odds in their favor.... But why one of the frontier

planets? Why not Terra?"

 

"Too hard to cover up a murder attempt." Yorick shook

his head. "Too many people."

 

"Yeah, but would they really care?"

 

"There is that," Yorick said judiciously. "But a much

more practical point is that, with all those people to hide

among, it'd be too easy for you to get away. And they know

the two of you well enough to realize that you could be

very hard to hold on to."

 

"A point," Rod admitted, "and it is hard for us to just

disappear here in the grassland, isn't it?"

 

"Or even in the town," Yorick agreed, "what there is of

it."

 

"Yet they have already attempted murder," Gwen pointed

out, "and failed. Would they not essay summat more sub-

tle?"

 

"Such as trying to frame us for murder?" Rod nodded.

"Yes, I think you've summed it up nicely, dear."

 

"A nice little death sentence would suit them just fine/'

Yorick mused, "especially with a bunch of savages to insist

on it not being commuted to something humane, such as

life imprisonment."

 

Rod snorted.

 

"If you say so," Yorick said affably. "But it's the best

theory I can come up with. Got any other candidates in

mind. Major? Who else might want to create a handy little

murder incident?"

 

Rod glowered, staring at the top of the Wall, thinking it

over. Finally he said, "Shacklar."

 

A sentry paced by, dark against the stars.   -

 

They fell silent, staring, eyes locked onto him until he

passed, and the curve of the wall hid him from sight.

 

 

 

 

82            Christopher Stasheff

 

Rod hissed, "Now!" and closed his eyes, concentrating

on the feeling of lightness. He began to drift upward out of

the shadow. Gwen matched his pace, rising on her broom-

stick. They accelerated, moving faster and faster. Yorick

swallowed heavily and clamped his jaws shut.

 

Up, over the wall, and down the other side they glided,

Yorick slung between them. His feet jarred against earth,

and he let go of them as though their arms were hot metal.

He gave himself a shake, heaved a deep breath, and turned

to Rod with a bright smile. "Now! Just why did you suspect

 

General Shacklar?"

 

"Let's talk about it when we're a little further from the

 

Wall." Rod darted an uneasy glance toward the walkway at

the top. "Come on, let's go!"

 

They dashed across fifty yards of open ground, into the

shadow of an outbuilding, plowed to a halt, and propped

themselves against the shack, chests heaving. "After all,"

Yorick panted, "this little murder just might bring all Shack-

lar's last ten years of work crashing down. He's managed

to get the two sides almost to the point of joining in a single

government. Why would he take a chance on busting it up?"

"To finish the job." Rod grinned.

Yorick and Gwen stared.

 

"Think it over." Rod felt quite pleased with himself.

"Gwen and I have given him the perfect opportunity to hatch

his united government. We're totally new, so no one's going

to gripe much if we're just handed over to the Wolmen.

That would give our friendly natives a heck of a lot more

confidence in Shacklar, with the added advantage of having

made the Wolmen negotiate with Shacklar as a nation, all

banded together. So all the General has to do is make it

clear that the Wolmen are just as much involved in deciding

this case as the colonists are, and it could be the first action

of that unified government he's been trying to develop."

 

"Very good, so far as it goes." Yorick nodded, lips pursed.

"But what if the gamble fails? What happens if you manage

to disappear, or if you're so inconsiderate as to prove your-

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING      83

 

selves innocent, or something? Then he's got a civil war

on his hands."

 

"Not all that civil," Rod said, scowling. "I think he could

smooth over a 'Not guilty' verdict, if he had to. He's got

the two sides getting along well enough right now. They

even need each other a little. Both sides sure want what the

other has to offer. All he has to do is find them a convenient

excuse for forgetting the whole thing."

 

"Just a face-saver." Yorick said thoughtfully. "Ever con-

sider diplomacy as a career. Major?"

 

Rod opened his mouth, but Gwen spoke first. "He hath,

and he doth." She looked from Rod to Yorick. "Yet neither

of thee doth explain why no Wolman is missing."

 

Both men stood stock-still."

 

"Shall I tell thee?" Gwen said, smiling. "It may hap that

Shacklar hath had his assassin disguise himself as a Wol-

man."

 

"Yeah, it's possible." Rod kept his eyes on Yorick as he

nodded. "And, of course, the Futurians could have done

that, too."

 

Yorick returned the nod. "Very possible. Major."

 

"So, then." Gwen set her fists on her hips and looked

from the one to the other. "We have two schemes, either of

which may serve. How are we to find out which is true,

gentlemen?"

 

"Or if neither is." Rod shrugged. "We've got to find

more information."

 

"Yeah, we keep coming back to that, don't we?" Yorick

rubbed his temple with a forefinger.

 

"And how wilt thou accomplish this finding, my lord?"

 

"Go to the place where people talk, of course." Yorick

grinned. "Feel like a drink. Major?"

 

"Very much, but..." Rod exchanged glances with Gwen.

"I don't know if it'd be too healthy for us to^how up in

Cholly's."

 

Yorick spread his hands. "So it's my job. So what? Do

I care? Do I worry about those bloodthirsty soldiers mis-

 

 

 

 

84

 

Christopher Stasheff

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING

 

85

 

taking me for a spy? No! Do I ask for honor? Do I ask for

 

praise?"

 

"You're asking for it, period! Okay, we're thankful, we're

 

grateful! We'll praise you to the skies! We'll even give you

a good reference! What do you think you might hear that's

worth repeating?"

 

Yorick elaborated a shrug. "If I knew, I wouldn't have

to socialize. Y' never know—maybe somebody's doing an

awful lot of sudden spending. If he is, three guesses where

he got the funds? Oh, you can find out all sorts of stuff you

 

weren't expecting!"

 

Rod pondered. "Might be. But remember, this is all just

a guess. For all we know, the Wolman could have committed

suicide. Our hypothetical assassin isn't even a rumor."

 

"Don't worry, I won't give the rumor currency—not so

much as a farthing." Yorick flashed him a grin. "I'm off to

the pub with the public. Major. See you in the false dawn."

He tugged his forelock in Gwen's direction, and turned away

to disappear into the night.

 

"I trust the dawn will be all that is false," Gwen mur-

mured.

 

"A point," Rod admitted. "What do you say we follow

him? Discreetly, of course."

 

"Assuredly," Gwen agreed. "Who can be so discreet as

 

ourselves?"

 

Rod proffered his arm. She hooked her hand over his

elbow, and they wandered off into the night, following

Yorick's mental trail.

 

"Yet is there not greater hazard here, my lord? We might,

after all, sit safe in some shed and listen with our minds."

 

"No doubt." Rod poked his nose over the windowsill for

a quick peek at the inside of Cholly's Tavern. "But I can't

resist watching that muscle-bound jester in action. Besides,

we're at the back of the building, and in the shadows.

Nobody's apt to see us. I mean, they do have indoor plumb-

ing here."

 

Inside, Yorick was gradually bringing the conversation

closer and closer to the politics of the moment.

 

"Aye, here's to our Wolman brothers!" A corpulent cor-

poral lifted his mug in a toast.

 

"And our Wolwoman sisters," a PFC agreed.

 

A trooper shrugged. "You have 'em as sisters, if you

want. Me, I'd favor closer relations." He won a general,

leering laugh, and a middle-aged private called, "Relations

is what they'd be, shavetail. These Wolmen don't hold with

casual acquaintance. Seducers go quick to the shotgun."

 

Yorick juggled with it, and lifted his glass. "Well, here's

to the distaffs. May they not be disowned by distiffs."

 

His answer was a chuckle that died a quick death. Sol-

diers fell silent, glancing at each other. "Don't know much,

do yer?" A sergeant snarled.

 

Yorick frowned at him, and shrugged. '"Last come, first

numbed.' So the Wolmen get mad at us. So what?"

 

"So what, he says!" growled one of the older privates.

"Yer wasn't here when the battles was real, chum! Yer didn't

have ter go out 'gainst them bloody spears and see yer

buddy's bowels ripped out!"

 

"Yer didn't have an arm chopped off," growled a maimed

veteran, "and see the stump a-pumping!"

 

"Yuh didn't have their devil's yowling clawing at yuh

ears, whiles yuh pulled back tuh the Wall with a dozen,

where yuh'd gone out with a hundred," growled a grizzled

sergeant, "and them spears and arrows poking at yuh from

all sides."

 

"Don't sell them short," a gnarled corporal grated. "Vi-

cious, they is, when they's fighting."

 

"And they isn't no cowards," another rumbled. "Arrow-

heads and spears can kill a man as dead as any blaster-bolt,

my lad. And y' can't duck 'em, when they come in clouds!"

 

"How many did we lose?" The grizzled sergeant glared

down into his beer. "A dozen a day? Sixty in a week? A

hundred?"

 

"And for years it went on, years and years!" A fortyish

 

 

 

 

86 Christopher Stasheff THE WARLOCK WANDERING 87

 

sergeant slammed his tankard down on the bar. "We'll not

have those days back—no, not at any cost!"

 

With a shock, Rod recognized Thaler.

 

"Well, even I wouldn't go that far," the grizzled sergeant

mused. "I can think of some prices I wouldn't pay."

 

"For all that, so can I," the fortyish one admitted. "But

there's plenty of prices well worth it!" He glared around

him. "What's two lives, against the thousands that a war

would cost? What's two lives, hey?"

 

The room was silent. Finally, "Aye," grunted the grizzled

veteran, "but like as not, they'll squirm out of it at the trial."

 

"Only if they're innocent," Yorick put in quickly. "Okay,

so I haven't known Shacklar as long as you have—but I'd

have faith in his justice."

 

"Innocent or not, who cares?" Thaler turned to glower

at Yorick. "If they're freed, the Wolmen will explode and

swarm down on us again! And this time, every man jack

one of 'em has a blaster!"

 

A mutter of apprehension ran around the bar. Most men

shuddered, and the room was quiet.

 

For a time. Then a voice said,

 

"Kill 'em."

 

Shocked silence.

 

Then another voice. "Aye."

 

"Aye, kill 'em!"

 

"What matter two lives, in place of thousands?"

 

"Aye! Give the Wolmen their dead bodies in the morning,

and they'll go away!"

 

The grizzled sergeant frowned. "But when Shacklar finds

out..."

 

"He won't make no fuss," Thaler said, with a vicious

grin. "What's the dead, compared to the living? Nay, Shack-

lar may be sheet-pale, but he'll say naught."

 

"But they're innocent!" Yorick protested.

 

"So're the men who would die in a war!" Thaler snarled.

"What's two innocents against a thousand, laddie? Eh?"

 

"But the trial!" Yorick bleated. "Would you want to go

without a trial?"

 

"They're not me," Thaler snarled. "They're not any of

us."

 

That drew a low rumble of agreement.

 

"But..." Yorick stabbed with a finger. "If you sell them

for peace, what's gonna happen when one of you is ac-

cused?"

 

"Oh, my bleedin' heart!" the grizzled sergeant growled.

 

"What's-a-matter, bucko? You want war?" Thaler looked

Yorick up and down, as though measuring him for a coffin.

"Ayuh, I think that's it. You've never seen a battle, have

you, laddie? And you're sick with craving to be blooded."

 

"The hell I am!" Yorick said quickly. "I saw my share

of scrapes before I wound up here—and calling 'em 'police

actions' didn't cut the casualty lists!"

 

"I don't believe a word of it." Thaler slipped off his bar

stool and stepped up very close to the Neanderthal, blood

in his eye. "You don't have the look of a fighter to me. But

you'd be glad enough to see us die in your place."

 

"Let's go get them," someone growled.

 

"Aye!" "Aye, get 'em and blast 'em!" "Serve 'em on a

platter!" "Aye!"

 

"You're in it, laddie." Thaler fixed Yorick with a glit-

tering eye. "Come with us now, or we'll know you're against

us, and a traitor to the whole of the colony!"

 

"With you?" Yorick stared.

 

Then he leaped off his bar stool. "I'll do more than come

with you! I saw the two of them scurrying for cover when

I was coming in here. You come with me, and I'll show

you where to find them!"

 

Thaler stared, then slowly grinned.

 

"Let's go!" Yorick shouldered his way through the mob,

heading for the door.                       '-

 

Rod and Gwen exchanged one quick, appalled glance,

then shot away from the building at top speed.

 

 

 

 

88

 

Christopher Stasheff

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING

 

89

 

Where, my lord? Gwen's thoughts sounded inside Rod's

head.

 

Anywhere, Rod answered, looking around frantically.

There! He pointed to two huge barrels, lying on their sides,

empty. Crouch down!"

 

Gwen did, clutching her broom to her, eyes squeezed

shut. Rod hefted the barrel up and lowered it gently over

her. Then he crouched down beside her, staring at the second

barrel, concentrating, blocking out the rest of the world.

The barrel lifted slowly, then descended to settle over him.

He relaxed and sat back, leaning against its side, but kept

his eyes shut, listening with his mind, seeing through the

eyes of one of the less-intelligent soldiers back in the middle

of the mob.

 

Yorick exploded out of the tavern with the lynch mob

behind him. "Come on! I'll show you the last place I saw

them!"

 

Gwen's thoughts rang in Rod's head: How could he turn

against us so thoroughly, so quickly?

 

I don't know, Rod answered grimly, but I'm considering

taking up a new hobby. Say—carving ...

 

The sound of the mob faded, but it still clamored inside

their minds. The soldiers ran frantically into the night, then

slowed as the first flush of enthusiasm began to wear off.

Rod's medium-soldier began to grow resentful—what was

he doing, out here in the middle of the night, running no-

where?

 

Then Yorick's voice crowed, way ahead, "There they go!

Quick, after them!"

 

The soldier's enthusiam leaped up again. Filled with ex-

citement, howling with bloodlust, he ran after his compan-

ions. They swerved to the left, dashed down a darkened

street, and ran for several minutes. The soldier's breath

began to rasp in his lungs, and sullen resentment began

again.

 

Yorick howled, "There! Between those two buildings'. I

saw 'em run! After 'em, quick!"

 

Excitement boiled up again, and the soldier leaped after

his mates, the thrill of the chase pounding through his veins.

 

On down the street they ran—and on... and on... and

on...

 

Rod thought at his barrel; it lifted, and he turned to Gwen

as her barrel drifted up, then dropped down on its side.

They shared a guilty look.

 

"How could we have doubted him?" Gwen murmured.

 

"Easy—I never did trust anybody who was always cheer-

ful. But I was wrong—dead wrong."

 

"Not 'dead,' praise Heaven!"

 

"But a fool." Rod's mouth tightened. "What's going to

happen to me if I keep doubting my real friends?"

 

"We shall repay him," Gwen assured, "with our safety."

 

"True," Rod agreed. "That's what he wants most right

now. And, come to think of it..." He turned toward the

tavern with a glint in his eye. "He has bought us a little

time here, hasn't he?"

 

Gwen looked startled, then smiled. "He hath indeed, my

lord. Art thou mad as a bantam cock, thus to beard thine

enemies?"

 

Rod nodded. "Not a bad simile, my lady. Y'know, I'm

feeling a bit thirsty. Shall we?"

 

"Certes, an thou dost wish it, my lord." She clasped his

 

"After all, everyone who's out for our blood has already

left, right?"

 

They turned to face the tavern, threw back their shoul-

ders, and stepped off in unison.

 

With a jaunty swagger, they sauntered into Cholly's

Tavern.

 

Cholly looked up to see who was coming in, then looked

again, wide-eyed.

 

The half-dozen patrons who were still there looked up,

wondering what could startle Cholly—then stared, them-

selves.

 

Cholly recovered right away, turning back to mop the

 

 

 

 

90 Christopher Stasheff THE WARLOCK WANDERING 91

 

bar. "Well then, now. Master and Missus! What'll be your

pleasure?"

 

"Just a pint." Rod slid onto a bar stool. Gwen slid up

beside him, hands folded on the edge of the bar, the very

picture of demure innocence. Rod grinned around at the

other patrons, and they swallowed heavily, managed feeble

grins, and turned back to their drinking.

 

Cholly set a couple of foaming mugs in front of them,

and Rod turned his attention back to the important things

in life. He took a long drink, then exhaled with satisfaction.

"So! What's the news?"

 

All of the patrons suddenly became very concerned with

their beer and ale.

 

"Oh," Cholly said affably, "nothing terribly much. The

word from the Wall is that the Wolmen're beginning to drift

up and pitch camp, just out of blaster range.... There're

twenty or thirty people out howling fer yer blood.... The

gin'ral's sent the captains out t' remind people where their

battle stations are...."

 

Rod nodded. "Slow night, huh?"

 

"Humdrum," Cholly agreed. "I gets rumors all the time."

 

"Yeah, about those rumors..." Rod cocked a forefinger.

"Hear anything about Shacklar?"

 

Cholly looked up, startled. "The gin'ral? What about

'im?"

 

Rod shrugged. "He seems to be taking the whole thing

very calmly, if you ask me."

 

"We didn't," a young soldier reminded him.

 

Rod shrugged again. "Whatever. Is he always so cold-

blooded about crises?"

 

"Gin'rally, yes," Cholly said slowly. "I've known him

to get excited when he can't find his cat-o'-nine-tails, but

nothing else seems to fash him much."

 

"Cat-o'-nine-tails?" Rod frowned. "I thought you said

he outlawed that."

 

"He did." Cholly fixed him with a level gaze. "But who's

 

to arrest the General-Governor, hey? Quis ipsos custodies

custodial, young man."

 

'"Who will police the police,' huh?" Rod nodded. "A

point."

 

"He never does anything to anybody else, without a good

reason," Cholly supplied helpfully.

 

'"To anybody else,'" Rod repeated. "Well, I can accept

that."

 

"Yer don't have much choice," a fiftyish ranker snarled.

 

"He's always fair," Cholly reminded.

 

"More'n fair," the ranker growled.

 

"And what he does is always for the greatest good of

almost everybody, as Jeremy Bentham used to say."

 

Rod didn't like the sound of that "almost." "I thought

Bentham's line was, 'the greatest good of the greatest num-

ber.'"

 

"Well, that's almost everybody, ain't it?"

 

"Better than Bentham hoped for, probably," Rod admit-

ted, "but nothing to lose his head over."

 

As long as there's progress," Cholly sighed.

 

"That there is," rumbled the grizzled veteran, "with the

General. Every year he makes life a little better for every-

body."

 

"Except the Wolmen?"

 

"The Wolmen, too!" The young soldier looked up in

surprise. "I mean, would you believe it? He's actually trying

to ease us soldiers into getting along with those savages!

Permanently!"

 

"Why don't I have trouble believing that?" Rod won-

dered.

 

"Always a skeptic," Cholly sighed.

 

Rod turned back to him. "I'll bet this little mprder will

set his plans back a ways."

 

Cholly's eyes suddenly clicked into "wariness" mode.

 

The young soldier said stoutly, "Don't you believe it!"

and the grizzled veteran agreed, "He'll find a way to make

 

 

 

 

92

 

Christopher Stasheff

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING

 

93

 

this work out for the best of all of us."

 

"Colonists and Wolmen?" Rod said, with a lift of one

eyebrow.

 

"Don't you doubt it!" the older man commanded.

 

"Oh, I don't," Rod said softly, "not one bit."

 

"Well." The young soldier looked up in surprise. "You're

won, then?"

 

"Totally convinced," Rod confirmed.

 

The grizzled veteran still glared at him with suspicion,

and Cholly just rolled his eyes up, but the young soldier

grinned happily. "Well! That's done, then." He set both

palms against the edge of the bar and, with a manful push,

slid off his bar stool. "For my part, if I don't hit my bunk

within the quarter hour, I won't make my sentry duty in the

morning. Of course, I'll have a nice, snug berth in the

stockade waiting for me."

 

"Morning?" Rod pricked up his ears. "How early? I mean,

it's only..." He glanced at the clock over the bar.

"... twenty-five hundred. ... Huh?"

 

The young soldier grinned wickedly at Cholly, jerking

his head toward Rod. "He is new here, isn't he?"

 

The young always so enjoyed being able to feel superior.

 

"There're twenty-six hours in a Wolmar day, chum," he

advised Rod. "If I get to bed by twenty-five hundred, I'll

have plenty of time for my six hours, and still make my

five o'clock sentry-go."

 

Rod shuddered appropriately. "Horrible hours. Say, uh

... you didn't happen to notice anybody going outside the

Wall yesterday morning, did you?"

 

The young man shook his head, not quite noticing

Cholly's frantic signals. "Nobody, except for Sergeant

Thaler." He lifted his mug in a toast. "Your health, Cholly."

 

"Yours, Spar," the bartender sighed.

 

Spar downed the rest of his beer and turned away to the

door, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. He waved, and drifted

on out.

 

Rod turned back to Cholly. "That's strange. Thaler isn't

 

one of your traders, is he?"

 

Cholly opened his mouth, but the grizzled corporal was

a phoneme ahead. "No. Not that it matters—they usually

come in around midday, anyway."

 

"Oh," Rod said, with total innocence, "they do?"

 

"Thaler's a valuable noncom," Cholly warned. "Shacklar

trusts him down to his boot tops."

 

"Yes," Rod said softly, "that's what worries me."

 

"Milord." Gwen laid a hand on his arm. "I bethink me

thou hast had ale enow, for this night."

 

"Hm?" Rod looked up in surprise. He caught the meaning

in her gaze, and said, "Oh!" He turned his attention to what

was going on outside the tavern for a minute, and heard

disgruntled, frustrated, thirsty thoughts—the lynch mob,

coming back. "Uh, yeah! Probably. We should be going."

He chugged the rest of the mug, set it down. "Put it on my

tab, will you?" Then he slipped off the stool, offered Gwen

his arm, and turned to stroll out the door. "Thanks for

everything," he called back.

 

Cholly raised a hand in farewell. "Keep the faith."

 

Rod wondered which one, but decided not to ask. As

soon as they were out the door, they leaped to the side, ran

around to the back. They crouched down by the window

with the bulk of the building between them and the returning

lynch mob, ears and minds wide open, listening. Rod had

one eye above the windowsill. After a moment, Gwen joined

him.

 

The mob streamed in, breaking up into individual soldiers

who began to think as people again. "Ar, what a waste of

good drinking time!" "I've had more luck chasing extinct

species!" "Reminds me of the last time I went fishing..."

"Blinkin' witches, that's what they are!" growled a portly

private, bellying up to the bar.

 

"Witches!" Sergeant Thaler sneered. "Nay, ain't nothin'

but the natural in this!" He turned to glare at Yorick. "Natural

fowl, that is! Led us a merry chase after the wild goose,

didn't you?"

 

 

 

 

94            Christopher Stasheff

 

"Who, me?" Yorick shook his head violently, all offended

innocence. "You've got the wrong bird. Sergeant."

 

"Have I really, now?" Thaler purred, sliding off his bar

stool and taking a step toward Yorick.

 

The Neanderthal laid a hand over his heart. "Never chased

a wild goose in my life. Just wait till they fly by, usually.

Not bad, with a little orange sauce and a side of peas..."

 

"No more of yer lip!" Thaler snarled. "Y' won't turn us

aside with yer jestin' this time!" He wrapped a hand in

Yorick's jacket, and jerked his head close. "You're in ca-

hoots with 'em, ain'cha?"

 

The nearest soldiers looked up, startled. Then they

 

scowled, and an ugly murmur began.

 

"I saw him in here with 'em this afternoon," a private

 

called.

 

"Aye, and right chummy he was!"

 

Thaler slid a knife out of his boot and rested the point

against Yorick's belly. "I shave with this, so mind you tell

the truth. You're in it with 'em, ain'cha? Up to yer eye-

brows. And all you're angling for, is helping them escape."

 

"Whup! Whoa! Hold it, here!" Yorick waved a hand.

"Fair trial! Let's be fair about this!"

 

"Nay," an older corporal growled. "Where's yer mind?

We've been through that, and through! We wants dead mur-

derers, not live suspects!"

 

"I'm not talking about them—just me!"

 

"What should you have a trial for?" Thaler snarled.

"You're trying to help them get away, and that'll bring a

war on us!" He shouted out to the rest of the soldiers, "He's

a traitor! A traitor to the colony, and all of us!"

 

"Aye!" The soldiers began crowding around. "What do

you want, all of us dead?"

 

"Never seen the color of blood, have yuh?"

 

"Aye! Let's show him his own!"

 

"Who's got a rope here?"

 

"Whup! Hold it! I give!" Yorick waved both hands as

though he were erasing a blackboard. "I admit it! I'm guilty!

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING      95

 

Just back off, boys!" He heaved a sigh. "You caught me.

All right. Anything except the rope and the knife. I'll show

you where they really are."

 

Outside, Rod and Gwen exchanged appalled glances.

Then they dove for the empty barrels again.

 

"This way!" Yorick bellowed, charging toward the door.

The soldiers parted and let him through, taken by surprise.

 

He leaped out the tavern door, bellowing, "Right on the

first try this time! Come on! Catch the witches!"

 

The mob roared out behind him, baying at full voice.

Footsteps thundered right past the two barrels, then faded

into the distance.

 

The barrels glided up. Rod and Gwen uncoiled, and Rod

shook his head. "I've got to see this. I've just got to."

 

"Aye." Glints danced in Gwen's eyes. "How will he turn

them this time?"

 

"I dunno, but he'll find a way." Rod caught her hand.

"He's a man of amazing resources. He may not be able to

manipulate symbols—but people are another matter en-

tirely. Come on; they're getting away!"

 

Feather-footed and silent, they fled through the night.

 

They sighted the mob just as it came into a large, open

plaza. Beyond it, the Wall bulked large against the stars.

 

Yorick plowed to a stop and held up a hand. "Quiet!" he

bellowed at the top of his voice. "I hear them coming!

Ambush stations, quick!"

 

All the soldiers froze for an instant, startled. Then they

melted away, as sudden as a cloudburst and as silent as the

night, disappearing among the low plasticrete buildings

around the plaza.

 

Rod felt a chill spread outward from his spine. These

guys are good! he thought at Gwen. We'd better be, too!

After all, we wouldn't want them to really find us, would

we?

 

Nay, certes! Gwen melted into the shadows. From the

darkness that had swallowed her came a thought: My lord?

Wilt thou come?

 

96            Christopher Stasheff

 

Just a minute. Rod held up a hand. Why waste the chance?

Come on—home in on Sergeant Thaler's thoughts for me!

 

Gwen smiled slowly, then beckoned.

 

They tiptoed away behind the huts and houses, drifting

silently as ghosts behind soldiers whose attention was riv-

eted to the main pathway, with the Wall at its end.

 

They drifted around to the side, then back in, coming

up behind the leaders. Rod hefted his knife, pommel first,

but Gwen held up a hand to stop him. She scowled, glaring

at Sergeant Thaler. The man suddenly jerked stiff, eyes

bulging out, throat swelling. Then his eyes rolled up, and

he fell back—but he didn't make any noise, because he

didn't hit the dirt. Rod caught him, heaved him up over a

shoulder, and turned to tiptoe away.

 

Gwen tapped Yorick on the shoulder. He looked up at

her, startled, then grinned. She beckoned, and he drifted

 

out behind her.

 

The plaza lay still in the moonlight.

 

After a while, somebody muttered something. Somebody

else muttered an answer. Then another muttered, and an-

other, and another. The voices grew louder. Then, one by

one, the soldiers began to drift out into the plaza. They

looked about them, baffled and angry.

 

"Where be they?" a corporal growled.

 

"Another wild goose." A superannuated private turned

 

his head and spat.

 

"He's had us again," another snarled. Then he called out,

 

"Sergeant! Sergeant Thaler! Sap the bastard!"

 

They stilled, waiting for the sound of the blow, for

Thaler's angry oath—but silence filled the spaces of the

 

night.

 

"Where's the sergeant?" a private asked.

 

"I saw him hide over there." A corporal pointed toward

the shadow of a low, one-storied building.

 

They started toward the spot, walking faster and faster.

 

The back of the building was bare, the space around it

 

empty.

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING      97

 

"Not a sign of him!"

 

"Y' don't mean Thaler would've run out on us!"

 

"That's right, I don't mean that." A staff sergeant pointed

at the dirt. "Look at that sign. There's been a scuffle here,

there has."

 

"He did for him!" the private cried. "That lousy grinning

blockhead did for the sergeant!"

 

"Stove in his skull, likely." The corporal's eyes turned

very pale, very hard. "Let's find him."

 

"Aye! The bloody, grinning ape!"

 

"Spread out, lads!" the sergeant roared. "Find the bas-

tard, and string him up!"

 

"What good'll that do?" A private scratched his head.

 

"A world of good, for my soul," the sergeant snapped.

Then a cunning gleam came into his eye, and he grinned.

"Besides, one dead body's as good as another, ain't it? We'll

just tell the Wolmen they was wrong; we did some clever

detectin', and found out he killed their bloomin' warrior!"

 

The private grinned slowly, his eyes lighting with devilish

glee.

 

"There's a sergeant'll get another stripe for brains," called

another soldier.

 

The sergeant grinned wider.

 

"Y' oughta be a lieutenant. Sergeant!" called a young

corporal.

 

The sergeant shrugged, embarrassed. "Don't make it more

than it is, lads." Then he roared, "Let's go find the blighter!"

 

The soldiers howled and surged after the sergeant as he

strode away between two buildings, following a trail that

he thought he saw.

 

"Welcome to the wanted list." Rod slapped Yorick on

the shoulder.

 

"Thanks, Major." Yorick heaved a sigh. "Shame to dis-

appoint those eager beavers out there, though."

 

Rod nodded, commiserating. "It's hard to find a trail,

when your quarry has flown—literally."

 

 

 

 

98

 

Christopher Stasheff

 

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99

 

"Yeah." Yorick turned to Gwen. "Thanks for the lift,

 

milady."

 

"'Twas naught." Gwen gave him a warm smile. "Ever

 

shall my broomstick be at thy bidding."

 

"Uh, thanks, but I don't think I could last through enough

flight hours to qualify." Yorick's grin turned a little queasy.

"Definitely a vivid experience, though."

 

"And we're in the one place where they'd really never

think to look for us." Rod glanced up as footsteps crossed

 

above his head.

 

Yorick leaned back against the wall, blowing out a stream

of cigar smoke. "Gotta hand it to you. Major. When you

go to ground, you do a real job of it."

 

Rod shrugged. "Comes of long practice." He nudged the

unconscious body that lay between them. "What do you

think we ought to do with him, Cholly?"

 

"Be gentle," the tavemkeeper advised."Fact is, if you've

any bloody intentions, you can take 'em right out into the

night with yer. I'm keepin' yer down here just 'cause I don't

like to see innocent blood shed."

 

"Thaler is innocent?" Yorick asked, wide-eyed.

 

"As much as yerself." Cholly eyed him warily.

 

"I protest." Yorick laid a hand on his breast. "I am in-

nocent! I am pure! I am..."

 

"... full of it," Cholly finished. "And I've got to be up

there behind the bar when that merry mob you've been

leading comes in from this latest snipe hunt." He turned to

Rod. "How'd ye work that one?"

 

"I didn't. Ask him." He nodded toward Yorick.

 

Cholly's gaze swiveled toward the Neanderthal. The

caveman spread his hands. "Just gave 'em what they wanted,

mine host. After all, isn't that what you do?"

 

"Aye, along with a measure of what they never thought

of." He wagged a forefinger. "That's my calling in life,

mind—and I've had all the disruption of it I can take for

one night. You lie low, and keep quiet, now. If they hear

 

yer down here, there'll be naught I can do to aid yer."

 

"Oh, we'll be mice," Rod promised.

 

"With the cat in sight," Yorick agreed.

 

"Thou'lt hear not so much as a scratch in the baseboard,"

Gwen reassured him.

 

Cholly turned to go up the stairs, but stopped to cast a

worried glance at Thaler.

 

"He won't make any noise, either." Rod's smile hard-

ened. "I mean, we wouldn't be so stupid as to take that

kind of chance, would we?"

 

True," Cholly admitted. "What ever ye aren't, y're canny

enough. And try to catch some sleep, for I doubt not ye'11

need it."

 

He shouldn't have said that. As he turned and went up

the stairs. Rod felt the sleepies coming on. He yawned,

then shook his head and blinked. "Oh, we'll manage some-

how. Right?"

 

"Aye, my lord. Shall I give to thee..."

 

"... a mild stimulant?" Yorick fished in his pocket and

held out a pillbox. "Go ahead. Major. Nothing lethal or

addictive, I assure you."

 

Rod gave the pillbox a jaundiced glance, then sighed,

reached out, and popped one into his mouth. "Why not?

You could have bumped us off at least four times today—

and without laying a hand on either of us, too."

 

Gwen stared at the caveman, startled.

 

Yorick shrugged. "I'm on your side, remember? What

do I have to do to prove it—give you a deadly illness, so

I can nurse you through it?"

 

"Nay." Gwen smiled, and Rod said, "Not that we mistrust

your ministrations, understand—we'd just rather not need

them."

 

Gwen glanced at Thaler. "Yet I beg of thee, do not give

this one any lasting malady."               "'

 

"Oh, of course not!" Rod said, shocked.

 

"Nothing lasting," Yorick agreed. He reached out a boot

 

 

 

 

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101

 

toe to prod the unconscious sergeant. "Come on, soldier,

up and at 'em. Reveille's about to blow—and so are you."

He hefted and shoved, and the sergeant flopped over, limp

as a leaky rainsack.

 

Rod sighed, and looked up at his wife. "When you do

it to 'em, honey, you really do it right. Wake him up, will

 

you?"

 

Gwen's brow furrowed as she gazed at Thaler. His eyelids

fluttered, then opened. He looked about him, frowning and

blinking, then rolled up onto one elbow, rubbing the back

of a hand across his eyes. "How ... where..."

 

"I called 'ambush stations,'" Yorick reminded him. "I

didn't say who was going to be ambushed."

 

Thaler's head snapped up. He glared at the caveman.

"You are in cahoots with them!"

 

"No, just a cellar. And so're you."

 

"Yeah," Rod said, with a wolfish grin. "You're in this,

too, you know."

 

Thaler darted glances from Rod to Gwen and back.

"What're you talking about? How the hell could I be mixed

up in this? This is your..."

 

His voice trailed off as he saw the look in Rod's eyes.

In spite of himself, he inched away—and ran into Yorick's

toe. His head snapped up with a wild look, which met

Yorick's flinty gaze. The caveman grinned. He had a lot of

teeth. "Don't mean to inconvenience you. Sergeant. It's just

that you were talking about altering my collar size, and I

thought you might appreciate my returning the favor."

 

"You bastards'." Thaler growled, but his face paled.

 

There was a slam overhead, and a thundering of feet.

Rod scowled up at the ceiling.

 

"Squire Mob," Gwen informed him. She turned to Thaler.

"Thy followers return."

 

Thaler's face brightened. He took a deep breath—then

swallowed hard as he froze, eyes rolling down to look at

Yorick's blade, its point resting against his Adam's apple.

 

"Softly, softly," the Neanderthal crooned. "You wouldn't

want your buddies to know you'd been caught like the

greenest new chum, would you? Especially caught by the

very people you were hunting! Can you imagine the lowliest

private being willing to take orders from such a klutz of a

sergeant?"

 

Thaler's eyes turned calculating. He closed his mouth.

 

"Having second thoughts?" Yorick nodded. "Wise. I al-

ways knew you were the prudent sort."

 

"Always an eye for the main chance, anyway," Rod

agreed.

 

"That's a nice Sergeant." The dagger backed away a

little—but only a little. "Now—the Major, here, says he'd

like to get to know you better."

 

"Yes, indeed." Rod stepped a little closer. "It's been very

instructive meeting you. Sergeant, but I'd like it a little

longer on the information, and shorter on the rhetoric."

 

"He means he'd like you to answer a few questions,"

Yorick explained.

 

"See? He understands." Rod nodded at Yorick. "Now—

what were you doing at the Sun-Greeting Place yesterday

morning?"

 

"I wouldn't tell you the time of day," Thaler spat, but

Rod felt the answer leap into the sergeant's mind. He couldn't

spare time for the details, especially since Gwen's gaze was

riveted to Thaler, all her attention focused on his thoughts.

 

Yorick snatched Thaler's wrist, whipped his arm through

a half turn, and wrenched it up behind his back. Thaler

exploded into mad thrashing, but he couldn't budge the

Neanderthal's grip.

 

"Manners, manners!" Yorick chided. "We must be polite,

now. Tell the nice major what he wants to know."

 

Thaler's eyes bulged, but he clamped his jaw shut, ex-

uding a whining sound.               '"'

 

"Yeah. Let's just be friendly about it all." Rod gazed up

at the ceiling, lips pursed. "Now... just what were you

 

 

 

 

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103

 

doing outside the Wall yesterday morning, anyway?"

 

"Stuff it, sniffer," Thaler growled through clenched teeth.

 

Rod frowned. Sniffer? Odd term. He'd have to find out

what it meant in local slang. "Well, you do kind of wonder,

when a sergeant takes off in the middle of the night. I mean,

without any sign or explanation, he just trots past the sentry,

and heads for the high hills. You can't help wondering:

 

where was he going to? What for? Who told him to?"

 

Yorick twisted the wrist a little harder, and Thaler's jaw

gaped open. But he groaned and panted, "No... way...

tell..."

 

But the answers were there, popping into his mind, one

after another, as Rod called for them.

 

"Yes, I suppose there is no way to tell," Rod mused,

"but you can't help wondering what the whole reason was.

Why, in the middle of the night? Why not just wait until

morning?"

 

Yorick dangled the knife point in front of Thaler's eyes,

letting it swing back and forth. The light glinted off the

edge. Thaler gazed at it, fascinated, but he still muttered,

"Go peddle your product in Hell."

 

"I don't think it'd keep too well," Rod sighed. "Uh...

what say, dear?"

 

Gwen was tugging on his shoulder, thinking, / have

learned all he knows. Aloud, she said, "There is no point

in tormenting him further, my lord."

 

"You call that torment?" Rod scoffed, and his mind added,

That was just a little stage dressing, dear, to convince him

we meant business. Of course, we weren't planning on

completing the transaction. If we had...

 

Spare me, Gwen thought quickly. But bind him, my lord.

 

"Ah, well," Rod sighed, "why waste time on a know-

nothing? Roll over and play dead. Sergeant, so we don't

have to make it real. Okay?"

 

Yorick let go of Thaler's arm and began to rub his

shoulder solicitously. Thaler knocked his hand away and

 

growled, eyes full of apprehension.

 

"Don't worry, we're just going to tie you up," Rod ex-

plained. "We can do it with you awake, or out cold, it's

completely up to you. Come on, now, don't be difficult—

roll over on your stomach, there's a good fellow. Hands

behind your back..."

 

Thaler glared at him.

 

Then, suddenly, he surged to his feet, fist cutting up at

Rod, who leaned back at the last second, but not far enough.

The punch clipped his cheekbone, and he staggered back,

hands snapping up to guard automatically. Fury flamed,

white-hot, but he managed to direct it toward Thaler, block-

ing his next punch, leaning aside from the kick, then whirl-

ing back like a spring unwinding. Thaler blocked and

countered, but Rod had spun inside his guard, slamming a

fist into his belly. Thaler bent forward, eyes bulging again,

the whining coming out of his nose. Yorick flipped him

over and let him fall, face down in the dirt, dropping down

with him and pinning a knee across his back, pressing his

wrists together and holding them while Rod whipped a rope

around them. "Gently, Sergeant," he soothed. "We could

have done this the nice way, you know."

 

"On the other hand," Yorick pointed out, "we could have

been much rougher about it, too. I didn't get my licks in,

Major."

 

Rod cut another length of rope from the coil on the shelf.

"You'd think Cholly would keep some tape around here."

 

"What for?" Yorick shrugged. "This isn't his ordinary

line of work, you know."

 

"Yeah, you've got a point." Rod reached down for

Thaler's ankle. The sergeant slashed a kick at him, but Rod

was expecting it now. He leaped aside, caught the ankle as

it passed, and bent it on up toward Thaler's buttocks. "Come,

come, now! Do you really think I'm such an innocent? Haul

a little on that other rope, will you, Yorick?"

 

The Neanderthal yanked Thaler's wrists up toward his

 

 

 

 

104 Christopher Stasheff

 

shoulder blades. The sergeant made a whinnying sound, and

his legs relaxed. Rod whipped them together with the rope,

then ran a length from ankles to wrists, pulled so that Thal-

er's legs were bent. "Now for those nifty new knots I've

been practicing!"

 

"Change! Innovation! Always gotta go for the new stuff,"

Yorick grumbled. "You Sapiens are all the same! I'll stick

to the good old tried-and-true ones, thank you."

 

Rod sneaked a peek. "If that's your idea of an old knot..."

 

"I meant really old. You Sapiens never even learned 'em!

... There! All neatly packaged. Roll over, pretty boy!" He

flipped Thaler onto his back. "We don't trust you not to

yell." He pinched Thaler where he had the most flesh avail-

able. The sergeant opened his mouth in a bleat of sheer

surprise, and Rod jammed a handkerchief into it. Yorick

grabbed Thaler's head and held it still, while Rod wrapped

another handkerchief over his mouth and around behind his

head, tying it with a square knot. "Sorry you're going to

be feeling so dry, especially with all that beer just overhead.

But don't worry, somebody's bound to find you, right after

breakfast."

 

Yorick tucked his hands under Thaler's shoulders and

nodded to Rod who caught Thaler's knees. They both heaved

up and carried the sergeant over under the stairs, where it

was nice and dark.

 

Gwen's thoughts sounded in Rod's head, disappointed:

 

Didst thou truly need be so rough?

 

'Fraid so, dear. Rod thought back. Didn't you see what

his psyche was doing when you woke him up?

 

Gwen was silent a moment. Then: Aye, indeed. The

feeling of helplessness, of being totally without defense.

 

Rod nodded. Psychologically, he can handle this much

better than your mental knockout, with no visible means.

This, he can comprehend; it's ordinary to him. He can deal

with it. He shrugged. But we had to make it convincing.

 

An thou sayest it. Gwen sighed. Shall I tell thee, then,

what his thoughts were?

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING     105

 

That, I'd like to hear. Rod strolled back toward her,

beckoning Yorick, and sat down, with the length of the

basement between them and Thaler. The Neanderthal settled

beside him, and Rod breathed, "Aloud, but softly, so the

big guy can hear, but his victim can't."

 

"What do you mean, my victim?" Yorick snorted.

 

"I kind of got the gist, while we were questioning," Rod

went on, "but I missed the details."

 

"Oh, so that's what you were doing!" Yorick grinned.

"I wondered why you gave up so easily."

 

Gwen just stared at him.

 

"I wasn't kidding, dear," Rod said softly. "We were being

gentle."

 

"Relatively," Yorick agreed. "But then, everything is rel-

ative, isn't it? According to the anthropologists, I'm even

a relative of yours."

 

"Removed," Rod said quickly. "Several times re-

moved—but not far enough."

 

"Aw, you're just a stickler about the straight line of de-

scent," Yorick groused.

 

"Sure." Rod shrugged. "It's mine. We've got a common

ancestor—but you guys branched off into a dead end road

that fizzled out."

 

"If you can call a hundred thousand years 'fizzling out,'"

Yorick snorted. "As to its being a dead end—well, at least

we left Terra in good shape, when we ran off."

 

"Gentlemen!" Gwen held up her hands, one palm toward

each mouth. "Will it please thee to hear what our sergeant

did outside the Wall, yestermom?"

 

"Yeah, that would be nice." Rod turned back to her, all

attention. "He never went anywhere near the Sun-Greeting

Place, did he?"

 

"Not by a league," Gwen confirmed, "nor a dozen leagues,

for all that."

 

Yorick frowned. "Spare me the suspense. What was he

doing outside the Wall?"

 

"He did perform the role of a courier," Gwen explained.

 

 

 

 

r

 

706 Christopher Stasheff THE WARLOCK WANDERING 107

 

"The General-Governor had sent him to bear word to the

Chartreuse tribe." She turned to Rod, frowning. "Tis an

odd name for a color."

 

"Unchartered territory," Rod agreed. "So what was he

telling the Chief?"

 

"Yeah." Yorick frowned. "Why the hell did he have to

go out in the middle of the night?"

 

"For that," Gwen explained, "the Chartreuse tribe had

borrowed a great sum from the General's—'bank,' did he

call it?"

 

"Savings," Rod explained. "Think of embers banked, to

be saved through the night, dear."

 

"Tis an odd word, yet an odder thought." Gwen turned

to him, frowning. "Why do these folk not keep their money

themselves? Wherefore must they give it to others to save

for them?"

 

"Too much chance of thieves," Rod explained. "This

way, instead of always worrying about robbers, they only

have to worry about the banker—and they always know

where Tie is."

 

"Almost always," Yorick qualified.

 

"Well, true," Rod admitted. "Anyway, it's much more

efficient."

 

"An thou sayest it," Gwen sighed, "though I bethink me

I'll comprehend thy 'gravity' sooner than thy banks."

 

"Just think how the Wolmen feel. So the Chartreuse tribe

owes the Bank of Wolmar a lot, huh?"

 

"Aye, yet they did have the wherewithal to repay stored

in the bank. Naetheless, they had sent to ask for the..."

she scowled "... for the... 'interest rate?'... on the loan,

as it did compare with the 'interest rate' they did receive,

on their saved money." She frowned. "What is this 'interest

rate,' my lord? Doth it denote the degree of attention the

Chief doth pay to the Banker?"

 

Rod had to swallow hard. "I suppose you could say that,

dear. What it means, though, is how much the bank is paying

the Chartreuse tribe for the use of its money."

 

Gwen stared. "But why would the bank wish to use

money?"

 

"Same reason any of us would," Yorick sighed.

 

"To invest, dear," Rod explained, "Say, to buy shares in

a captain's trading voyage. He wants to make the voyage

right now, not in ten years, which is how long it would take

him to save up the money by himself."

 

"Then this bank will make more money from the cap-

tain?"

 

"A lot more, and it'll deal with lots of captains, not just

one."

 

Gwen frowned, eyeing him strangely, then sighed. "An

thou sayest it. I ken the meaning of the words, but I do not

ken the manner of thought that doth produce it."

 

Rod said "I'm not certain about it, myself."

 

"Yet wherefore doth the bank pay the Chartreuse for the

use of their money, whiles the tribe doth pay the bank for

the use of its money? It doth but go about and about in a

circle, my lord' It maketh no sense!"

 

"I'm not sure it does to me, either," Rod confessed. "But

I think it works this way: if the Wolmen are getting twelve

percent—twelve BTUs for every hundred—and are only

paying ten percent for the money they've borrowed, they

make two percent profit by keeping the money in the bank,

instead of using it to pay off their loan."

 

Gwen stared.

 

Then she took a deep breath, and said, "Yet the bank

thereby doth lose this two percent thou speakest of! Where-

fore doth it pay more than it doth receive?"

 

"I can't make sense of that one, either," Rod confessed.

"The only thing I can think of is that Shacklar must run the

bank, and that he's willing to take the loss to make the

Wolmen dependent on him. After all, if a man has all your

money locked up, you're... not... too... apt to make war

on him!" He stared, his eyes huge. "My lord! Of course!

He's buying them off!"

 

"Yet, then, if they send to learn of their money's interest,

 

 

 

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING     109

 

708           Christopher Stasheff

 

doth it not mean..." Gwen's eyes rounded, too. "Nay,

certes! They did seek to recover their money, that they might

 

be free to make war!"

 

"Without taking a loss on it," Rod said grimly. "Which

is plenty of reason for Shacklar to send a courier out in the

middle of the night. Just what was the message he carried?"

 

"That the interest rate was but now increased by five

 

parts in a hundred."

 

"A five percent hike, on the spur of the moment?" Rod

goggled, and Yorick whistled. "This Chartreuse chief knows

how to bargain! Nothing like the threat of war to motivate

the General into giving them a little extra profit."

 

"Very sharp," Rod agreed. "What did the Chartreuse tribe

send back—a polite 'Yes,' or a withdrawal slip?"

 

"Sergeant Thaler did bear back word lauding General

Shacklar for his honesty, and naught more."

 

"Which means they left their money on deposit." Rod

drew a deep breath. "Y'know, Shacklar's not too bad a horse

trader himself. What's five percent against forestalling a

war? He may just have had the right idea, trying to bring

the Wolmen into the modem world." But he wasn't sure

 

that applied to Gwen.

 

"Here, then!" Cholly's voice called down the stairwell.

"Have a care, mister and missus! Here's one who wants t'

 

talk t' yer!"

 

Rod looked up, adrenaline thrilling through him.

Chomoi came down the steps, face a bright pink.

Gwen smiled. "Thou dost seem newly scrubbed."

"Of course," Chomoi snapped. "Wouldn't you be?"

"Aw! I thought you looked good in that color," Yorick

 

protested.

 

Rod relaxed, feeling the adrenaline ebb. "Yeah, it was

 

the real you."

 

"Oh, stuff it!" she blazed.

 

Rod stared, taken aback for a moment. "What's the mat-

ter? Didn't you like being a Wolman?"

 

"What do you think?" she snorted. "It's not easy, being

Orange."

 

Yorick pushed a crate over with his foot. "Sit. Tell us

what's happening under the big open skies."

 

"Do not heed their impudence," Gwen advised. "Truly,

within, they rejoice to see thee home and hale."

 

"They sure hide it well," Chomoi growled.

 

"Thanks." Rod nodded. "Now, tell us what happened out

there."

 

Chomoi snorted, and dropped down on the crate. "Noth-

ing. Absolutely nothing."

 

They stared at her for a moment.

 

Then Rod sighed and leaned back. "We couldn't really

expect anything more, anyway. But somebody must have

come to the Sun-Greeting Place."

 

"Oh, he did—and it was Hwun, all right."

 

"But he smelled a rat?" Then Rod struck the heel of his

hand against his forehead. "Of course—what's the matter

with me? He knows every member of his tribe by sight!

Why didn't I..."

 

"Don't worry, I did." Chomoi's mouth turned down at

the comers. "He's a Purple chief, so I was wearing Orange

paint. And I staged it well: When he came up in the false

dawn there, with the sky just beginning to glow in the east,

he found me on my knees, weeping." Her eyes lost focus;

 

she gave a slow, critical nod. "Yeah, I did it well.... He

just stood there for a few minutes. I pretended I didn't

notice. Then he reached down and grabbed my shoulder."

She winced. "He grabs hard! Talk about a grip of steel..."

 

"I trust he did not hurt thee!" Gwen frowned, concerned.

 

Chornoi shook her head. "I don't think he meant to, and

I suppose he was sympathetic, by his lights. He said,

'Woman. Why you weep?'"

 

"Wait a minute." Yorick held up a finger.-^'Didn't he

want to know your name?"

 

Chornoi shook her head. "No need. I was from another

 

 

 

 

110 Christopher Stasheff

 

tribe—that was all he needed to know. And that I wasn't

trespassing—because I was on sacred ground, which is open

to all. So I told him that I was weeping for the man who

was killed yesterday morning. And Hwun said, 'But him

not of your tribe.'"

 

"Oh, did he!" Rod lifted his head slowly. "That means

the corpse must've still had his body-paint on when Hwun

found him."

 

"Which means Hwun washed it off." Yorick frowned.

 

"Yeah, to hide the victim's identity." Rod scowled. "Why

would he want to do that?"

 

But Chomoi was shaking her bowed head, waving her

hands in front of her, palms out. "No! Hold it! Stop! You're

both missing the main point!"

 

"Which is?" Rod asked.

 

"That Hwun wants to get all the tribes together, and the

dead Wolman could be a very powerful common focus. But

it'll work much better for that, if nobody can tell which

tribe he came from."

 

They sat still for a moment. Then Rod nodded slowly.

"Yeah... that could be..."

 

"More than 'could,'" Chomoi snorted.

 

"Then he did tell thee thou wert not of the slain man's

tribe?" Gwen said.

 

Chomoi nodded. "So why was I weeping? Well, I had

to think fast, I tell you! But I did, and I told him I was

weeping for all Wolmen, that I would weep for any, who

died at the hands of the Colonists!" She frowned. "I was

waiting for him to tell me to stand up, but he never did."

 

"And for him to warm toward a weeping woman?" Rod

said softly.

 

Chomoi glared at him. "I told you, I don't fit their stan-

dards of beauty!"

 

Rod didn't believe it. "Even so—you were female, and

grieving. And you're young enough. You were waiting for

something resembling a chivalrous response, weren't you?"

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING     111

 

Chomoi held the glare a moment longer. Then her mouth

twisted, and she admitted, "Yes, I was. But there wasn't

any—not the ghost of a one."

 

Yorick grinned. "Well, you knew the Wolmen were a

bunch of male chauvinists."

 

"Sure," Rod cut in. "Any primitive culture's going to be

patriarchal."

 

"Not 'any.'" Yorick held up a palm. "But these guys are.

Comes from imitating commercial fiction, no doubt." He

turned back to Chomoi. "So you stood up anyway, huh?"

 

She shrugged, irritated. "I was getting a crick in my

neck."

 

"So you stood up," Rod inferred. "Slowly, sinuously,

with a few discreet wriggles."

 

Fury flared in Chomoi's eyes, but she didn't answer.

 

"It didn't work?" Rod said gently.

 

The fury faded a bit. Reluctantly, Chomoi inclined her

head. "All he did was start reasoning. He pointed out that

I shouldn't take it so hard. As a bona fide female, I had

more to gain'from the colonists than to lose."

 

Rod scowled. "Was he being sarcastic or something?"

 

Chomoi shook her head. "No... From his tone, he was

just stating the facts of the case. As though it was a logical

point, you know?"

 

"These subsistence cultures end up preoccupied with

common sense," Yorick said. "So how did you answer that

one? After all, there is a surplus of Wolman women, with

the resulting polygamy." He frowned. "Odd, though—you

wouldn't expect a leader to be quite so carefree about one

of his people's women going to the men of his enemies."

 

"Well, that's just where I hit it. I put on the big indignant

scene—that no true Wolwoman would want a man all to

herself, if that man wouldn't be a Wolman, just a colonist.

But Hwun just went on telling me, in that emotionless style

of his, that it would make much more sense for me to have

one man all to myself, if I could.

 

 

 

 

r

 

112 Christopher Stasheff THE WARLOCK WANDERING 113

 

Rod frowned. "I thought he was trying to get the Wolmen

out of association with the colonists."

 

"So did I. I stepped a little closer, snapping that there

would've been plenty of Wolmen to go around, if the col-

onist soldiers hadn't killed off so many of our men in the

war. But Hwun told me that there are always two percent

more female children surviving infancy than male.... I

wonder who does his statistics?"

 

Yorick shook his head, looking dazzled. "Odd bunch of

primitives they've got here."

 

"Must be Cholly and his educational force." Rod

shrugged. "I'm surprised he didn't quote the last IDE census

at you."

 

"No, but he did finally get around to praising my patri-

otism. Almost as an afterthought. Then he fed me some sort

of line about how literate cultures always destroy oral cul-

tures, then swallow them up or kill off their members."

 

Rod just stared at her for a moment. Then he said, "Not

exactly what I usually think of as a call to arms."

 

"Well, it could have been, if he hadn't sounded like some

damn professor!"

 

Rod wondered at her irritability. Of course, Chomoi was

always touchy... "So what did he say to comfort you?"

 

"Nothing." Chomoi turned away in disgust. "All of a

sudden, he spun around and ran over to the stone step. And

believe me, he can sprint!"

 

"Primitives stay in good physical shape," Yorick assured

her.

 

"Not that good! I swear he could've run a horse race

without the horse!" She shook her head, exasperated. "He

got there just in time, too. He barely set foot on the stone,

and the sun came up."

 

"Natural sense of timing," Yorick said.

 

"Which some people don't have." Rod fixed him with a

beady eye.

 

Chomoi shook her head in exasperation. "Talk about a

wasted night!"

 

"Oh, I don't know." Rod pursed his lips. "At least, now

we're pretty sure he didn't want anybody to know which

tribe the corpse came from. That's something."

 

"Not much," Chomoi snapped, but Gwen smiled with

gentle amusement. "Thou shouldst not be so aggrieved,

solely for cause that he did not sway to thy charms."

 

Rod's eyebrows shot up as he turned to look at her.

 

Chomoi sat very still, paling. Then she heaved a sigh.

"All right, so my feminine pride's been hit. How'd you

know, Ms.?"

 

Gwen answered with a shrug of her shoulders. "The lilt

of thy voice, the tilt of thine head. Thou art quite knowl-

edgeable in the use of thy womanhood, art thou not?"

 

"I've gotten pretty good at it," Chomoi admitted, "ever

since I found out that the Wolmen have a very stiff code of

honor where women are concerned—especially unmarried

ones. It was such a welcome relief from my fellow colo-

nists!"

 

"Also safer?" Rod guessed.

 

Chornoi nodded, chagrined. "I've always been a favorite

with them, and not just because I was disaffected. Maybe

they all thought I'd make a nice addition to their lodges, I

don't know—but it was nice to be treated like a lady again

after all these years. And I got to be pretty good at flirting."

She sounded vaguely surprised.

 

Rod frowned. "But if their code of honor was so stiff

that they wouldn't even try to seduce you..."

 

"Oh, I didn't say that!" Chornoi glared icicles at him.

"They all did, always, every single one. That was what was

so nice about it. I could flirt all I wanted to, then say 'No,'

and they'd accept it. Even if they didn't want to, they'd

stop right away."

 

"But this Hwun did not attempt to seduce thee?"

 

"Not a bit, not the tiniest flirt. Not even aTeer, let alone

a bedroom eye."

 

Rod cocked his head to the side. "But it sounded as

though he was interested in you."

 

 

 

 

114 Christopher Stasheff THE WARLOCK WANDERING 115

 

"Oh, yeah! In who I was, and why I was there, but

beyond that... Well, he didn't even seem to be aware that

I was female!"

 

Yorick shook his head. "Odd. Definitely odd. Anoma-

lous, in fact. Y' might expect that kind of thing in a civilized

culture, but..."

 

"Whoa! Hold it!" Chomoi's palm went up. "What makes

you so sure the Wolmen aren't civilized?"

 

"Because the word means 'citified,'" Yorick answered,

irritated. "At least pick legitimate nits, will you?"

 

"Yet wherefore wouldst thou look for such behavior in

cities, yet not in the country?" Gwen asked.

 

"Because it takes a higher degree of technology to build

cities than to build temporary villages," Yorick said. "I

suppose I really should have said 'highly-technological,'

instead of 'civilized.' I mean, can you really call it a 'city'

if it's only got a hundred thousand people, and not a single

factory?"

 

"Yes," Rod said, with conviction.

 

Yorick shrugged. "All right, so we're down to defini-

tions. Me, I think of industrial ugliness as a 'city'—you

know, steam engines, power looms, railroads, factories..."

 

"No, I don't know." Rod shook his head. "I didn't study

that much archaeology. But I can play straight man—'Why

would you expect a man from an industrial civilization to

not even notice that a woman was a woman?'"

 

Yorick frowned. "Well, maybe not 'expect', but at least

not be surprised by. In the industrial culture. Major, you

make progress by putting each item into its own separate

pigeonhole, so you can control it and assemble it with a lot

of other things into whatever new gadget you want—and

what you do with your tools, you also do with your minds.

So the industrial man starts seeing 'emotion' as one aspect

of the mind, and 'intellect' as another, and he puts each one

into its own separate pigeonhole in his soul, where it can't

 

get in the other's way. So you might not be surprised to find

that a leader who was currently dealing with a major prob-

lem, might have sex safely pigeonholed out of the way for

the time being."

 

"But to the point where he wouldn't even notice that a

woman was a woman?" Chomoi stared, appalled.

 

"Oh, he'd notice it, all right—but he'd ignore i>

 

"Even to the point of not responding as a man?"

 

Yorick shrugged. "What can I tell you? It's possible. But

the Wolman culture isn't industrial—it's tribal, with a very

basic technology that concentrates on wholeness and indi-

viduality. They see everything as weaving together into one

great big configuration—and sex as a natural part of life,

just like every other part. Feelings and thoughts are naturally

interwoven in a culture like that. The one leads to the other,

in an endless circle."

 

Rod pursed his lips. "Are you trying to tell me that Hwun

wasn't reacting like a true tribal chieftain?"

 

Yorick stood still with his mouth open. Then he closed

it, disgruntled. "Well, yeah, something like that. Right."

 

"Well, I'd say you pinned that one right on the donkey.

But there's something that really bothers me about that guy's

attitude." He scowled off into space, chewing at the thought

mentally for a few minutes, then shrugged his shoulders

with a sigh. "I can't pin it down."

 

"Give it time," Yorick advised. "It'll come home."

 

"Wagging a tale behind it, no doubt."

 

The door at the top of the stairs slammed, and Rod was

on his feet, one hand on his dagger.

 

"Nay, my lord." Gwen laid a hand on his forearm. "'Tis

more likely a friend than an enemy."

 

Boots appeared on the stairs, marching down, with loose

green trousers tucked into them. Then a white apron ap-

peared, tucked over an ample belly; then a barFel chest and

bull shoulders, with Cholly's grinning face on top of them,

and a huge tray piled high with steaming goodies in his

 

 

 

 

776           Christopher Stasheff

 

hands. "Thought yer might like a nibble. After all, the sun's

 

almost up."

 

"And our time with it?" Rod reached out to help lift the

 

tray down.

 

"Here, now! Away with yer!" Cholly swung the tray up

 

out of his reach. "Can't leave these things t' base amateurs,

yer know! Sit down, sit down! The pleasure in a meal is as

much in the service as in the cuisine."

 

Rod put his hands up, palms out. "Innocent, sheriff."

 

He sat down.

 

"There! That's a bit better." Cholly kicked a crate into

the middle of their circle and set the tray down on it, then

picked up platters and began to fill them with eggs and

sausage, muffins, toast, steak, and fried potatoes. "It's a

local bird does these eggs, now, not yer average Terran hen.

But she's a good fowl, and takes pride in her work. Lower

in cholesterol, too." He set the plate on Yorick's lap. "And

I won't tell yer what the steak was in its earlier incarnation.

 

Just relax and enjoy it."

 

"Good, though," Yorick mumbled around a mouthful.

Rod eyed the sausages warily as they passed him, bound

for Chomoi. "What's in the cartridges?"

 

"Pork." Cholly heaped a platter for him. "Naught but

good old pork. Major. Where yer finds human folk, yer

finds pigs. And why not?" He passed the plate to Rod and

began to load another. "They're tasty, portable, and thrives

on yer garbage. So what if they're omery, and got nasty

tempers? Just give 'em some mud, and they'll rest content."

He set the plate in front of Gwen and turned to serve Yorick

and Chomoi, but found they'd served themselves while he

wasn't looking. "Ah, well-a-day!" he sighed, and folded

his arms, watching the Gallowglasses dine with enthusiasm.

"Eh, it does my old heart good to see the young'uns tuckin'

 

into their tucker like that!"

 

"Couldn't be more than a few years older than we are,"

 

Rod mumbled.

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING     117

 

"Don't bet on it, laddie." Cholly wagged a forefinger at

him. "I'm all of fifty."

 

"Why, he is ten years my senior!" Gwen said brightly.

 

"A positive antique," Rod agreed. "But he cooks well,

so we won't hold it against him."

 

"Have it as you will, it does my heart good to see folk

enjoy my food." But Cholly's face puckered into a frown.

"Yer surely do seem the carefree pair, don't yer?"

 

"What?" Rod looked up, surprised. "Oh. Just because

we don't seem particularly worried?" He shrugged and turned

back to his plate. "We aren't."

 

"Wherefore ought we be?" Gwen looked up in wide-eyed

innocence.

 

"Well..." Cholly coughed delicately into his fist. "There

is this little matter of a million or so wild savages who're

thirsting fer yer blood."

 

"He's so clinical with his descriptions, isn't he?"

 

"Aye, my lord. Dry and bare of emotion."

 

"It don't worry yer." Cholly tipped his head toward them,

eyebrows lifted.

 

Rod shook his head. "Why should they? We can always

escape."

 

"We do excel at quick disappearing," Gwen confirmed.

"'Tis merely a matter of waiting thine opportunity."

 

Cholly looked astounded. "Then why not escape now?"

 

Rod shook his head. "Don't want to create an incident."

 

Gwen nodded. "When we do depart, we'd liefer not leave

a war in our wake."

 

"I mean," Rod explained, "if we don't go to that trial,

what's going to happen to Wolman-colonist politics here?"

 

Cholly was still for a moment, gazing off into space.

Then he said, "'Tis a point well-taken—and 'tis good of

yer to care. But ought yer not have some concern fer yer-

selves?"                                  -'

 

"We do," Gwen assured him.

 

"We meant what we said—if push comes to shove, we

 

 

 

 

118           Christopher Stasheff

 

can always disappear, fade into the woodwork. But there

would still be the little problem of getting off this planet,"

Rod explained.

 

Cholly leaned back on one leg, scratching where his

sidebum had been. "Aye. There'd be some difficulty to

that. That's why they made the whole planet a prison, now

that yer mention it. Mind yer, there's a-plenty of places to

hide here on Wolmar; there're some patches of mountains

that not even the Wolmen would bother to go to, but as

would have game enough to support just a man and his wife,

and mayhap even a family."

 

Gwen shook her head and swallowed. "Nay. "Tis this

matter of family, even as thou sayest. I must needs return

to them, look thou."

 

Cholly just gazed at her, brooding, his lower lip thrust

out. "Aye, I can understand that. But where be they. Missus?"

 

Gwen opened her mouth to answer, but Rod said quickly,

"On another planet, far away."

 

"Aren't they all!" Cholly sighed. He set his hands on his

hips and stared up at the ceiling beams. "Aye, then, 'tis

needful indeed. But I can't give yer any help if y're out to

launch, in a manner of speakin'. My men only work dirt-

side."

 

'"S okay." Rod shrugged. "We weren't really expecting

anything."

 

"Yet 'tis good of thee to offer thine aid," Gwen said

softly.

 

Chomoi looked up from her plate and shifted a mouthful

of food over into her cheek. "That reminds me, speaking

of people hiding out in Wolman territory..."

 

Cholly's attention shifted to her, with total intensity. "Say,"

he commanded.

 

"Strangers." Chornoi finished chewing and swallowed.

"I've spent most of the last month wandering around among

the Wolmen..."

 

"That, I know." Cholly said. "And I'll not argue that

they're more considerate, and more mannerly than our col-

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING     119

 

onists—and if a lady says 'No,' they'll agree, and not take

exception. After all, they've plenty of women on hand. But

how did this bring you knowledge of strangers?"

 

Chomoi shrugged. "It takes one to know one. I'm sure

their disguises fooled the Wolmen, but I saw through them—

maybe because I was looking from the outside."

 

"Indeed," Cholly breathed. "And what have these false

Wolmen been doing?"

 

"Nothing much. Claiming a free lunch, and a place in

the shade for a few hours, which the Wolmen were glad to

supply—that good old primitive code of hospitality...."

 

"Members of the same tribe, no doubt," Cholly breathed.

 

"Oh, sure, if they'd come from a different tribe, that

would have been a horse of a different color! But being of

the same hue, if you follow me, they had the green-carpet

treatment...."

 

"The green carpet being grass?" Rod asked.

 

"Of course." Chomoi gave him an irritated glance. "So

the visitors just sat down, filled up, and discussed the fate

of the world."

 

"For some hours, yer said?"

 

"Two or three. Then they drifted on. But afterwards I

heard the occasional Wolman talking against General Shack-

lar and us colonists."

 

"Not exactly what I'd call a positive symptom," Yorick

said.

 

"Nay, certes," Gwen breathed.

 

"What complaints had they?" Cholly asked. "The Wol-

men hailed Shacklar as the voice of reason, right from the

start. The only gripes about him came from Terra, and she

was only objecting, because our good General-Governor

didn't need her!"

 

"Ever the way with women," Yorick sighed, and Chornoi

favored him with her skewerest glance.   -»

 

"Of course, she hasn't been complaining lately." Cholly

noted. "How can she, when she's cut us off?"

 

Yorick started to answer, but Chornoi snapped, "Can it!"

 

120

 

Christopher Stasheff

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING

 

121

 

Rod shrugged. "Okay, so there are a few kvetchers out

beyond the Wall. Why let it bother you? There are always

a few malcontents."

 

But Yorick looked doubtful now, and Cholly shook his

head. "Malcontents stay in their own villages, but Ms. Chor-

noi's seen several of 'em wandering about."

 

Chomoi nodded. "All different tribes, too."

 

Cholly shook his head again. "That smacks of organi-

zation."

 

"Plus a lot of body-paint," Rod added. "Could be the

same agents, just changing their colors each time."

 

"Like enough." Cholly shook his head. "I'll have to

apprise the General of it."

 

"If you have to." Chomoi was suddenly as tight as a

wire. "Just don't tell him who did the noticing, okay?"

 

"Be easy," Cholly assured her. "I've only to refer to 'my

sources,' and he never questions."

 

"Of course." Chomoi relaxed. "All those traders. What

difference would it make which one brought the news?"

 

"None, to him." Cholly frowned. "Some, to me." He

turned to Rod and Gwen. "But I take her point. It's worth

talking, fer yerselves."

 

"Why?" Rod looked up. "Because it gives us a way to

have a body, where there isn't a Wolman missing?"

 

Chomoi shook her head. "That body was a real Wol-

man."

 

Rod frowned. "How can they tell? Tattoos?"

 

"That, and other tribal marks."

 

Cholly nodded in agreement. "Yer wouldn't notice 'em

in the usual course of action. However, fer yerselves, yer

might be able to use 'em to win a stay of execution, by

demanding that Hwun prove none of his own people was

responsible fer the murder, nor that it wasn't committed by

no impersonator, neither."

 

Rod smiled slowly, and Gwen said, "They're as likely

to demand that we prove there were no false Wolmen had

a blade into this, either."

 

"True," Rod agreed, "but no one could expect us to have

evidence about real Wolmen, could they?" He grinned at

Choraoi. "Thanks, lady. That might win us time."

 

"I'm not a lady," Chomoi snapped.

 

Before Rod could say it, they heard the tavern door open

upstairs, and a dozen pairs of boots tramped across the floor

above their heads.

 

"Ah!" Cholly looked upward. "Yer escort's come, I dare

say."

 

The troop didn't lead them to Shacklar's office. Instead,

it took them to a giant log cabin between the tavern and the

administrative compound.

 

"What is this?" Rod asked the lieutenant. "Town Hall?"

 

"Close enough," the man growled, and he threw the door

open. Rod and Gwen marched in, shoulders square and chins

high. Their escort followed.

 

Rod took a quick look around. Inside, you couldn't have

told it was built of logs. The walls were paneled and plas-

tered, and the furniture was so smoothly finished that, at

first glance, it looked like plastic.

 

There was a beautifully finished desk, too, squarely in

front of Rod, and at least six feet high. Shacklar would've

been dwarfed behind it, if his chair hadn't been so huge

and ornate. Real leather upholstery. Rod noted. Well, col-

onists had to make do with what they could find.

 

The side desks were just as sumptuous, but a foot shorter.

The one at the left had five Wolmen behind it, and the one

at the right had five soldiers, each of whom had officer's

insignia gleaming on his collar tabs.

 

Rod scanned the scene and saw the basis for a consti-

tution.

 

A sergeant stepped out in front of Shacklar's bench,

thumped the floor with an oaken pole tipped with chalk,

and bellowed, "Order in the court!"

 

Rod bit back the traditional rejoinder, but Gwen caught

his thought, and had to suppress a smile.

 

 

 

 

722 Christopher Stasheff

 

"Accused, please present yourselves," Shacklar said qui-

etly.

 

Rod looked at Gwen. Gwen looked at Rod. They

shrugged, and took a joint step forward.

 

"How do you plead?" Shacklar inquired.

 

"Guilty, or not guilty?" the sergeant prompted.

 

"Not guilty," Rod said firmly.

 

"Proof!" Hwun was on his feet behind the Wolmen's

bench. "What proof them show? Must give evidence that

them not do murder!"

 

"Come to that, I don't believe I'd mentioned that a mur-

der had been committed," Shacklar mused. "Horrible over-

sight. But really, old chap, I must request that if you intend

to prosecute the case, you remove yourself from the bench."

 

Hwun stared at him, then slowly nodded. "It is sensible."

 

Rod stared in amazement as the Wolman came down

from the bench and around in front of it. The move seemed

completely at odds with what he knew of the intractable,

hostile Wolman chief. Why had he been so quick to agree?

 

There was a slight stirring at the back of the room, near

the outer door. Out of the comer of his eye. Rod noticed

Yorick and Chomoi slide in quietly. He bit his lip in vex-

ation—he hadn't wanted them to get pulled in so openly.

The soldiers might assume guilt by association.

 

But it was nice to feel their support.

 

Hwun strode up to glower at Rod and Gwen. "You say

you not guilty. Give proof!"

 

Rod suddenly realized that he and Hwun were going to

determine, right here and now, whether Wolmar's legal code

would be basically Napoleonic, or basically English. If it

were basically Napoleonic, it would assume that the accused

was guilty, and had to prove his innocence, which meant

that the rights of the individual wouldn't be the most im-

portant element in the constitution about to be bom.

 

"No," Rod said softly. "It's not our job to prove we're

innocent. You have to prove we're guilty!"

 

Hwun just stared at him, and his gaze was so cold that

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING

 

123

 

Rod could have sworn it was giving him frostbite.

 

"That's so."

 

The Chief Chief spun around to look at the colonists'

bench. A slender officer was on his feet. With a shock. Rod

recognized the officer who had been so courteous to them

on the Wall the morning before.

 

"Lieutenant Corrigan," Shacklar acknowledged. "On what

basis do you state agreement with the accused?"

 

"Why not?" Corrigan answered, with an easy smile. "Still,

it's common sense, sir. We know nothing of these two peo-

ple, except that a Wolman patrol chased them to us. If

anything, that would indicate a Wolman bias against them.

No, really, in all fairness, we must ask that some reason be

given for believing them guilty of a capital crime."

 

"The point is well-taken." Shacklar turned to the Wol-

men's bench. "Those of us present at the hearing yesterday

morning have heard such reasons, but the majority of the

individuals making up this court have not. We will hear it

 

stated anew."

 

Rod breathed a sigh of relief—the English concept had

won out. The laws ofWolmar would assume that the accused

was innocent, and the state would have to prove his guilt,

which meant that the rights of the individual would be the

most important element in the embryonic constitution. All

of a sudden, the term "founding fathers" gained a whole

 

new meaning.

 

Shacklar turned back to Corrigan. "However, Lieutenant,

I must ask that if you intend to take the part of the accused,

you also step down from your bench."

 

Thereby preserving an equal number on each side. Rod

noted, as well as establishing the functions of prosecutor

and defense. He hoped Shacklar would be as careful in his

judgment as he was in his establishing of precedents.

 

Corrigan stared blankly for a moment, then heaved a sigh

 

and stepped down to the floor.

 

Shacklar turned back to Hwun. "Please present your

proofs. Chief Chief, your reasons why we should believe

 

124

 

Christopher Stasheff

 

v

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING

 

125

 

these two people murdered a Wolman."

 

Hwun only stared at him.

 

Shacklar leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled, totally

at ease.

 

Finally, Hwun said, "They were there."

 

Rod breathed a sigh of relief. The English concept had

triumphed.

 

"Yester morning," Hwun went on, "them outside Wall.

Outside, in middle of plain. Who know where before that?"

 

"Precisely," Corrigan agreed. "Who does know?"

 

Hwun didn't even acknowledge him. "Wolman found

dead. Dead, at Sun-Greeting Place. Me found body! Who

would kill him? Only colonist!" His finger stabbed out at

Rod and Gwen. "Only them outside Wall—no reason! So!"

He folded his arms across his chest. "Them kill Wolman."

 

"Oh, come now!" Corrigan scoffed. "There were traders

outside the Wall, too, and Wolmen from other tribes. Even

if you assume that no member of his own tribe would kill

him..." He spun to the General, stabbing a forefinger.

"Which point has not been established, sir!" Then back to

Hwun. "Even if, if, no member of his own tribe slew him,

there's no reason to think a member of another tribe didn't!"

 

Hwun kept his face turned toward Shacklar. "Wolmen

not bloodthirsty."

 

Shacklar sat very still, and the faces of the other officers

froze. Rod could almost hear the laughter they were holding

back, and really could hear them thinking. That's not how

it looked!

 

"Wolmen not slay other Wolmen!" Hwun thundered.

 

The officers' faces stayed frozen. Just what the blinking

hell do you think you were doing when we came here—

holding community picnics?

 

Shacklar managed to sublimate his feelings into a huge

sigh, and leaned forward. "Be that as it may... Accused!"

 

"Uh, yes?" Rod looked up.

 

"Were you, or your wife, at the Sun-Greeting Place yes-

terday morning?"

 

Rod shook his head. "Never saw it till we went to look

for evidence last night."

 

Hwun's head snapped around to stare at Rod, but Shack-

lar said, "And no one was slain last night." He turned to

the panel of Wolman chiefs. "Would any of you happen to

know where these two were first sighted?"

 

"In middle of Horse Plain," answered the Purple chief.

 

"On foot?" Corrigan asked.

 

"On foot," the chief confirmed.

 

"And that's a good ten kilometers from the Sun-Greeting

Place. At what time did your warriors sight the accused,

Chief?"

 

The chief shrugged. "Sun not up long."

 

"Soon after dawn," Corrigan translated. "Was the sun

completely above the horizon?"

 

The chief nodded.

 

"How far above?"

 

The chief demonstrated with his hands. "Two fingers'

width."

 

"Two fingers' width, at arm's length." Corrigan held his

own fingers out, squinting at them. "Perhaps a half an hour

after dawn." He dropped his hand, and was looking at Hwun.

"I submit that it would have been rather difficult for the

defendants to kill a man at the Sun-Greeting Place, and be

in middle of the Horse Plain, ten kilometers away, half an

hour later."

 

Hwun stared for a moment, then said, "Could have killed

earlier."

 

"Indeed, they could have," Corrigan countered, "but did

they? Have you the slightest shred of evidence that indicates

they so much as met the deceased, let alone slew him?"

 

Hwun gave him a long, cold stare. Then, turning to his

fellow Wolmen with frigid dignity, he drew himself up and

stated, "Soldiers stalling." His forefinger jabbed oat at Rod

and Gwen again. "These two did murder! Plain for all to

see!" He turned back to Shacklar. "And all can see soldiers

not deal fairly with Wolmen! Oh, with goods, cash, pipe-

 

 

 

 

726

 

Christopher Stasheff

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING

 

127

 

weed, soldiers deal fair—but not life! Then, no soldier deal

fairly!"

 

The other chiefs glared, then began to mutter to one

another, darting hostile glances at Shacklar and the officers'

panel. The officers stiffened, their faces turning to wood.

 

"Give!" Hwun thundered, holding out a hand, palm up.

"Give these two to Wolmen! Give murderer of brother into

our hands, to slay in justice here, now!"

 

"Justice! Why, you pious prig!" Chornoi was on her feet,

raging. "You're not looking for justice; you're looking for

a scapegoat! You know damn well that if you can't satisfy

your fellow chiefs, they'll kick you out of office! And you

can't satisfy them all, if it turns out it was a Wolman who

murdered a Wolman! Because if it was, the murderer's tribe

will defend him, and the victim's tribe will charge out for

revenge! And that'll be the end of your nice little Confed-

eration!"

 

"Not so!" "Wolman law!" "All tribes heed!" The chiefs

were on their feet, shouting.

 

But Hwun drowned them all out. "Justice! Seek only

justice!"

 

"Justice!" Chomoi sneered, pacing up to him. "How can

a tyrant seek justice? Because that's what you really want

to be, isn't it? King of all the Wolmen! Tyrant! Dictator!

That's all you are—just a power-driven machine!"

 

Rod stiffened, feeling as though his spine had turned into

a hot wire. Facts suddenly connected in his head, and sparked

into fusion.

 

"Machine!" Chomoi spat.

 

Hwun's hand lashed out so fast it seemed to blur, cracking

backhanded against Chornoi's jaw. She shot back, crashing

into the colonists' bench.

 

Rod bellowed, rage erupting as he whirled toward Hwun,

which brought him just far enough to the side so that the

Chief Chief's fist hissed past his ear. An icicle stabbed Rod

as he realized the blow would have killed him. He was

fighting for his life!

 

The hell with fighting fair!

 

He came out of his crouch in a whirl, knee driving up

into Hwun's groin. It struck—

 

With a hollow crack.

 

Rod howled as his knee burst into fire.

 

Everyone in the courtroom stood frozen, galvanized by

the sound.

 

Hwun's hand reached for Rod's throat—but Rod's leg

gave way, and crashed to the floor. Hwun's hand clawed

through empty air. Fear sizzled through Rod, opening a

channel for the scarlet wrath that boiled through him in a

raging torrent. Rod focused it on his hand, shoving himself

back up onto one knee, concentrating on the hand's edge,

willing it into a sword, a battle-ax, slamming out in a chop

so fast that no one noticed it had turned into the shiny gray

of tungsten steel. It crashed up into Hwun's jaw. The Wol-

man shot into the air and crashed down to the floor, right

in front of the Wolman bench.

 

Rod knelt, arm falling limp, panting, wild-eyed, amazed

and terrified by his own action. / couldn't have hit him that

hard!

 

Aye, thou couldst.

 

Rod looked up, and saw the steel of his hand reflected

in his wife's eyes.

 

But Hwun was rolling to his feet...

 

... and a searing, ruby ray skewered his head.

 

For a frozen moment. Rod could see the line of light

joining the Wolman chieftain to the blaster in the General's

hand, seeming as much a part of him as his uniform.

 

Then the moment thawed, the beam of light winked out,

and Hwun crashed to the ground.

 

The Wolmen stared, appalled.

 

Then they leaped to their feet, blasters whipping out from

under their cloaks. "Blood!" They howled, "Justice!"

'Treachery!" "Kill!"

 

But Shacklar vaulted over his bench and landed beside

Hwun's body. He yanked off the chief's loincloth. The other

 

 

 

 

728 Christopher Stasheff THE WARLOCK WANDERING 129

 

Wolmen howled, outraged—but the howls died, and their

eyes bulged as they stared, frozen. For a moment, the room

was totally silent.

 

Then groans welled up from the Wolmen's chests, as

they gazed in horror at the smooth curve of a groin without

genitals.

 

Rod shoved himself over to Hwun, whipping out his

dagger. He gripped the corpse's hair, and the blade sliced

keenly around in a single stroke. Rod peeled back the skin.

There was no blood, no fatty tissue—only the bland curve

of a beige skull, with four hairline cracks forming a perfect

rectangle.

 

The chiefs still stared, too stunned to move.

 

Rod jammed the tip of his dagger into one of the cracks

and pried. The material resisted for a moment, then the

rectangle popped open. Rod stared at a cluster of jewels,

gleaming from the darkness inside.

 

"Molecular circuits, of course," Rod explained. "Each

one of those 'jewels' was a computer big enough to run all

the utilities for a small city."

 

He lifted his stein for a swallow, and Cholly asked, "How

did you guess he was a robot?"

 

"Easy," Rod said, with a wry smile. "In fact, I can't

understand why I didn't figure it out, for so long. I mean,

a Wolman had been murdered, right? But no Wolman was

missing. Which meant there was one extra Wolman." He

spread his hands. "Couldn't be. And we'd met Hwun. He

hadn't shown any emotion at all, except anger—but a very

cold anger, if you follow me. That's how he was in every-

thing—very cold, very factual. I suppose it was his lousy

logic that sidetracked me."

 

"Yeah." Yorick scratched his head. "How could a com-

puter 'brain' do such sloppy thinking, as to think you two

were guilty just because you were outside the Wall that

morning?"

 

"Especially when there were others out, too." Rod held

 

up a forefinger. "Thaler—and we don't know how many

traders."

 

"Right. So how come Hwun didn't see that suspecting

you two, didn't make sense?"

 

Rod shrugged. "He could only think the way he'd been

programmed—'garbage in, garbage out.' But it really should

have hit me when Chornoi told us that he didn't show the

slightest flicker of response to her flirting, even though every

other Wolman she'd met liked flirting so much that it was

her guarantee of safety. That really should have made Hwun

stand out in my mind. And the real clincher is that he broke

off conversation with her to run over to the stone step and

greet the sun just before it rose."

 

Yorick frowned. "So?"

 

"How could he have known?" Gwen breathed.

 

Yorick sat for a moment. Then he lifted his head slowly.

 

Rod nodded. "His programming included a schedule of

sunrises. Yeah, I really should have caught that. But all

those factors didn't add up and hit me until Chomoi called

him a machine right there in the courtroom—and I realized

that explained everything odd about him."

 

"And that's when yer figured out that the robot committed

the murder?" Cholly asked.

 

Rod nodded again. "Totally possible, if you program it

to be an assassin, which is why the laws against doing that

are so stiff. But our Futurian buddies don't care too much

about laws."

 

"It's illegal to use blasters to kill people, too," Yorick

said, wryly. "But your average murderer can't afford a robot

for the job. So how often do you come across a homicidal

android?"

 

"First one I've ever seen," Rod said. "Every other robot

was programmed to protect life."

 

"Was't therefore thou didst not look for a murderer to be

a... 'robot,' didst thou term it?"

 

Rod sat still, then nodded slowly. "Yeah, darling. That's

probably why. Know me pretty well, don't you?" He smiled

 

 

 

 

730 Christopher Stasheff THE WARLOCK WANDERING 131

 

at Gwen. "And yes, you've got the word right—'robot.'

The word means 'worker,' literally. It's a machine made to

look like a human being, or to do the work a human being

does."

 

"Yet how was't this 'robot' did so perfectly resemble the

true Hwun?"

 

"Now we come to the real villain." Rod's mouth tight-

ened. "Somebody very obviously planned the whole thing

ahead of time... carefully, too. Someone—probably one

of those fake Wolmen Chomoi mentioned—took a picture

of Hwun, then sculpted the robot's face to look exactly like

his. And put him where he could be sure the robot would

be able to find Hwun alone."

 

"At the Sun-Greeting Place," Yorick interjected. "Then

all he had to do was make sure the robot's programming

included the right moves for making a fuss after the murder

was over."

 

"So." Chomoi scowled. "Hwun went up to say his mom-

ing prayers—the real Hwun, I mean—and as he turned to

face the sun, the robot hit him." She shuddered. "At least

it was quick."

 

Rod nodded. "The robot mutilated the face so nobody'd

realize he wasn't the real Hwun. Then it took the body to

the closest stream, washed off the paint, and brought it to

the nearest tribal village, howling for vengeance. Then it

just took Hwun's place and did the best it could to make a

huge fuss."

 

Yorick nodded. "Neatly done."

 

"Very professional," Chomoi agreed. "So who's the bas-

tard who programmed the "robot?"

 

"I'm afraid we're not to know that," a voice sighed.

 

They turned, startled, as Shacklar stepped up to their

table. "It seems my shot burned out the android's memory,

along with its vital functions—and, of course, the program

with it."

 

"Not a huge surprise." Rod nodded. "I mean, the program

is the most vital function."

 

"Precisely." Shacklar laid his hand on a chair. "May I

join you?"

 

"Aye, an't please thee," Gwen said.

 

Rod cast a stem glance at her.

 

Shacklar pulled out the chair and sat. "Mind you, I'm

not apologizing. The monster had to be stopped, stopped

instantly—and there was only one way to do it. We're

fortunate that the controlling computer was located in its

skull, where I placed my first shot."

 

"Not just 'fortunate.'" Rod smiled. "You were pretty sure

that's where it would be, weren't you?"

 

Shacklar grinned. "Teleology generally wins out. If we

make a machine in our own form, we put the computer in

the head, simply because that's where our brains are, even

though there's more room in the torso. Which, of course,

is where my second shot would have gone."

 

"But, fortunately, it wasn't needed." Rod smiled. "Mind

you. General, I'm glad you did it—very glad, considering

it Was me the blasted thing was trying to kill."

 

Shacklar acknowledged his support with a nod and a

smile. "But I'm afraid we'll never be able to tell what the

program was exactly. And, of course, there will be no means

of guessing who programmed it, or why."

 

Rod shrugged. "We can speculate."

 

"True." Shacklar's smile intensified. "We can always

speculate—but we ought to remember that we're merely

conjecturing."

 

"Naetheless," Gwen reminded them, "we are proven in-

nocent."

 

"Oh, quite true," said the General. "There's absolutely

no question of that. And my problem, that of pacifying the

Wolmen, is nicely solved."

 

"Yeah." Yorick grinned. "As soon as the Major showed

them what was inside Hwun's skull, they didn't have any

trouble believing the robot committed the murder."

 

Shacklar nodded. "And I can turn the 'dead' android

over to the Wolmen—which I have done—so that, if they

 

 

 

 

732 Christopher Stasheff THE WARLOCK WANDERING 133

 

have any doubts at all, they can take it apart themselves,

to see that it really is only a machine."

 

"Which they will do, of course." Cholly came up behind

them and reached across shoulders to set new mugs of ale

down for everyone. "And just think how much they'll leam

about cybernetics!"

 

"Oh, I did." Shacklar contemplated his mug with a smile.

"Moreover, by having 'slain' the android myself, I seem to

have become something of a celebrity among the Wolmen."

Yorick grinned. "'Demon-killer,' huh?"

Shacklar nodded.

 

"Then you've got it all." Rod set his palms down on the

table. "Your Wolmar Federation—the prototype for your

government of colonists and Wolmen, coming together in

two separate bodies to decide a common problem."

 

Shacklar looked up, surprised. "Very perceptive, really,

Mr. Gallowglass. Do you do this sort of thing yourself?"

 

Rod opened his mouth, but Gwen answered. "He hath

occasion for awareness of it. Then he hath guessed aright?"

 

"Indeed," Shacklar answered. "In fact, I've had the first

draft of the Constitution sitting in my files for several years,

waiting for the right moment."

 

"Which we have managed to trigger for you," Rod in-

ferred.

 

The General nodded. "Copies are currently en route to

each of the four Wolman tribes, and the officers and rankers

of our Parliament."

 

"And with your new status," Yorick pointed out, "you

don't have to worry too much about whether or not the

Wolmen will accept the new Constitution."

 

Shacklar smiled. "I do seem to have gained an impressive

amount of credibility with them, yes."

"He's a demigod," Yorick explained.

"Certainly." Cholly grinned. "It makes the Union all the

tighter, to have the whole thing both triggered and solved

by somebody who's neither Wolman nor colonist."

Rod inclined his head. "We thank you."

 

Chornoi glared. "How could you know whether or not

she does?"

 

Rod just stared, but Gwen said, "Be sure, he doth."

Chornoi rounded on her. "Then how come you don't

know what he thinks?"

 

"I do." Gwen shrugged. "In this instance, he spoke first."

"I just wish," Rod went on quickly, "that I knew whether

or not the nasty who programmed the robot was trying to

sabotage the General-Governor's budding republic, or to

assassinate Gwen and myself."

 

"Why not both?" Yorick spread his hands.

Chornoi nodded. "Does it really matter?"

"Well, kind of. If we knew which, we might be able to

figure out why."

 

"A point," the General admitted. "However, I think we'd

best stay with the pragmatic aspect of the situation. No

matter what their ultimate goal was, old boy, I daresay

someone is attempting to kill you."

 

"I... would... say that was a reasonable guess." Rod

gazed into Gwen's eyes as he nodded slowly.

 

"Therefore," the General said, "it behooves us to get you

off-planet as quickly as possible, before your would-be as-

sassins create an incident that does rip Wolmar apart."

Rod looked up, with a sour smile. 'To our mutual benefit,

 

eh?"

 

"Let us say, a point of intersection between our areas of

interest."

 

"Well, no offense, General, but we'd love to leave. Any

ideas how to escape from a prison planet?"

 

"Ah, but we're no longer a prison." Shacklar held up a

forefinger. "When the Proletarian Eclectic State of Terra cut

us off from the central government, we became an inde-

pendent entity by default. Of course, I do understand that

I have some genuine homicidal maniacs livingrhere, and I

wouldn't loose them on the galaxy—nor any of my sado-

masochists." He shivered, took a deep breath. "Nor any of

the truly dedicated thieves. Still, you must understand that

 

 

 

 

134 Christopher Stasheff

 

we do have some export trade in the raw materials for

pharmaceuticals..."

 

"He's talking about pipeweed," Cholly explained.

 

"Quite. And we've discovered that we can actually make

a small profit, trading with other outlying planets."

 

"Enough to exchange for the few imports you really

need?"

 

Shacklar nodded. "Our main markets are Haskerville and

Otranto."

 

"Otranto?" Rod frowned. "That's a resort planet!" It still

had that reputation in Rod's time, five hundred years later.

Then his eyes widened. "Oh. That kind of pharmaceutical."

 

"No, not really." Shacklar smiled. "It's simply that a

great many ships berth at Otranto, with pleasure-seekers

from all over the Terran Sphere. They also carry a bit of

cargo, especially if it's low-bulk—so one of the pharmaceu-

tical companies operates a factory there, bringing in raw

materials from several of the outlying planets, extracting

their essential chemicals, and shipping them on to the central

planets for further processing and distribution. Thus we've

managed to maintain some trade."

 

"The rejects have managed to stay civilized in spite of

the in-group, eh?" Rod couldn't help smiling.

 

"If you must put it in the vulgar cant," Shacklar sighed.

"In fact, it was one of the freighters that brought us word

of the PEST coup."

 

Rod suddenly realized where the conversation was head-

ing. "There wouldn't happen to be a freighter in port right

now, would there?"

 

Shacklar nodded. "On our moon. You must understand

that due to our genesis as a prison planet, it can be quite

difficult to go from our spaceport to our moon. In fact, there

are some very elaborate security procedures left over from

the PEST days, which I've seen no reason to relax. How-

ever, since I've no records of any of you three being crim-

inals, I've no reason to detain you."

 

"And every reason to help us move on, huh?"

 

r

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING     135

 

"Thou wilt assist us in our travels, then?" Gwen asked.

"I shall be delighted." Shacklar gravely bowed his head.

Rod held his breath, screwed up his courage, and took

a chance. "Of course, we couldn't agree to go without our

 

guide."

 

Yorick looked surprised, then grinned. "Yeah. We think

we're gonna need her expertise, no matter where we go."

 

Shacklar gave Chomoi a long, assessing gaze. Slowly,

he nodded. "Given her history, I don't believe she should

have been with us to begin with."

 

Hope flared in Chomoi's eyes.

 

"I certainly see no reason to detain you further, made-

moiselle." Shacklar inclined his head with grave courtesy.

"And to be certain no other officials misunderstand, I'll

equip you with an official pardon."

 

Rod sat back with a sigh of relief. "General, your co-

operation is amazing." He frowned at a sudden thought.

"But there is the little matter of the fare. I'm afraid we don't

have enough money for the tickets."

 

Yorick started to say something, but Shacklar was already

gazing off into space and nodding. "I'm certain that could

be managed. As I say, we do have something of a trade

balance. I believe the Bank of Wolmar will prove willing

to advance funds for the next leg of your journey."

 

"Our greatest thanks." Gwen's eyes sparkled.

 

The General held his eyes on her for a few moments.

He may have been always calm and cool, but he wasn't

immune.

 

Personally, Rod was amazed at just how anxious Shacklar

was to be rid of them.

 

GWEN RELEASED HER shock webbing with a bemused frown.

"Why, that was naught! Or, at least, 'twas naught when I

liken it to the terror of that devil's ride from the planet to

the moon." She turned to Rod, anxiety shadowing her eyes.

"Be we truly in the sky, my lord?"

 

"We be," Rod assured her.

 

"And that bare, great hall that we came into from the

ship—that was truly on the moon? Truly perched upon that

circle of light within the nighttime sky?"

 

"It really was, dear. Of course, that 'circle of light' was

actually a ball of rock, five hundred miles thick."

 

She sank back into her seat, shaking her head. "'Tis

wondrous!" Then she looked down at the chair beneath her.

"As is this throne! How marvelously soft it is, and how

wondrous is this cloth that covers it!" She looked up at Rod.

"And they are not for nobility alone?"

 

"Well, technically, no." Rod frowned. "Though I suppose

anyone who can afford space travel has to be as rich as an

I     aristocrat."

 

"Or a criminal," Yorick added, from across the aisle. "In

which case, he doesn't have to pay anything at all."

 

"Yeah, but the accommodations aren't quite this classy.

And he doesn't really want to be going where he's headed,

either."

 

"True," Yorick said judiciously. "Of course^, if you're

going away from prison, you're not too picky about the

service."

 

"This isn't really all that fancy," Rod explained to Gwen.

 

139

 

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Christopher Stasheff

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING

 

141

 

"This whole room is just a little blip on the side of a great,

big freight-carrier, so they can carry passengers if they have

to."

 

"Or get a chance to," Yorick added. "We bring in a lot

more money per cubic meter than cargo does."

 

"That is somewhat reassuring." Gwen looked up at Rod.

"But explain to me again the nature of this moment of

strangeness that we but now suffered, when it seemed that

up was down and, for a moment, I had thought we were

on the outside of this ship of the skies."

 

Rod shook his head. "Don't know if I really can, dear.

I know the words for it, but I'm not sure what they mean."

 

"Then say them to me," she urged.

 

"Okay. The fastest anything can go is the speed of light—

about 186,280 miles per second, remember? But the only

reason light goes that fast is because it's made of infinites-

imal little motes called photons..."

 

"There's nothing to it," Yorick confided.

 

Rod nodded. "Right. Nothing at all. Photons don't weigh

anything, don't have any substance, any 'mass.' If you or

I climbed into a spaceship and tried to go faster and faster

until we got to the speed of light, our ship would get shorter

and shorter, and heavier and heavier, and more and more

massive. And the more mass it would have, the more power

it would take to make it go faster."

 

"So there doth come a point at which each mite more of

power, doth make so much more 'mass,' that the ship doth

go no faster?"

 

"Right!" Rod beamed at her, delighted again by her

quickness of understanding. But a chill passed through his

belly—how could she understand so quickly, when her cul-

ture didn't give her the necessary background concepts?

"Technically, we would be going just a fraction faster; we'd

always be getting a tiny bit closer to the speed of light, and

a tiny bit more, and a tiny bit more, but we'd never quite

reach it."

 

"I cannot truly understand it," she sighed, sinking back.

 

"Yet an thou dost say it, my lord, I will credit it."

 

"Well, that helps a little. But you'll understand it thor-

oughly soon enough, dear, or I quite mistake you. Then you

can decide for yourself whether you believe it or not."

 

"Yet what is this 'other space' thou, and Yorick and

Chomoi, did say we have passed into?"

 

"Oh." Rod rolled his eyes to the side, pursing his lips

for a moment. "Well, you see, dear... uh... Otranto, the

planet we're going to, is about forty-five light-years from

Wolmar. The distance that light can travel in a year is about

five billion, eight hundred eighty million miles—and forty-

five times that is something like 265 trillion. And that's

roughly how far it is from Wolmar to Otranto."

 

She turned her head from side to side, wide-eyed. "'Tis

inconceivable."

 

"Totally. We can't even imagine a distance that great,

not really. It's just a string of numbers."

 

"But we do get the main point," said Yorick, "which is

that even if we could go almost as fast as light does, it'd

still take us fifty years to get to Otranto."

 

"And I don't know about you," Chomoi added, "but for

myself, I have a lot of better things to do, than just sit

around aboard a ship playing checkers for that long a time."

 

"I assure thee, so have I." Gwen shivered.

 

"But we can't go any faster," Yorick reminded her. "Not

if we want to stay solid. No faster than the speed of light."

 

"So we go around it," Rod explained.

 

Gwen squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head. "I can-

not comprehend that."

 

"Neither can I," Rod admitted. "But there's a gadget in

the back of the ship called an 'isomorpher,' and when the

pilot turns it on, it makes us isomorphic with H-space. I'm

not sure what H-space is, but I gather it's a kind of space

that isn't quite part of this universe."        -

 

Gwen frowned. "And we are part of that H-spaee?"

 

"Well, no, not part of it, really." Rod sat back, staring

at the comer of the ceiling, pursing his lips. "Just identified

 

 

 

 

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Christopher Stasheff

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING

 

143

 

with it—point for point, atom for atom. Which is what we

are right now." He looked around at the interior of the cabin.

 

"But I feel no differently," she cried, "nor doth aught

appear transformed!"

 

"We aren't." Rod shook his head. "We aren't different,

at all—relative to this ship, and relative to each other—

because we're all isomorphic with H-space right now. But

when the ship's computer pulls out the pattern for what

normal space is like, near Otranto, and when it identifies

that pattern, it'll turn off the isomorpher, and we'll go back

to being ordinary parts of the regular universe."

 

"Tis magic," Gwen said firmly.

 

"Personally, I agree," Rod sighed, "but the man who

explained it to me, assured me it was all perfectly natural,

and thoroughly understandable."

 

"So," said Gwen, "are my witch-powers."

 

"Only on Gramarye, my dear." Rod squeezed her hand.

"And I suppose all this isomorphism and H-space is normal

and understandable out here." He turned to Yorick. "I don't

suppose it's possible for Dr. McAran to shoot you the pieces

of the time machine while we're in this condition, is it?"

 

Yorick shook his head. "He can't lock onto us. Major.

However his time machines work, it ain't through H-space."

 

"I thought not," Rod sighed, "which is too bad, because

this is going to be at least half the trip—two days, at least.

But he can do it once we're back into normal space."

 

"Well, he can try." Yorick frowned. "But that's what I

was trying to signal you about back there at Cholly's, when

you were talking to the General-Governor. Locking onto a

moving object that's any smaller than a planet, is an awfully

tricky operation. If Doc Angus misses, the components he's

trying to throw at us are lost for good, and time machine

parts cost enough to make even him wince."

 

Rod just stared at Yorick for a moment. Then he said,

"You're telling me that, even though we have a good day

or two between our break out point and Otranto, forty-eight

perfectly usable hours without any interruptions, you're not

 

going to be able to build us a time machine?"

 

Yorick shook his head. "Sorry, Major. 'It ain't in the

state of the art.'"

 

"And probably never will be," Rod sighed. "But inside

a shed back on Wolmar would have been a moving target,

too—and you were so sure you could manage it there!"

 

"Yeah, but it was a stationary target, relative to the huge

mass it was sitting on. It was only the planet that was

moving—and all that planetary mass is easy enough to lock

onto. Then it's just a matter of aiming at a small target that

stays put, relative to the large one." Yorick shrugged. "You

know what a planet's gravitational field does to space-time,

Major. It makes space curve, so it does most of the focusing

for you. All you have to do is lock onto the planet's rotation,

and as soon as you have that rate figured out, it's no problem.

But here..." He spread his hands, a gesture taking in the

whole cabin and the vast ship outside it. "I mean, this whole

freighter can't be more than half a kilometer long!"

 

"Well, what do you expect?" Chomoi snapped. "Bush-

league planets don't get the big ships, you know."

 

Yorick ignored her. "Half a kilometer, two kilometers,

what difference does it make? That's just a dust-mote on

the planetary scale. It just ain't big enough to have enough

mass to have any major effect on the curvature of space!"

He shook his head, looking doleful. "Sorry, but I can't get

you out of this mess while we're in transit."

 

"Oh, well, I should have known better," Rod sighed.

"All right, if we can't get a portable time machine here,

we'll just have to find some quiet place on Otranto where

we can set one up."

 

Yorick nodded. "Shouldn't be any problem. Major."

 

"It shouldn't have been any problem on Wolmar, either."

Rod gave Yorick a jaundiced glance. "I don't suppose there'd

happen to be a permanent time machine somewhere on

Otranto, all ready and waiting, would there?"

 

Yorick shook his head. "Not that I know of. In fact, the

only permanent installation that I know about, at this point

 

 

 

 

144 Christopher Stasheff THE WARLOCK WANDERING 145

 

in history..." He frowned. "Well, I can't say I know about

it, damn it!"

 

"Where is it?" Rod exploded.

 

"All right, all right!" Yorick held up both palms, shield-

ing himself. "Not so loud, okay? We're pretty sure that the

LORDS party, the ones who are running the Proletarian

Eclectic State of Terra, had some Futurian help in engi-

neering their coup d'etat—and they've probably stayed in

contact, all the way through their regime. I mean, PEST

could have figured out which planet was going to rebel,

when—but it is kind of odd that they just happened to

always have a naval squadron right nearby."

 

"Very odd," Rod agreed. "So you're pretty sure there's

a permanent time machine somewhere in PEST headquarters

on Terra?"

 

"Yeah." Yorick gave him a bleak smile. "But good luck

getting to it. It belongs to the opposition, and it's guaranteed

to be very tightly guarded."

 

"Well, nothing ventured, nothing gained," Rod sighed.

"I always did want to visit humanity's ancestral home, any-

way."

 

"Well, that's great! I mean, you'll love it there. Major,

it's..." Suddenly the Neanderthal's eyes widened in horror.

"My lord! Chomoi! We shouldn't be talking about this with

her around!"

 

"So I thought," Gwen agreed. "The poor lass was overly

wearied. I thought it best that she slumber awhile."

 

Yorick turned around, craning his neck over the back of

the seat, and saw Chomoi slumped in her recliner, head

rolled to the side, breathing deeply and evenly. "Well, that's

a relief! Thank you. Lady Gallowglass! I really gotta keep

a better eye on my tongue!" He frowned. "That didn't sound

right..."

 

"We catch your meaning," Rod assured him.

 

"Thou hast yet to tell me of this Terra' of thine," Gwen

reminded.

 

"Earth," Rod answered. "The place where your ultimate

 

ancestors came from—and mine, too, of course. And every-

body's. It's the planet where humanity evolved, the only

planet where our bodies really feel at home."

 

"Not anymore, they don't." Yorick shook his head. "The

whole place is concrete and steel now." He frowned. "Well,

there are a few parks..."

 

"Are we to go there, then?"

 

"We can't. This freighter is going to Otranto. But maybe,

there, we can find a ship that's going to Terra."

 

"Of course, we may not need to," Yorick said. "If we

can just find a quiet place for a little while. Doc Angus can

shoot me the spare parts I need to make a time machine."

He sighed. "Of course, there is another little problem..."

 

Rod felt the familiar cold chill spread over his back.

"Oh? What problem?"

 

"The Futurians. I mean, they kidnapped you in the first

place. Then they set up an elaborate little plot that had almost

everybody on Wolmar cooperating in an attempt to assas-

sinate you."

 

"Yeah, but that was Wolmar," Rod said. "And the people

of this time haven't invented faster-than-light radio yet, so

their communication is still limited to couriers riding FTL

ships, like this one."

 

Yorick nodded. "But VETO and SPITE have time ma-

chines. So they can send a message from Wolmar to Otranto,

and get it there the next day." He frowned. "Or the day

before, if it comes to that."

 

Rod stared.

 

"So it's quite possible. Major, that we might find a re-

ception committee waiting for us."

 

Rod leaned back, trying to relax. "Give me a little while

to get used to the idea."

 

"Sure." Yorick leaned back, too, and twiddled his thumbs.

"You've got time. A couple of days, at least/'

 

"The waiting is driving me crazy," Chomoi growled.

"Anticipay-hay-hay-shun," Yorick sang.

 

 

 

 

746 Christopher Stasheff THE WARLOCK WANDERING 147

 

The world twisted inside out.

 

Then it twisted right-side-out again, leaving Gwen hold-

ing her stomach. Rod clapped a hand over his mouth. They

both swallowed, hard, then looked across the cabin. Chomoi

was a delicate shade of green, and Yorick was gulping air.

"Yes," he said finally. "Well—the wonders of modem travel,

right?"

 

Rod nodded. "The price you pay for speed, and all that."

 

The Neanderthal heaved himself to his feet and waddled

down the aisle to the viewscreen. "As long as we're back

where there's something to see, let's look at the outside,

instead of this saccharine melodrama that nobody's been

watching anyway." He punched a button, and a vast vista

of unwinking stars replaced the 3DT program.

 

"Hey!" yelped Chornoi. "How'11 I find out whether or

not Chuck will stop Allison from marrying Tony, because

she's about to have Tommy's baby, but doesn't want Karen

to have Tony, even though she really wants to marry Chuck?"

 

Then she fell silent, awed by the majesty of the panorama

before her. The computer had dimmed the brightness of the

sun, of course, or they wouldn't have been able to look

directly at it, even though it was only a very small disk in

the center of the huge screen. Blips that were planets floated

around it, brightened and colorized electronically—and the

net impression was gorgeous. Gwen caught her breath with

delight. "Eh, my lord! Be this truly how a sun and its worlds

do appear?"

 

Rod nodded. "This is the real thing, darling. Of course,

if you saw it with your naked eye, the sun would be a lot

brighter, and the planets would be lost in its glare. They

aren't lined up so neatly that you can count them, but you

can ferret 'em out. Let's see—there's one, that little dot

near the sun, that's probably a planet. And, yes, there's

number two, a little further away, and number three..."

 

"Yet what is that one that doth grow?"

 

Rod frowned. "Yeah, that is kind of funny."

 

"Not humorous at all!" Yorick whirled and scuttled back

 

to his seat. "That swelling dot is growing knobs and fins!

Web in, everybody—we're about to be intercepted!"

 

Rod stared. Then he whipped about to Gwen, but her

webbing was still secure from break out. So was his, for

that matter.

 

"What's the trouble?" Chomoi looked around at them,

frowning. "So they're intercepting us. They're not going to

shoot us down, you know."

 

"No," Rod grated, "we don't know. They tried to kill us

twice already, remember?"

 

Chomoi stared at the screen, her eyes growing huge.

 

Gwen frowned up at Rod. "What is it, mine husband?"

 

"Another ship," Rod explained, "and there's no way to

tell who's steering it."

 

Across the aisle, Yorick looked nervous. "I'm sure the

captain is busy trying to find out that very datum."

 

The glowing dot had swelled into the form of a spaceship,

seen head-on. It spat a bolt of light that washed the screen

with searing brightness. The ship lurched about them, and

somewhere, a huge gong chimed.

 

"Yoicks!" Yorick bleated. "What a way to answer a hail!

Doesn't his radio work?"

 

Rod felt his stomach sliding over toward his left kidney.

"Everybody hold on! Our pilot isn't waiting for a second

sentence!"

 

On the screen, the attacking ship slid up to the upper

right-hand comer. Another bolt of energy shot out from it—

and off the screen.

 

"Missed!" Rod squeezed his fist tight. "Way to go, skip-

per! Zig your zags!"

 

His stomach dropped back toward his coccyx. Gwen

gasped, and Chomoi moaned. On the screen, the attacker

veered toward the lower left-hand comer, and the stars

wheeled behind it. The sun slipped toward theTeft, too.

 

"Be brave, dear." Rod clasped her hand. "It has to end

some time." Hopefully, the right way...

 

" 'Tis not... entirely... unpleasant," Gwen gasped. "I

 

 

 

 

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149

 

shall become accustomed to it, my lord."

 

"I hope you won't have time..."

 

The enemy ship fired another bolt that lit up the upper

right-hand comer of the screen. The sun-disc drifted off the

screen to the left.

 

"Missed again." Rod nodded. "Have we got a good pilot!"

 

"Or a good computer," Yorick added. "No human being

could react this fast. So just punch the buttons for 'evasive

action.'"

 

Rod glowered at him. "Just had to make a point of it,

didn't you?"

 

Yorick grinned. "What can I tell you? Homo sapiens has

its limits, too."

 

"You don't have to be so happy about it, though...

Whoa! Hold on!"

 

The other ship veered into the center of the screen; the

sun-disc disappeared entirely.

 

"What is that maniac doing?" Chomoi gasped.

 

"Trying to get between the ship and the planet." Rod put

out an arm as Gwen leaned over against him—or tried to,

but the webbing held her tightly.

 

"Smart!" Chornoi's eyes glowed. "If he can get close

enough to the planet's surface, the bandit won't dare shoot,

for fear he'll fry innocent people."

 

"I... don't... really think that would make him hesi-

tate." Rod scowled. "But he might attract the attention of

the local constabulary."

 

"You mean I'm supposed to cheer for the cops?" Chomoi

asked.

 

"Why not? You were one..."

 

On the screen, the pirate spat another bolt. It mush-

roomed out to fill the screen with glaring whiteness, and

the whole cabin sang as though they were inside a piano

string. Stars glared through a ragged hole in the ceiling.

 

"Abandon ship!" Yorick howled. "Or is it the other way

around?"

 

But Rod didn't answer. His eyes lost focus as, frantically,

 

he concentrated on his psi powers, seeing the passenger

blister not as it really was, but as he wanted it to be. In his

mind's eye, he saw the little bulge falling away from the

main freight ship. He pictured a thin membrane sliding over

the open side, where the ship had been.

 

Yorick looked around, flabbergasted. "Hey! I can still

breathe! How come we're not drinking vacuum? How come

our blood isn't boiling out our noses, from sheer lack of air

pressure?"

 

Chomoi saw Rod's abstracted gaze. "Major, what are

you doing?"

 

To Rod, her words seemed to come thinly from a great

distance. Carefully, he answered, "I'm... holding the air

... in... with us."

 

Chomoi stared. White showed around the irises of her

eyes.

 

"Gwen?"

 

"Aye, my lord."

 

"We're... falling."

 

"Our ship was heading toward the planet when the pirate

shot our cabin off the freighter's side," Yorick explained,

"so we're still going toward the planet, too."

 

Gwen looked from the one to the other. "Is that not where

we wish to go?"

 

"Yeah, but... not so fast..." Rod answered. "Take us

down... darling... slowly..."

 

Gwen looked about them, and finally thought to look up.

She gasped. "But... there is no 'down,' my lord. There is

only some great bulge above us, a curving wall of blue,

with swirls of white!"

 

"That's ... Otranto," Rod grated.

 

"We're not close enough for it to seem like 'down' yet,"

Yorick explained, "but we're moving toward it, right enough.

It's just that we're moving toward what you call 'up,' just

now."

 

Gwen stared. "But how can one fall upward?"

 

"Gravity," Yorick explained.

 

 

 

 

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151

 

Gwen's eyes opened wide. "That's to say that when I

toss a ball into the air and it falls, 'tis the earth that pulls

it down."

 

Yorick nodded. "Yeah, that's most of it. Of course, the

ball pulls, too."

 

Gwen smiled. "Though so small a pull, could scarce be

more than a wish."

 

"I suppose that's one way of looking at it." Yorick sucked

in one cheek. "The ball wants to come down."

 

"And so... do... we," Rod grated.

 

"The closer we get to each other, the planet and us,"

Yorick explained, "the stronger the pull."

 

Gwen stared. Then her mouth opened in a silent "O."

 

Yorick nodded. "So the closer we get to the planet, mi-

lady, the faster we're gonna be going."

 

"Very... fast... already," Rod reminded him.

 

"Yeah." Yorick gave a bleak smile. "We're already trav-

eling a thousand miles per second."

 

"And we will gain speed as we fall?"

 

Yorick nodded. "Unless you can do something about it."

 

"Well... may nap I can." Gwen leaned back, gazing

thoughtfully up at the bulge of the planet above them.

 

"Do it... soon," Rod begged.

 

"Uh, yeah." Yorick scratched at his ear. "That's the other

thing I forgot to mention, Lady Gallowglass. It's called

'friction.' You know how when you rub your hands together,

they start feeling hot?"

 

Gwen nodded, not taking her eyes off the planet above.

 

"Well, we're going so fast that just our hull pushing

through the air can be friction enough to cause a lot of

heat," Yorick explained. "Enough to kill us."

 

"So," Gwen mused, "I must slow us and cool us."

 

Beside her, Rod nodded. "Molecules... slow 'em

down..."

 

"Thou hast explained that to me oft enow, my lord,"

Gwen said, with some asperity. "I must own, 'twas thou

who didst teach me what my mind did when I did stare at

 

a branch, and made it burst into flame. Nay, I ken the

slowing of these 'molecules,' as thou dost term them. And,

I think, I can slow our descent enow so that we may land

gently." She frowned up at the planet. "Let us begin by

putting the world where it doth belong."

 

Slowly, the huge curve moved off to the side. There was

no sensation of movement, but the sun-disc slowly slewed

into the center of the hole in the ceiling.

 

Yorick exhaled sharply. "Yes. Everyday occurrence.

Right."

 

Gwen nodded, satisfied. "Now we fall downward."

 

Across the aisle, Chomoi stared, aghast. "What are they?"

 

"A witch and a warlock," Yorick informed her. "But

that's just the local term, where they come from."

 

"This isn't really magic?" Chomoi said hopefully.

 

Yorick shook his head. "Just psionics. These are two

very high-powered espers."

 

Chomoi sat back, going limp. "I'm glad to hear that's

all it is."

 

"Right." Yorick's smile soured. "It's so much less scary

when you can give it a name, isn't it?"

 

"The pirate is gone now," Gwen informed them.

 

"Huh?" Yorick looked up and saw a clear sky. "Well.

Guess once he saw he'd shot off our cabin, he figured we

were dead."

 

"He had every right to," Chomoi said devoutly.

 

"Well." Yorick laced his fingers across his midriff and

settled back into his acceleration couch. "Might as well relax

and enjoy the ride."

 

"It may be rough," Gwen warned.

 

'"S okay! That's just fine. Lady Gallowglass!" Yorick

held up a palm. "No matter how you slice it, it's going to

be a hell of a lot better than I thought it was."

 

Actually, it was rather boring from that point^on. Gwen

was very good at slowing them down, but she had a lot of

speed to kill, so it did take a little while. Every now and

then, things did begin to get a little too warm, and Gwen

 

 

 

 

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153

 

had to frown in deep concentration until they cooled off.

Yorick did some exploring, and found a couple of emergency

oxygen generators, but even so. Rod was worried that he

might have to try to precipitate the carbon out of the carbon

dioxide in the air, and he wasn't exactly burning to have

black dust all over the glowing brocade of his new doublet.

 

At one point. Rod said, "Dear... the planet... is turning

... under us. Match... velocities..."

 

"That means matching the spin of the planet," Yorick

explained. "'Velocity' is how fast something's going in any

given direction. Just make sure we're moving at the same

speed as the world's surface."

 

"How am I to do that?" Gwen asked.

 

"Find some landmark," Yorick explained. He glanced at

the viewscreen. "Can't do much with that, the power cut

off as soon as we broke away from the ship. All we've got

is a little emergency power for lights, air, and heat, nothing

left over for sight-seeing."

 

Gwen frowned at the screen, and it burst into life. A

landscape reeled across it, blurred by speed, obscured by

darkness.

 

Yorick stared. "How did you do that?" Then he squeezed

his eyes shut and shook his head. "Never mind—I don't

think I want to know. But try to pick out some big landmark,

Lady Gallowglass, and slow us down until it stays put in

the middle of the screen."

 

The landscape began to slow. Moonlight outlined ridges

that were chains of hills, showing a groove that must have

been a valley.

 

In its center, pricks of light glittered.

 

"Civilization!" Chomoi cried. "That's gotta be a city!

Only people make that kind of light! Quick, Lady Gal-

lowglass, put us down there!"

 

Gwen concentrated harder on the screen. "I will essay

it..."

 

Chomoi leaned over to Yorick. "How come she can talk

while she's doing it, and he can't?"

 

'"Cause she's better at it than he is." Yorick spread his

hands. "What can I tell you? She's been practicing since

she was bom, and he only found out he had power three

years ago."

 

Chomoi reared her head back, looking askance at him.

"How come you know so much about them?"

 

"Friend of the family," Yorick assured her, "and if you

met their kids, you'd want to be friendly, too."

 

"There." Sweat beaded Gwen's brow. "Master Yorick,

is that as thou didst wish it?"

 

"Beautiful," Rod mumbled.

 

Yorick looked at the screen. It was as rock-still as though

someone had hung a map at the front of the cabin. He

blinked. "How the hell did you do that? I didn't feel a thing!"

 

"I slowed us folk as I slowed the vessel."

 

Yorick stared at her. "Right." He shook himself. "Sure.

Inertia—what's that? just a frame of reference, right?"

 

"Then refer to that frame." Gwen pointed at the screen.

"That square of darkness in the center—what is it?"

 

Yorick leaned forward, squinting. Then he shook his

head. "Can't tell yet. Lady Gallowglass. When we're closer,

maybe."

 

The tiny square started growing. It swelled until it filled

the screen. Moonlight silvered the dark square, revealing

textures.

 

"Treetops!" Chomoi exclaimed.

 

Yorick stared. "Did you drop us lower, or did you just

make the picture get bigger?"

 

Chomoi pointed. "See that silver thread straggling kitty-

comer across it? Has to be a stream."

 

"I think it's a park. Lady Gallowglass."

 

"Then there should be few folk about," Gwen said, with

growing excitement. "'Twill make a good landing field."

 

The park swelled in the screen. They could see individual

trees, which moved off to the edges of the screen as they

grew.

 

Gwen concentrated all of her attention on the screen.

 

 

 

 

754 Christopher Stasheff THE WARLOCK WANDERING 155

 

The stream grew broader and broader, filling the center

of the screen. Then it drifted off to the right and out of the

screen entirely.

 

Chomoi and Yorick stared for a few seconds, holding

their breath. The wreck jolted violently, slamming every-

body back against their acceleration couches. They all sat

still for a few minutes.

 

Then Gwen spoke, her voice soft in the dimness of the

emergency lights. "My apologies. I had not meant to strike

with such force."

 

"Oh, that's fine!" Chomoi held up a palm.

 

"Wonderful." Yorick nodded, with great enthusiasm.

"Believe me. Lady Gallowglass, that's a much softer landing

than we were expecting."

 

"Any landing is just great," Chomoi added.

 

Yorick loosed his webbing and stood up. "Here, let me

give you a hand." He helped Gwen disengage her webbing.

She caught his arm as she stood. "Gramercy, Master Yor-

ick."

 

"Oh, it's nothing. It's... Hey! The major! Is he all right?"

 

Rod was leaning back in his couch, his eyes closed, chest

heaving.

 

"Aye, he is well."

 

Rod pried an eyelid open. "Yeah." The other eyelid

opened, too, and he rolled both eyeballs over toward Yorick.

"Just a little tired."

 

"He did aid me in the moving of the vessel," Gwen

explained.

 

"A little tired." Yorick nodded. "Sure, Major. Uh—be-

fore we do anything else—how about a little nap?"

 

Rod shook his head, loosening his webbing and strug-

gling to his feet. "Haven't got time. We've got to get out

of here before dawn."

 

Yorick reached out to stop him, saying, "No, Major.

You're not..." But Rod was already past him, tottering

toward the hatch.

 

Yorick shoved himself to his feet with a shrug. "Well,

 

he's got a point. We landed pretty close to the terminator,

as I remember my last glimpse of the viewscreen."

 

Chomoi hurried after Rod, bleating, "But how do we

know the air is even breathable here!"

 

"Because approximately two million colonists are already

breathing it." Yorick swung into step beside her. "And, of

course, there's always the hole in our own roof. Nice try,

lady, but you're not going to stop him with cobblestones

for roadblocks."

 

Rod threw his weight against the locking lever and shoved.

The door swung open, and he went with it. He half fell,

half jumped, and felt as though he were dropping through

molasses. As his feet touched the ground, Gwen was beside

him, holding onto his elbow. "Gently, I prithee, my lord!"

 

"Why, with you there to cushion my falls? Thanks, though,

darling."

 

Gwen smiled, and shook her head. "Wilt thou not rest,

my lord? ...Nay, 'tis even as thou sayest, we must be

gone—yet favor thine own weakness, I prithee!"

 

Rod smiled gently at her. "You can always float me, if

I collapse, dear. After all, I won't be able to float alone...."

He looked around. "Hey! Not bad."

 

One moon was high in the sky, and another just above

the horizon. Between them, they gave just enough light to

show manicured lawns and sculpted trees all about them.

Rowers rustled in formal beds, their petals closed against

the night, and a small pond gleamed like a mirror a few

hundred yards away.

 

"Why... 'tis beautiful," Gwen breathed, looking about.

 

Yorick sidled up next to Rod and nudged him with an

elbow, pointing toward Chomoi. She was silent, her face

strained and eyes haunted, drinking in the lush beauty around

her.

 

Rod looked and nodded. "Yeah. Glad we get her off that

prison planet."

 

"Aye, the poor lass!" Gwen said. "To have so much of

beauty, after years of such bleakness...."

 

 

 

 

156

 

Christopher Stasheff

 

"We may have it again, if we don't get out of here." Rod

scanned the trees and shrubbery, feeling his fatigue shoved

into the background as adrenaline spiked him. "No way to

tell which inviting piece of topiary is hiding a vision pickup.

Maybe even sound."

 

Yorick nodded. "Somebody's got to have noticed we

dropped in on them."

 

"Well, then, let's see if we can disappear before they

send a welcoming committee." Rod turned away. "See if

you can't wake up Chomoi, will you?"

 

Yorick reached out carefully, touching Chomoi's arm.

Her head jerked around, eyes wide, and Yorick stepped back

fast, just as a precaution. "I really hate to interrupt your

reverie, Ms., but we gotta get going, or we're going to have

company."

 

Chomoi whirled, staring about her, wild-eyed.

 

"Right." Yorick nodded. "No telling where from. Only

that they're on their way."

 

"We can't be sure of that." Chomoi swung back to him.

"But we'd be fools to take the chance. Which way did the

Major go?"

 

Yorick pointed, and Chomoi set off after Rod and Gwen

at a pace that made Yorick hustle.

 

They came out onto cobblestones as dawn was lightening

the sky, permeating everything with a dim, sourceless light,

punctuated by slivers of late moonlight. It was the time

when night had died and day hadn't been born, a time

between realities, when nothing is definite and everything

is possible—a time of fantasy when anything can happen.

 

And the landscape was right for it. Mist rose about their

knees, and its tendrils wisped up to veil a row of half-

timbered houses, their second stories overhanging the street.

Shop signs creaked in the breeze. Far away, something

barked.

 

"Why, 'tis like home," Gwen said, wide-eyed.

 

"Yeah." Rod frowned. "Wonder what's wrong?"

 

"Why're we talking so softly?" Chomoi whispered.

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING     157

 

"Who could be loud in a place like this?" Yorick mur-

mured.

 

"Besides, we might wake the neighbors." Rod shouldered

his fatigue and mustered his resolution. "And we don't want

them to see us—just yet."

 

"Wherefore not?"

 

"Because they're going to find that capsule that brought

us here, and we don't want some idle bystander with a high

sense of drama telling the authorities that they saw us near

the park this morning."

 

"I get the point," Yorick said. "Some enthusiastic soul

might jump to the conclusion that we came in on that ship."

 

"But wherefore ought we wish him not to?" Gwen looked

from man to man, puzzled. "We were aboard it."

 

"Yeah, dear, but whoever tried to shoot us down thinks

we're dead. We wouldn't want to disillusion him, would

we?"

 

"Or her," Chomoi put in.

 

"But when they find the empty ship, they will know we

do live!"      -

 

"Yes, but they won't know what we look like!"

 

"Camouflage, Lady Gallowglass," Yorick explained.

"Odds are that our attacker doesn't know what we look like,

aside from a general description. He'll know we escaped,

but nothing more since nobody on Otranto has seen us. But

if he can get a detailed description from an eyewitness..."

 

"Hold on!" Chomoi held her hands up like a football

referee. "Time out! You're both assuming that pirate was

out to get us! He could have just been after the ship!"

 

Rod looked at Yorick. Yorick looked at Rod.

 

"All right, all right! I get the point!" Chomoi snarled,

yanking her hands down. "Come on, let's go!" She set off

down the street, walking fast.

 

Rod followed after her. "Can I help it if I'm^ cynic?"

 

"Dost thou wish to?" Gwen murmured.

 

Four blocks later. Rod came to a sudden halt. "Would

you look at that! You'd think a surveyor had drawn a line

 

758           Christopher Stasheff

 

and a town board had declared a zone."

"Probably did," Chomoi declared.

"There goes the neighborhood," Yorick sighed.

"And the business district begins." Rod agreed.

"But what manner of business isn't?" Gwen wondered.

 

"Woman's oldest," Chomoi stated.

 

"Oh, they're not that exclusive." Rod pursed his lips. "I

see at least three gambling halls in there, and five saloons."

 

"And five feelie theaters, three dance parlors, two opium

dens, and a pawnshop." Yorick looked up and down the

street. "Have I missed anything?"

 

"Yes. But they haven't."

 

As far as they could see, the street was one mass of

blinking, scrambling, writhing holographic displays in gar-

ish colors, advertising every form of pleasure conceived by

 

mortal man and woman.

 

"Wonder what the buildings look like?" Yorick mused.

 

"Who can tell?" Rod shrugged. "Even if you could see

 

one, you couldn't be sure it was real."

 

Chomoi nodded. "That about sums up this whole planet,

 

from what I've heard."

 

"I thought it was a resort."

"It is. And it's amazing what people will resort to, if

 

they can find the money."

 

"Otranto," Rod said, remembering the planet's reputa-

tion, stronger than ever in his own time, five hundred years

later. "Isn't their motto, 'It's been a business doing pleasure

 

with you'?"

 

"No, but it will be," Yorick assured him. He took a deep

 

breath. "Well, folks—we gotta get through it, right?"

"Right." Rod squared his shoulders and stepped manfully

 

in. "Breathe every five steps, friends."

 

That wasn't as easy as it sounded. The signs weren't just

visual—most of them were aural and olfactory, too. And,

occasionally, tactile. The company waded through a me-

lange of sounds and smells, their senses assaulted by every

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING

 

159

 

glamour in the state of the art. Erotic images gyrated and

beckoned, male and female; delectable aromas wafted out

to envelop them; images of riches and luxury flashed before

their eyes. Holographic hucksters stepped out to entice them,

as real as life and twice as pungent. They gritted their teeth

and forced themselves to keep going, wading through every

distraction they had ever desired.

 

A sleek, unbelievably handsome young man stepped out

of a doorway, muscles rippling underneath his evening

clothes, one arm full of long-stemmed roses, the other dan-

gling a diamond necklace. Chomoi swerved after him like

a needle to a magnet.

 

"Hold it, sister." Yorick caught her arm. "Just illusion,

remember? Besides, he costs money."

 

Chomoi shook herself, coming out of her trance with a

gasp. "Thanks. They almost got me with that one."

 

"Close," Yorick agreed. "Courage, lady. You're almost

out of it."

 

"How do you know?" Chomoi wondered.

 

"I don't—but this kind of thing can't go on forever!"

 

"Optimist," she snorted.

 

However, the colony was young yet; the cheapside didn't

last more than a quarter mile. They came up out of aromas

and sensations with huge, rasping gasps, into clear, quiet

 

air.

 

"I don't think I could have taken much more." Rod sagged

against a lamp post.

 

"And you didn't even have any money." Yorick finally

took his hand off his hip pocket and flexed it. "I think I've

 

got cramps."

 

Cramps in your soul, friend? Does this mortal world pain

you, with its plethora of Philistines?"

 

They looked up, startled.

 

A monk stood before them—the real, genuine article,

in a brown robe and rope belt. No tonsure, though.

 

"Why, he is quite like those at home," Gwen cried.

 

160 Christopher Stasheff THE WARLOCK WANDERING 161

 

"Uh, well, no, not really, dear." Rod scratched the tip

of his nose. "Just looks like it."

 

"Nay! He doth wear the badge! Dost'a not see?"

 

Gwen pointed, and Rod looked. The robe had a breast

pocket, and in it was a small yellow-handled screwdriver.

"You're a Cathodean."

 

The monk bowed his head in greeting. "Brother Joseph

Fumble, though my acquaintances generally call me Brother

Joey. And yourselves?"

 

"Gwen and Rod Gallowglass." Rod pointed at his wife.

"She's Gwen." He gestured toward the other two. "He's

Yorick, and she's Chomoi."

 

"Pleased to meet you," Brother Joey said, with a small

bow. "I don't suppose any of you would be interested in

taking up religion?"

 

"Uhhhh..." Rod glanced uncomfortably at Gwen. "We're,

ah, pretty well set along that line, thanks. I take it you're

a priest?"

 

"No, but I'm working on it."

 

Rod eyed the man; he wasn't all that young. "But you

are a deacon."

 

"Oh, yes, everything set except final vows." Brother Joey

sighed and shook his head. "It's just that I'm not really sure

I'm cut out for this sort of thing."

 

"For what? The priesthood?"

 

Brother Joey nodded. "I've got the drive, mind you; I've

visited nine planets so far, but I've had spectacularly little

success as a missionary. Only two converts so far, and they

were both religious recidivists." He brightened. "I'm an

excellent engineer, though."

 

"I see the problem," Rod agreed. "But isn't Otranto a

rather odd place to be preaching?"

 

"Apparently it is, but I thought it would be an excellent,

ah, 'hunting-ground,' if you follow me. Sort of a virgin

wilderness of the spirit. I mean, if there's any planet where

people need religion, it's Otranto!"

 

"Yes, but considering how much money most of them

have spent to come here to wallow in pleasure, and how

much more the rest are making from giving it to them, it's

the last place I'd expect to find people in remorse."

 

"And, apparently, your expectations are sharper than

mine," the monk sighed. "But it seemed such an excellent

idea!"

 

"Yet not all clergymen must needs be missionaries," Gwen

said gently. "Mayhap thou wouldst be more suited to a

village church."

 

"Uh, if you two are gonna talk about it..." Rod glanced

nervously along their back trail. "Would you mind if you

keep walking while you do? I admit it'd take a genius of a

bloodhound to track us through that aroma heaven back

there, but we did kind of stand out, being live people in the

vapor-light district at this hour of the morning. I need room."

 

"Well, you'll find it in this neighborhood, I assure you."

Brother Joey fell into step beside them, gesturing about him.

 

Rod had to agree with him. The houses, if you could

call them that, were far apart and far back from the road,

each one sitting centered on several acres of ground, with

flawless lawns rolling down to the walkway. The nearest

was a gloomy old Tudor manor house, but right next to it

was a Gothic castle. A rambling Georgian mansion glowered

across from it, and the lot after that held a medieval ruin.

 

"Odd notion of housing developments they have here."

Rod frowned, looking about him, and sniffing the air. "Smells

like rain."

 

"It always does, here," Brother Joey assured him, "and

it's always overcast, except for the first half-hour after dawn

each day. Just enough so that those who like sunrises, can

have them."

 

"They're doing such wonderful things with weather con-

trol these days." Rod shook his head in wonder. "But why?"

 

"To make Otranto stand out," Brother Joey explained.

"There are only a half-dozen of these pleasure-planets so

 

 

 

 

162

 

Christopher Stasheff

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING

 

163

 

far, but that's already enough to make the competition

strong—after all, there are just so many really wealthy

citizens in the Terran Sphere."

 

Chornoi nodded. "And most of them want to go to Or-

lando."

 

"Orlando does seem to have the general tourist trade

locked up—'something for everyone,' and all that. I under-

stand they have a separate continent for each amusement

theme."

 

"More like very large islands," Chomoi said, "but there

are a lot of them, yes."

 

Brother Joey nodded. "So the other pleasure-planets have

to specialize. They draw only a small percentage of the

customers, but that small percentage comes to a billion a

year. They attract those customers by doing only one theme,

but doing it in all the variations that a whole planet has

room for."

 

"Oh." Rod looked around at the ruined castle and the

gloomy manor houses, with the heavy gray sky brooding

over it all. "I take it Otranto opted for Gothic romance."

 

Brother Joey nodded. "They even renamed the planet for

the purpose. It used to be Zane's Star IV."

 

Chomoi said, "They've filled it with haunted houses,

gloomy moors, and the most elaborate graveyards ever to

bear bodies. The tourists get to live out their fantasies,

dressing up in full costume and stalking around their bor-

rowed family mansions, listening for clanking chains or

moaning ghosts."

 

"So," Rod said, "I can expect to see a whole pack of

decadent aristocrats haunted by family spectres?"

 

Chomoi nodded. "And a bevy of penurious governesses,

a host of crochety country squires fairly overflowing with

Weltschmerz, and a veritable zooful of assorted monsters."

 

"But the biggest attractions, of course," said Brother

Joey, "are the dreamhouses."

 

"Yeah." Chomoi gazed off into space with a dreamy

 

smile. "You lie down, take a drug that puts you into a

trance..."

 

Rod jerked to a halt, staring in horror. "A zombie-

drug?!!?"

 

"No, no! It just deadens bodily sensations, and heightens

suggestibility. A zombie-drug would totally knock out the

forebrain, leave the customer without any freedom of choice!

And choice plays a big part in it—the customer actually

gets to react! Of course, he reacts pretty much in keeping

with the plot line, unless he's a real maverick...."

 

"Plot?" Rod frowned. "I thought he just dreamed!"

 

"Well, she does, but it's a dream coming out of a com-

puter directly into the customer's brain. Completely pre-

scripted, of course—and the customer plays the hero or

heroine. I hear it's the ultimate entertainment—exciting,

emotion-stirring, full color, total sound-surround, full range

of aromas and tastes—and the full sensation of touch." She

shivered. "Bodice-rippers cost extra."

 

Gwen was staring in disbelief.

 

"I understand," said Brother Joey, "that it's all consid-

erably more vivid than reality."

 

"Oh, no!" Rod squeezed his eyes shut. "Why do I sud-

denly feel sorry for anyone who's been through one of

those?"

 

"Possibly because most of their customers are never able

to be satisfied with actual life, after they've been through

one such dream. As a result, they constantly crave another

dream, and another." Brother Joey shuddered. "Under such

circumstances, to claim they're not addictive, just because

they don't build physical dependence, is simply weaseling

with the meaning of the term."

 

"Never," Gwen said, with total determination, "shall I

ever essay such."

 

"Oh, but they're not dangerous!" Chomoi cried. "They

can't be, or the dreamhouses would lose customers."

Rod shook his head. "Forget about the dream itself. You're

 

 

 

 

164           Christopher Stasheff

 

lying there, out cold, for a few hours, right?"

 

Chomoi shook her head. "Just a few minutes, real time.

 

An hour, at the most."

 

"An hour?" Yorick turned to her, frowning. "Just how

 

much does this emotional candy cost, anyway?"

"Only a couple of hundred kwahers..."

"A couple of hundred? For less than an hour?"

"That's real time," Chornoi protested. "But while you're

 

dreaming, it seems to go on and on for weeks—maybe even

 

months!"

 

"So you're really paying for weeks of entertainment."

Rod nodded, his mouth wry. "But it only costs the house a

few minutes' use of its facilities. Talk about high turn-

over. ..."

 

"The overnight vacation," Yorick mused, gazing off into

space. "Fun, excitement, and romance, all in an evening's

 

sleep...."

 

Rod shook himself. "What are we, the dreamhouses'

advertising bureau? The fact remains that while your mind

is enjoying this total illusion, your body is lying there,

 

totally vulnerable!"

 

Chornoi nodded. "That's why the dreamhouses guarantee

 

your safety."

 

"How can they do that? I mean, while you're asleep,

 

they could..." Rod stared in horror. "My lord! They could

just channel indoctrination into your brain, along with the

 

entertainment!"

 

"No, they couldn't," Chomoi said quickly. "I mean, they

 

could, but it's totally illegal. The laws safeguarding dream-

house patrons are very rigid."

 

"Rather elaborate, too," Brother Joey agreed.

Rod shrugged. "So? As I believe I pointed out not too

long ago, murder is illegal, but people get killed anyway."

"But these laws get enforced! Very tightly!"

"So do the laws against murder. It doesn't help the corpse

 

much."

 

Chomoi's jaw set. "Say what you like—the dreams are

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING     165

 

safe. Not even the police are allowed to disturb a dreamer."

 

"Oh!" Rod smiled brightly. "So a dreamhouse is the

perfect hiding-place for a crook on the lam!"

 

"As long as his money holds out," Yorick qualified.

 

"The Church used to be able to offer a better deal than

that," Brother Joey sighed.

 

"You can't deny we could use a good place to rest."

Chomoi stabbed a finger at Rod.

 

Rod parried. "And you can't deny we're short on cash.

In fact, we're going to have trouble scrounging fare to

Terra."

 

"Of course..." Yorick pursed his lips. "... we might be

able to persuade the local government to want to get rid of

us, really badly, again..."

 

"Not too badly," Rod said quickly.

 

"I must ask your pardon," said tall, dark, and bloodless

as he brushed past them and hurried away, muttering to the

man beside him, "We will be late for our call."

 

"Aren't you getting into character a little bit early?" his

partner asked.

 

Chomoi's head swiveled, tracking him. "Wasn't that guy

a little long in the tooth?"

 

"I do get the feeling I've seen him before," Yorick agreed.

 

"Count Dracula?" Rod stared. "And who was that guy

with him?"

 

"The one with the shaggy face?" Yorick asked. "For a

minute, I thought he was a relative."

 

'"Twas a werewolf," Gwen gasped.

 

"More like one who got stuck halfway." Rod had vivid

memories of the werewolf he'd had to fight once. "Didn't

you say the customers like to dress up in costumes here?"

 

"Yeah, but they wouldn't be up this early in the morning!"

 

"Especially if the guy pretending to be the vampire was

really going to try to get into character," Yorick agreed.

"After all, we might get sunshine any minute now."

 

"I gotta see where they're going." Rod started after the

pair. "Go ahead, call me gullible, but I gotta see!"

 

 

 

 

766           Christopher Stasheff

 

Gwen and Chornoi exchanged glances, then shrugs.

 

"Wherefore not?" "Can't think of a reason."

 

"One direction's as good as another when you don't know

 

where you're going," Yorick agreed.

 

"I'll come along, if you don't mind," Brother Joey said.

 

"After all, I'm not doing much good where I am..."

 

"Who among us is?" Yorick sighed.

 

They came out into a village square, surrounded by half-

timbered shops on three sides, the fourth open to a gloomy

castle atop an artificial crag, several hundred yards away.

A rough hillside with picturesque, stunted trees led up to

 

its walls.

 

"Good landscape architect," Rod noted.

 

"Or set designer." Yorick pointed. "Look."

 

"My lord, what be these folk?" Gwen asked.

 

"A group of arcane specialists, dear," Rod answered. "I

 

think they're making a story."

 

The square was littered with people, most of them in

Bavarian peasant costumes, one or two in nineteenth century

business suits. Right in among them were people in up-to-

date coveralls. Most of them were gathered around a long

 

table fairly groaning with food.

 

A woman in her early twenties, with a focal headband

low on her forehead and her hair tied up in a kerchief,

hurried past them. The headband had thickened the air in

front of her eyes with twin forcefields, suggesting how she

would have looked if she were wearing spectacles, which

is what the forcefields were—energy lenses. She carried a

computer pad in her left hand. As she passed, she glanced

up at them, then jerked to a halt, frowning at Rod and Gwen.

"How did the costumer get you into those rigs? You're at

least three hundred years out of period! Those outfits are

Elizabethan, if they're anything. Go back to Wardrobe and

tell them you want nineteenth century Bavarian." She turned

to Brother Joey, looking him up and down. "You'll do, but

if you've seen one monk, you've seen 'em all." Brother

Joey started to protest, but she held up a hand. "No, don't

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING     167

 

tell me—'Monk, he see; monk, he do.' I've heard it already.

I don't remember ordering you, though."

 

"Maybe somebody else...?" Yorick suggested, grinning

hugely.

 

The young woman threw up her hands. "Producers! What

do they expect production secretaries to do, if they keep

bypassing 'em and ordering things on their own? Strogan-

off!" and she was off, careening through the crowd.

 

"Stroganoff?" Yorick looked at the table. "Little odd,

for breakfast."

 

"I think it's somebody's name." Brother Joey pointed at

someone. "See the plump fellow she's talking to? The one

in the gray flannel coverall?"

 

Yorick nodded. "Probably giving him what-for, about

sending for a monk when the script didn't call for it."

 

"You're enjoying this," Chomoi accused.

 

"Why not?" Yorick couldn't stifle a chuckle. "I just love

other people's mistakes!"

 

"Do you get the feeling we've wandered into a 3DT set?"

Rod asked Brother Joey.

 

"Oh, of course," the monk confirmed. "Where else would

so many weird people seem so normal?"

 

"What is a '3DT set'?" Gwen asked.

 

"An absurdity based on a fantasy derived from a reality

that never existed," Rod answered. "The abbreviation stands

for 'Three-Dimensional Television'—pictures that look and

move like real people, but are absolutely artificial. The folk

you see there, use 3DT for telling stories. Well, no," he

said, correcting himself instantly, "not telling, really—

showing. They show a story, as though you were right there,

watching it happen."

 

"Yes, but this story is much more interesting." Brother

Joey beamed, watching the actors mill about. "I've been

watching these people for three or four days-now. They're

fascinating, they take so much time to do something that

seems so simple!"

 

"Well, if they're making it look simple, they must be

 

 

 

 

768           Christopher Stasheff

 

doing it really well." Rod had enough experience trying to

mn an army, to be sure that managing even a hundred people

 

had to be a minor nightmare.

 

"My lord," said Gwen, "who are those men with those

 

devices strapped on their shoulders?"

 

"Camera operators, darling. Those little plastic bulges

are 3DT cameras. When they're recording, the men will

wear special goggles that sense every movement of their

eye muscles, and transmit them to the cameras. Then the

cameras will automatically 'look' wherever the men do."

 

Chomoi frowned. "I thought they made all these 3DT

 

epics on Luna."

 

Brother Joey looked up in surprise. "Oh, no! Not since

 

the PEST regime took over Terra and cut off the unprofitable

planets. The ones that still had trade operating, adapted—

quickly, too! And while they were at it, they developed

ways of making their own entertainment. You really didn't

 

know about this?"

 

"I've been out of circulation for a while," Chomoi said,

 

flustered.

 

"Cloistered, you might say," Rod put in.

 

Chomoi glared daggers at him, but Brother Joey nodded

with full understanding. "Oh, a retreat? Well, let me explain

it to you, then. You see, some of these people were nice

enough to explain it all to me. Not the young lady in the

kerchief and computer tablet, of course—she's always busy,

and she never remembers me from one day to the next. But

the 'extras' do—the ones who just dress up like peasants

and lurk in the background, bystanding."

 

"They get paid for that?"

Brother Joey nodded. "So they always have a great deal

 

of time on their hands, and they're glad to talk."

 

"But how can the company afford it?" Rod looked around,

frowning. "This looks like a pretty expensive operation."

 

"Oh, yes, it certainly is! So when PEST cut them off,

they had to work out ways of cutting costs. The main one

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING     169

 

seems to be specialization: Each 3DT company works in

just one genre, and settles down on whichever pleasure-

planet has its kind of settings."

 

"So this company is making a Gothic epic—a horror

story," Rod observed. "But didn't PEST want to keep the

resort planets?"

 

"No. Pleasure costs money, so it isn't profitable."

 

"For the customers, at least." Rod gave him a dry smile.

"Never mind how much money it makes for the sellers."

 

"PEST doesn't. They're rather puritanical."

 

"Most dictatorships are, during their early years."

 

"All PEST could see was the amount of money Ten-an

citizens were spending on those 'foreign' planets, so they

cut off trade with the resorts. They reasoned that if the

dissolute couldn't go to the pleasure-planets, the money

would stay at home."

 

Rod's smile gained real warmth. "I take it that only drove

up the price of transportation?"

 

"Correct. Which did rather hold down the number of

people who could come here from Terra."

 

"Let me guess—most of the ones who do are in the

PEST bureaucracy."

 

"Why, how did you know? You're right, of course—the

really wealthy will keep their privileges, no matter who sits

on the throne. But it has been hard on the people who live

here; they're experiencing some rather lean times."

 

"But not starving," Rod noted.

 

Brother Joey shook his head. "No. They're managing,

on the handful of Terran patrons, and the few who come in

from each of the frontier planets."

 

"Which makes them a nexus," Rod said softly, "one of

the few surviving links between the outlying planets and

the shrunken Terran Sphere."

 

"Yes." Brother Joey looked directly into his eyes. "Some

trade survives. Only a trickle, perhaps, but it's there. In

both directions."

 

 

 

 

170           Christopher Stasheff

 

Yorick grinned. "No wonder our freighter was bound for

 

Otranto."

 

"The resorts become trade centers." Rod nodded slowly,

 

as understanding dawned. He'd always thought the resort

planets of his own time had become Sin Cities to service

the merchants. He'd never realized it could have begun the

 

other way.

 

"And that," Yorick went on, "is why we're here."

"Oh." Brother Joey looked up in surprise. "Did you want

 

to go to Terra?"

 

Rod opened his mouth, but a short, lean man with white

 

hair and a face with a few wrinkles bawled, "Mirane!"

 

"Over here, Whitey!" the girl with the computer-pad

called back. She dived into the crowd and plowed toward

 

him.

 

As she came up to him, he said, "About time to roll,

 

isn't it?"

 

"Eight o'clock," Mirane confirmed. "And all present or

 

accounted for."

 

"'Accounted for'?" Whitey's eyebrows lifted. "How many

 

are we missing?"

 

"Only a couple of extras." Mirane touched a few keys

 

on her pad. "A middle-aged peasant and a matron in a

 

babushka."

 

"Nobody we can't shoot without." Whitey scowled up

 

at the sky. "But we can't start until the clouds cooperate.

What is it with that weatherman? He promised us a low

overcast, with threatening thunderheads, and all we've got

 

is a high haze!"

 

"We paid enough for it." Stroganoff, the plump man,

 

joined them, scowling. "Check and find out what happened

 

to it, will you, Mirane?"

 

The young woman punched buttons on her computer-

pad, then pulled a handset from a pouch at her belt and

 

talked into it, frowning at the sky.

 

The plump man paced. "Hang it, we've got three stars,

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING     171

 

five supporting actors, and a hundred extras tied up here!

We can't afford to waste time on a weatherman who can't

deliver!"

 

"So sue him." Whitey lounged back against a shopfront,

hands in his jacket pockets. "You worry too much, Dave."

 

"Somebody's got to." Dave pinned him with a glare.

"It's okay for you to talk, you're just the director!"

 

"Also the backer," Whitey reminded him. "It's my money

we're wasting. Come off it, Dave, relax."

 

Dave heaved a sigh. "You make it sound good, Whitey.

But blast it, we've got a schedule to keep! If we get behind

a little every day, pretty soon we'll need an extra day's

shooting—and that'll cost you a couple of therms! Besides,

we lose Gawain after the twenty-seventh."

 

"So what's a leading man?" Whitey shrugged. "We'll

just have to make sure we get all his scenes shot before

then."

 

"All right, all right! So make sure of it, will you?"

 

"Oh, all right." Whitey heaved himself up with a sigh

and stepped over to a fiftyish woman behind a complicated-

looking console. He talked quietly with her a moment, then

turned to call out, "Okay, Gawain, Herman, and Clyde! As

long as we're waiting, let's run the first part of the scene,

before the mob jumps the vampire."

 

"Where I throw the handkerchief?" asked a little man in

a dark blue robe and pointed cap sprinkled with signs of

the zodiac.

 

Whitey nodded. "Let's take it back a bit, to where Gawain

has just come out of the inn and seen Herman waiting for

him across the plaza."

 

"Right." A blond young man in a tweed suit stepped up

beside Whitey. "I just woke up and found out breakfast

wasn't even made yet, right?"

 

"That's it, Gawain. And a nice young guy li^e Dr. Vailin

wouldn't even dream of waking somebody up just to get

him a cup of coffee."

 

 

 

 

772           Christopher Stasheff

 

"So I'm stepping out into the false dawn to let the chill

 

wake me up."

 

Whitey nodded again. "That's right. You enter from cam-

era left, take a deep breath, look around, and see Count

 

Dracula."

 

"Over there." The young man pointed at the vampire—

 

and frowned. "Aw, come on, Herman! You had all night

 

with that script!"

 

"Just making sure, lad." The vampire closed the cover

 

on a small computer-pad and handed it to a coveralled bru-

nette. He turned back toward Gawain and straightened his

collar. "Now, then: 'It is pleasant, is it not? The air of my

 

Transylvania.'"

 

"The approach of dawn clears the air," Gawain agreed.

 

"But aren't you becoming careless, my lord? The first rays

of the rising sun will touch you quite soon."

 

"What is existence without risk?" the vampire asked.

"Only a dull, endless round of absurdity. Still, I do not

 

hazard greatly; I have yet a little time."

 

"Thirteen and a half minutes," snapped the little man in

 

the blue gown.

 

"Ah, my colleague is always precise," Dracula purred.

 

"You have not been introduced, I believe. Dr. Vailin, allow

me to present the esteemed sorcerer, Vaneskin Plochayet."

Gawain gave a slight bow. "Charmed."

"Not yet," the sorcerer chuckled, "not yet."

"Not ever," Gawain's face became stem. "The words of

Aristotle will preserve me from your illusions. Master Plo-

chayet."

 

The little sorcerer cackled, and Dracula sneered, "Surely

 

you do not believe that your puny science can avail against

our might, young man! You are not now in your native

Germany, so far to the north and west! Nor are you in Italy,

the Land of Faith; nor Greece, the Land of Reason! Nay,

both are..." He broke off, turning to the director. "Damn

it, Whitey! Am I supposed to make that sound realistic?"

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING     173

 

"Of course not," Whitey retorted, "it's a fantasy. Just

make it believable. Come on, come on! 'Greece, the Land

of Reason...'"

 

Herman sighed and turned back to Gawain. " 'Nay! Both

are my neighbors—and uneasy neighbors they are. For you

bide now in Transylvania, home of witchcraft and horror!

Southeast of Austria, southwest of Russia we bide, poised

between the lands of Reason and the land of feudal darkness,

where your Science can have no sway!"

 

"Not so," Dr. Vailin smiled, almost amused. "Science

rules the universe, even this small, forgotten comer—for

science is the description of Order, and Order proceeds from

the Good. No creature of Evil can stand against its symbol!"

He slipped a crucifix from his breast pocket and brandished

it. The Count shrieked and cowered, hands raised to ward

him from the sight of holiness. But his sorcerer-ally leaped

in front of him, hurling something as he shouted an incan-

tation.

 

It was a silk scarf, and it fluttered to the pavement at his

feet.

 

"Cut!" Whitey bawled, and he turned to the woman be-

hind the console. "Well! That was a majestic flop. What

happened, Hilda? The kerchief was supposed to fly across

to drape itself over the crucifix!"

 

Hilda was punching buttons, looking miffed. "Sorry,

Whitey. It's the static-charge generator. It was working ten

minutes ago, I swear!"

 

"Don't," Whitey advised, "it's not nice. Get the gremlins

out of it, will you?"

 

"Clouds!" Dave slapped Whitey on the shoulder, pointing

at the sky.

 

Ominous charcoal-colored thunderheads were drifting to-

ward them in full majesty.

 

Whitey turned to Mirane, beaming. "You got through!"

 

She nodded. "Just a clerk's foul-up. They promised it'll

be nicely ominous within fifteen minutes."

 

 

 

 

774           Christopher Stasheff

 

"Awright!" Whitey grinned. "Now we can get to work!"

He turned to Hilda. "How soon can you have that static

 

generator fixed?"

 

Hilda's jaw set. "I'm a special-effects operator, Whitey,

 

not a repairman!"

 

"Specialists!" Whitey rolled his eyes up. "Preserve me

from 'em, Lord—or David. You're closer. Talk to her, will

you?" He turned back to Mirane. "What else can we shoot?"

 

Dave heaved a sigh and rolled over to Hilda. "Don't you

 

know how the gadget works?"

 

She stared at him for a moment, then blushed and shook

her head. "Sorry, Dave. I just push the buttons."

 

Whitey turned away from Mirane, bawling, "Places for

 

Scene 123!"

 

Dave stepped up to Mirane. "Where's the nearest elec-

tronics tech?"

 

"They're all kinds of them on this planet," she answered.

"Somebody has to keep all those holo effects working. But

they're all on salary, Dave, and they've all got regular rounds.

I don't think we could get one on less than a day's notice."

 

"Blast!" Dave scowled. "And I was hoping we could

finish up with Clyde and Herman today. Well, no help for

it. We'll just have to scratch the scene and pick it up to-

morrow."

 

Mirane punched keys, and frowned at her pad. "Another

 

day of Clyde and Herman will cost you a therm and a half

each. And the minimum crew for an extra day is 843

 

kwahers."

 

Dave paled. "That'll put us over budget."

"Uh, your pardon, please." Brother Joey stepped up.

 

"I'm afraid I eavesdropped."

 

"Not hard," Dave grunted. "We haven't exactly been

 

tiptoeing,"

 

"Perhaps I could help." Brother Joey slipped his screw-

driver out. "I'm very good with gadgets and gizindigees."

 

Dave stared a moment, then smiled with tolerant pa-

tience. "This isn't exactly a job for a hobbyist, fella."

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING     175

 

"I made a living at it," Brother Joey said, poker-faced.

"I used to fix holo gear on spaceliners."

 

Dave really stared now, his lips parting toward a grin.

 

"But you're not in the union!" Hilda howled.

 

"He doesn't have to be; we aren't on Luna now." Dave

grinned wickedly. "Or anywhere within the Terran Sphere,

for that matter—so we don't have unions yet."

 

"Well, we ought to," Hilda grumbled.

 

"Why, Hildie?" one of the camera ops said. "If we had,

you couldn't've gotten in—or any of us, except Harve,

here. He's the only one who had an uncle in the union."

 

Harve nodded. "Besides, union max was twenty kwahers

a day below what they're paying us here."

 

"Bribery," Hilda snapped. "Lousy union-busters."

 

"No, victims." Harve grinned wickedly. "There ain't too

many of us out here, Hilda. We can call down top money."

 

"It's right here, I think," Brother Joey called, his head

and shoulders inside an access hatch. "The trouble, I mean.

A weak chip."

 

"How canst thou tell?" Gwen knelt beside the hatch,

peering in with avid interest.

 

Rod listened with growing trepidation as Brother Joey

explained about test meters. Gwen's infatuation with tech-

nology was really beginning to be depressing.

 

"Paranoid?" Chornoi asked at his shoulder.

 

"Always," Rod assured her.

 

"Turn it off, please." Brother Joey pulled himself out of

the hatch and looked up at Hilda. "Let it cool down."

 

Tight-lipped, she stabbed at a button, and the telltale

lights died.

 

Brother Joey stood up, dusting off his hands, and turned

to the producer. "That chip quits when it overheats. Just get

it to a circuit-doctor, and have him put in a new one."

 

Dave pressed a hand to his forehead. "You mean we have

to scrap the scene, after all?"

 

"No, of course not. Just have somebody run over to the

multi-shop and pick up a freezer. You know, one of the little

 

776           Christopher Stasheff

 

plug-in sticks for cooling down martinis? I'll frost that chip

for you just before you run the scene. That'll get you through

the day."

 

"My savior!" Dave grabbed him by the shoulders.

 

"No, that's toy boss." Brother Joey held up a cautioning

forefinger. "But I get paid, you know. In my business, we

have to pull our own weight. The chapter house is too far

away to send me a salary."

 

"Union rates plus!" Dave turned to Mirane. "Send a

gopher for a freezer, will you?"

 

"He's on his way."

 

"That's my girl!" Dave spun away too fast to see Mirane

blush. "We just have to wait for this scene, Whitey."

 

"I was going to, anyway." Whitey surveyed the ersatz

peasant mob. "Hey, wait a minute—who put the monk in

 

with the farmers?"

 

Mirane stepped up beside him, frowning. "He's in cos-

tume. And that outfit goes with any period—after 1100

 

A.D., of course."

 

"Yeah, but the poor vampire wouldn't stand a chance

with a priest in the crowd. Besides, look at that little yellow

screwdriver in his pocket. They never had those in nine-

teenth century Transylvania." He turned to Dave. "Who

hired him for this scene?"

 

Dave opened his mouth, but Brother Joey answered,

 

"Nobody."

 

Mirane was touching computer keys again. "He's right.

I checked off all the extras, and he's not included." She

looked up at Rod, frowning. "None of you are."

 

"Never claimed to be," Rod confirmed.

 

Dave was frowning. "Uh, come over here a second,

 

would you?"

 

Rod and Gwen exchanged glances, then stepped over to

 

the producer.

 

"I hate to seem rude," Dave muttered, "but if you weren't

hired for this scene, what're you doing here?"

 

Rod shrugged. "Just watching."

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING     177

 

"Tourists!" Dave heaved a martyred sigh. "How do you

keep 'em out? Look, folks, I appreciate your interest, but

we can't have you mixing in with the cast. Just too many

legal problems."

 

"Well, that's show biz," Yorick sighed.

 

"Very short career," Rod agreed.

 

"'Twas pleasant, whilst it endured," Gwen concurred.

 

"Um, I don't mean to give you the bum's rush, especially

since we just hired your friend, here, below-the-line." Dave

nodded toward Brother Joey. "You're welcome to watch, if

you want to. Just stand way behind the camera ops, okay?"

 

"I shall surely watch!" Gwen stepped over to Brother

Joey and knelt down to study what he was doing. Appre-

hension prickled Rod's spine.

 

"Figure it out?" Whitey asked, stepping up.

 

"Yeah—and I appointed them guests." Dave waved to-

ward Whitey. "This is the director, folks. His name's Tod

Tambourin."

 

Chomoi stared. So did Rod. Even Yorick looked im-

pressed.

 

"Yes," Dave sighed, "the Tod Tambourin."

 

"The poet laureate of the Terran Sphere?" Chomoi gasped.

 

"Not anymore," Whitey assured her. "PEST took the

laurels away. They didn't like my verses—decided I favored

individualism too much. Horrible, immoral concepts, you

know, such as 'freedom' and 'human rights.'"

 

Chomoi paled. "PEST did that?"

 

"Hey!" Yorick clasped her shoulder. "Don't take it per-

sonally. It's not as though you did it."

 

"But I did," she breathed, "I did."

 

"So did every person who voted extra power to the Ex-

ecutive Secretary," Whitey snorted, "but I'm not about to

blame each one of 'em." He shrugged. "Besides, they're

paying for it now, anyway. Just a bunch of poor suckers,

that's all."

 

"Yes," Chomoi whispered, "we were."

"Hey, don't let it bog you down! Spend too much time

 

778           Christopher Stasheff

 

cursing yourself for what you did yesterday, and you'll

hamstring yourself for tomorrow! Besides..." Whitey

shrugged. "I never was too comfortable being 'Tod Tam-

bourin,' anyway. Always preferred being 'Whitey the

 

Wino.'"

 

Chomoi stared. Then she straightened, and her mouth

 

firmed with resolution.

 

"Well! Always glad to have admirers around." Whitey

turned to pump Rod's hand. "What do you think of my

 

show?"

 

"Uh..." Rod cast a look of appeal to Gwen. "You wrote

 

the script for this epic?"

 

"Yeah, me." Whitey frowned. "What is it? What don't

 

you like?"

 

Rod took a deep breath and plunged. "Little on the wordy

 

side, isn't it?"

 

"Hm." Whitey gazed at him, scowling.

 

Then he turned to Mirane. "Call Gawain over here, will

you? And Clyde and Herman." He gazed off into space,

 

abstracted.

 

Rod turned to Dave with a word of apology on his lips,

 

but Dave held up a palm. "Shh! He's working."

 

The actors came up, and Whitey said, "Herman, take it

from, 'You are not now in your native Germany,' will you?"

 

Herman frowned. " 'You are not now in your native Ger-

many, so far to the north and west! Nor are you in...'"

 

"All right, cut!" Whitey chopped down with his hand.

"Condense it, Herman. How would your character say it?"

 

Herman stared at him for a moment, then smiled and

said, "'Surely you do not believe that puny science can

 

prevail against me, young man!'"

 

Mirane stared up at him, her linger keying the dictation

 

mode on her keypad.

 

'"You are in my Transylvania now, not in your native

Germany, where logic prevails!'" Herman went on. '"No,

you are caught between Faith and Reason to the west, and

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING     179

 

witchcraft and superstition to the east...'"

 

"That's enough." Whitey chopped crosswise with his

hand. "I get the point; I tried to work in too much geography

at one blow. Okay, let's try it this way: Uh... 'You are

trapped here, young man—trapped in Transylvania, trapped

between the logic of Germany, to the west, and the super-

stition of Russia, to the east.'"

 

"Dracula would keep the 'my Transylvania,'" Herman

said softly.

 

Whitey nodded. "Right. Yeah, he would." He flashed a

glare at Rod. "Always listen to the actors, because they

know the characters better than the writer does."

 

"But the writer created those characters!" Chomoi ob-

jected.

 

"But the actor re-creates the character his own way,"

Whitey corrected her. "If I get an actor to portray my char-

acter, it ceases to be just mine anymore. It becomes that

actor's character, even more than mine, or the actor will do

a lousy job." He turned back to Herman with a grin. "But

/ get the final say."

 

"Only because you hired the producer," Clyde snorted.

"It's immoral, young man—the Executive Producer doing

his own directing."

 

"It's my money, and I'll spend it as I like, old-timer.

Now—'You are trapped in Transylvania, my Transylvania,

the land of superstition... no... the land of Superstition

and Sorcery... no. Superstition and Black Magic... where

Science can have no sway!'"

 

They went on, overhauling the section of dialogue. When

they were done, Mirane reminded, "We were going to shoot

the scene with the peasants."

 

"Of course!" Whitey struck his forehead with the heel

of his hand. "How much time have we wasted?"

 

"Not a second," Dave assured him. "We'll make it all

back, because it'll be a better epic. But we should shoot all

the day's scenes, Whitey."

 

 

 

 

180           Christopher Stasheff

 

"Right! Back to your places!" Whitey spun to the camera

ops. "George, you go over by the south wall. Harve, over

 

here, next to me!"

 

"That's one disadvantage of the writer doing his own

directing," Dave confided to Rod. "A separate director could

have been shooting a different scene, while he was over-

hauling this one."

 

"But how can he?" Chomoi cried. "How can he allow

his deathless prose to be violated this way?"

 

Whitey heard her, and turned back, raising a hand. "Guilty.

I hereby confess to writing deathless prose, on occasion—

and even immortal verse, now and then. But when I do, 1

do it alone, with only a split of vin ordinaire for company,

and I do it for me, myself, only. It's pure self-indulgence,

of course—'art for art's sake' really means 'art for the

artist's sake.' It's the sheer personal gratification of doing

something as well as I can possibly do it, of expressing my

feelings, my view of existence, my self—and it's for me,

alone. Oh, I don't mind if other people read it, and it's nice

if they like it. Sure, I enjoy praise; I'm human, too. But

that's just a by-product, a side issue." He looked around at

the crowd of actors and technicians. "This—this is another

matter. It's another thing entirely. This script, I wrote for

other people, and I make it with a host of other people. If

no one else ever hears it or sees it, it will have failed. Worse,

it'll be absurd, without purpose. Without an audience, it's

 

incomplete."

 

He turned back to Herman and Gawain. "Okay, Mirane'll

tidy that up and get hard copies for you. But let's tape it

with the script the way it is first, just in case."

 

The vampire and the hero nodded happily and went back

to their places. The little sorcerer followed, grumbling con-

tentedly.

 

"Places!" Mirane spoke into a ring on her index finger,

and her voice boomed out of a loudspeaker. "Quiet on the

 

set."

 

"Mist," Whitey said quietly.

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING     181

 

Fog seemed to grow out of the ground, rising up to

obscure Herman and Clyde.

 

"Lights," Whitey commanded.

 

High in the air, light suddenly glared from six spots. The

two camera operators sauntered out to the side and turned

toward the actors. Everyone was silent for a moment, then

Harve said, "Balanced."

 

"Ditto," George called.

 

Whitey nodded. "Roll."

 

"Rolling," the camera ops responded.

 

"Confirm," said a man at a console behind Whitey.

 

"Action," Whitey called.

 

The set was quiet a moment longer. Then Gawain came

out of the hotel, looked around him with a bemused smile,

and inhaled deeply.

 

"It is pleasant, is it not?" said a sepulchral voice with a

heavy accent. "The air of my Transylvania."

 

The mist thinned, gradually revealing the tall, cloaked

figure and the stooped, gnarled silhouette behind him.

 

"The approach of dawn clears the air," Gawain agreed,

and the scene went on.

 

Whitey stood by, approving, at peace.

 

Finally, Clyde stepped forward, hurling the silk kerchief.

Hilda watched, alert, pushing sliders and twisting a knob,

and the kerchief fluttered straight at Gawain, settling over

the crucifix. Herman grinned, showing his fangs, but this

time everyone froze. Silence enveloped the set again.

 

Then Whitey sighed, and called, "Cut."

 

Everyone relaxed, and Herman came striding out of the

mist, grinning and chatting with Clyde. Gawain grinned and

turned away to have a word with a young lady. Noise swelled

up, as everyone started chattering, released from the thrall-

dom of silence.                             ^

 

Whitey turned to Rod with a raised eyebrow. "Little better

that time?"

 

"Uh... yeah!" Rod stared, astounded. "It, uh... it helps

to do it for real, huh?"

 

 

 

 

182           Christopher Stasheff

 

"Yeah, it does." Whitey turned and looked around. "But

the new dialogue will make it work better." He turned back

to Rod with a smile. "It only seems natural if you don't

 

break the spell, you see."

 

Rod gazed at him for a moment, then said, "No, I don't

think I do. You mean the old dialogue might make the

audience realize they were just watching a show?"

 

"It might," Whitey said. "If it stood out for you, it might

distract them. Then we might as well have never come to

this place. Our work here would have been wasted." He

smiled suddenly. "But I don't think the new version will

distract anybody. No. It'll hold their attention."

 

Rod frowned. "Why do you care about that so much?

Isn't it enough just to know you did the job right?"

 

Whitey shook his head. "If the audience is bored, they'll

spread the word, and nobody'll buy the cube to view, and

if nobody buys a copy, we won't make money. If we don't

make money, we can't make any more epics."

 

"But that's not the main reason."

 

"No, of course not." Whitey grinned. "Let's get down

to basics—if nobody watches it, there was no point in

 

making it."

 

"What point?" Rod demanded. "You've been the top poet

of your time! Your place in history is guaranteed, and so is

your bankroll, if you can afford to make an epic like this!

Why should you sully your reputation by making 3DT epics?"

 

"Because people need to learn things," Whitey said, "or

they'll let themselves fall prey to slavemasters—the way

the Terrans actually voted in the PEST regime. And that

hurts me, because I want everybody to be free to read what

I write. I don't want to take a chance that some censor might

lock up my manuscript and not let anyone read it. So I'm

going to teach them what they need to know, to insist on

 

staying free."

 

"With a horror story? A Dracula spectacula?" Rod ex-

claimed.

 

"You've got it," Whitey affirmed. "Even this, just a

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING     183

 

cheap work of entertainment, can do it. What'll they learn?

Oh, just a few random bits about Terran geography. After

all, most people don't know where Transylvania was, or

how the Dracula legend came to be, so we give them just

a few facts about that. And along with it, just a touch of

the history of Terra's Europe—and the peasants' struggle

out of the chains of feudalism. Just a few facts, mind you;

 

just a dozen, in a whole two hours. But if they watch two

hours and twelve facts every day of their lives, they can

learn enough to yell 'No!' when the next man on horseback

comes riding in."

 

"You're a teacher!" Rod exploded. "On the sly! This is

covert action! Subversive education!"

 

"I'll plead guilty again." Whitey grinned. "But I can't

claim all the credit. Most of these techniques, I picked up

from a cheery old reprobate on a frontier planet."

 

"Cholly!"

 

"Oh, you've met him?" Whitey grinned again. "Charles

T. Barman, officially."

 

"I, uh, did hear something of the, uh, sort..."

 

"The rogue educator," Whitey said, "the only professor

living who doesn't worry about tenure. Business, maybe,

but not tenure. Strog and I spent a year with him out on

Wolmar. Quite a chap, that. Couldn't believe how much he

taught me—and at my age!" He grinned. "Not that I didn't

throw him a curve or two. Dave and I thought up some

techniques between us that he'd never dreamed of."

 

But his words had suddenly moved away from Rod,

become remote. He was remembering that Whitey the Wino

had been the creative force behind the DDT's mass-

education movement. It had culminated in the coup d'etat

that eliminated PEST, and brought in the Decentralized

Democratic Tribunal of his own times. But the history books

hadn't exactly stressed the fact that Whitey the Wino was

the same person as the revered, austere poet, Tod Tam-

bourin.

 

He'd been quiet too long; Whitey's attention had strayed.

 

 

 

 

784           Christopher Stasheff

 

He turned away to call the extras, bustling around to set

them up in a rough semicircle, facing toward the cameras.

A portly man in a tan coverall moved among them, passing

out flails and pitchforks.

 

"And you two lounge out here in the middle for your

dialogue." Whitey waved, shooing two actors into place.

"Come on, now, hit your marks! You know, ninety degrees

to each other! Upstage man sets up the over-the-shoulder!

Okay, let's run through the lines."

 

"I don't know... maybe we shouldn't try it," the inn-

keeper said through his walrus mustache.

 

"We got to try it," the old farmer answered, testing one

of his pitchfork points with a finger. "Ow! Ya, that's sharp

enough."

 

"To do what?" the innkeeper was irritated. "To poke him

in his zitsfleisch? What good is that going to do with a

vampire, hanh?"

 

"You talk like an old woman," the farmer snorted. "The

pitchfork is just to hold him off while we get a rope around

 

him."

 

"He'll just go to bat," the innkeeper warned.

 

The farmer shrugged. "So? We'll have Lugorf standing

by with his butterfly net. Sooner or later, we slam the stake

through his heart."

 

"And then what?" The innkeeper spread his hands. "So

he lies there in his coffin for twenty, thirty years. Sooner

or later, some young idiot who's looking for a reputation

will go down there and pull out the stake, and where will

we be? Right where we are now."

 

"We've done it before," the fanner maintained, "and

we'll do it again."

 

"Again, and again, and again," the innkeeper moaned.

"How many times do we have to go through it?"

 

"How many times did our ancestors have to?" the farmer

growled. "Five hundred years they've been cleaning up his

messes!"

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING     185

 

"Five hundred years?" The innkeeper frowned. "That was

the first of them—back when 'Dracula' was a title, not a

name."

 

"That's right. It meant 'dragon,' didn't it? Shame on

them, giving dragons a bad name like that!"

 

"At least dragons didn't hurt people for the fun of it,"

the innkeeper agreed. "At least, that's what they say about

the first one."

 

"His name was 'Vlad.' They called him 'the Impaler."'

 

The innkeeper nodded. "I remember. This mountain

country was just a bunch of tiny kingdoms then, wasn't it?"

 

"Ya. No kingdom bigger than a hundred miles each way,

but their rulers called themselves kings." The farmer shook

his head. "What a life for our poor ancestors! Trying to

scratch a living out of scraps of level ground, whenever

they weren't busy dodging whichever petty king had a war

going at the moment!"

 

"Always fighting," the innkeeper grumbled, "always a

battle. It wasn't any better the first time they woke him, a

hundred years later..."

 

Rod listened, amazed, as the two men gossiped through

a three-minute history of the Balkans, as seen through the

eyes of a couple of Transylvanian peasants. It was ridicu-

lous, it was asinine—and it was working.

 

"So stick a stake in his sternum... and, at least, we get

twenty years of peace," the farmer reminded the innkeeper.

"Maybe that doesn't mean much to you, but my cattle start

looking pale when there aren't enough gullible people

around."

 

"Where do you think the gullible people stay away from?"

the innkeeper retorted. "My inn! Maybe you've got a point.

No matter how you bite it, the Count's bad for business."

 

"So we nail him down again," the farmer sighed, hefting

his pitchfork, "and twenty years from now, our sons take

their turn. So? You do what you have to do to make a living,

right?"

 

 

 

 

186           Christopher Stasheff

 

"Right." The innkeeper nodded. "Each generation has to

kill its own vampire. You don't stop planting crops just

because there's a drought."

 

"Right," the farmer agreed, "and you don't..."

 

Out of the comer of his eye. Rod saw the arm whirl,

saw the pitchfork fly. "Down!" he bellowed, and leaped

into a dive at Chomoi. His shoulder slammed into her as

she howled in anger. She chopped at him as he tried to

untangle himself enough to stand up, then managed to get

a one-handed choke hold—and froze, staring at the pitch-

fork sticking in the ground, its handle still vibrating.

 

Rod knocked her hand loose, bawling, "Stop him!" He

leaped to his feet, whirling toward the mob of extras, just

in time to see the ersatz peasant disappear into the crowd.

Rod bellowed and leaped after him.

 

The crowd parted, giving him plenty of room.

 

It made a nice lane—just in time. At its far end. Rod

saw the "peasant" disappearing into an alley.

 

Gwen caught a broomstick out of the hands of a stunned

extra, leaped on it, and shot off after the "peasant."

 

Hilda stared after her, then gave her head a quick shake

and scowled down at her console. "Now, how the hell did

 

1 do that?"

 

Rod sped down the lane and into the alley. He was just

in time to see the "peasant" disappearing around a comer.

Rod kicked into overdrive and pelted after him.

 

The "peasant" dashed back out. Rod stared, then launched

himself into a flying tackle. But the "peasant" saw him

coming and jumped forward, and Rod smashed into the

pavement with a howl of rage. He landed judo-fashion, but

pain seared his side.

 

"Down!" Gwen cried.

 

Rod did a good imitation of a pancake, just in time for

Gwen to flash by directly above him on the broomstick.

 

He rolled to his feet, shaking his head, and hobbled after

 

her with a limping run.

 

A block later, he saw Gwen coming toward him, carrying

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING     187

 

her broomstick. "What's the matter?" he called. "Isn't this

backwards? I thought it was supposed to be carrying you."

 

"I had no wish to scandalize those who live here," she

explained.

 

"Honey, this is the one planet in the whole Terran Sphere

where they wouldn't think much of it. They might ask you

how you did the effect, though. I take it our man got away?"

 

Gwen nodded. 'There is a town square. From it doth

open many streets."

 

"Here, let me see." Rod limped on past her. The street

curved and ended in a plaza, where five narrow, crooked

streets fanned out amid tottering houses. The lanes twisted

away out of sight.

 

Rod stood in the center, looking about him and shaking

his head. "Right, lady. He could have gone down any one

of them."

 

"Aye," Gwen agreed. "We have lost him."

 

Rod glowered from one street to another, remembering

the pitchfork sticking in the ground. "The bastard almost

got Chomoi. Didn't take them long to find us, did it?"

 

"Peace, husband." Gwen laid a gentle hand on his arm.

"The man himself is of no consequence. E'en an thou wert

to slay him, a dozen more like to him would spring up."

 

"Like dragon's teeth," Rod agreed. "The one we need

to get is the one who's sending them out. But we don't even

know what outfit he works for!"

 

"Is he not of our old enemies from tomorrow?"

 

"SPITE or VETO? I'd thought so, but that ersatz extra

was after Chomoi, not us."

 

"Gwen's eyes widened. "Her erstwhile employers?"

 

"The PEST secret police." Rod nodded. "Probably. I was

right when I said we'd be a marked crew if we took her

along."

 

Gwen's hand tightened on his arm. "We ^cannot desert

her."

 

"No," Rod agreed, "we can't. Besides, we still need a

native of this era to guide us. Okay, so we could probably

 

 

 

 

788           Christopher Stasheff

 

find one who isn't as big a potential liability as Chomoi,

but we'd still have GRIPE and/or VETO after us."

 

"Thou dost but seek to discover reasons," Gwen accused.

"When all's said and done, thou'It not abandon a compan-

ion."

 

"Probably," Rod admitted. "Sometimes I wish I had as

 

high an opinion of me as you do."

 

Gwen smiled, and slipped her arm through his. "That is

my province, my lord. Thou mayest entrust it to me."

 

"Then I will." Rod smiled down at her. "And try to

 

perform the same function for you."

 

"Not too well," she murmured, as his face came closer.

 

'"Tis drafty, placed up so high."

 

"Oh, come down off your pedestal for a moment!" Rod

muttered. Then his lips brushed, touched, and claimed hers.

 

A minute or two later, she murmured, "We must preserve

 

those poor folk from Yorick."

 

"Yeah," Rod sighed, clasping her hand around his arm

as he turned back. "We must save those poor, innocent city

folks from our Stone Age country slicker."

 

As they came back to the shooting site, they heard a

voice protesting, "But we weren't really planning it that

 

way...."

 

"Dam straight you weren't." Whitey's voice was grim.

"In fact, this whole elaborate explanation has the definite

ring of an ad-lib. Now, what say we try it again—with the

 

truth?"

 

"If you say so," Yorick sighed, "but you're not going to

 

believe this."

 

"So what else is new?"

 

"We are ... or at least, two of my friends are. They were

bom about five hundred years from now. And there's an

interstellar organization out to get them. It kidnapped them

and dumped them back here."

 

Whitey just stared at him for a moment, then said, "You're

 

right. I don't believe you."

 

"Then try this," Chomoi snapped. "I used to be a spy

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING     189

 

for the LORDS. That's right, I'm one of the ones who got

us all into this mess! But after the coup, I realized what an

amoral, calloused cadre they were, and tried to quit, so they

sent me to Wolmar. Gwen Gallowglass and her husband got

me out of there, and I'm trying to guide them to Terra."

 

Whitey stared at her while the slight remaining amount

of color drained out of his albino face. Then he said, "That,

I believe." He turned to Stroganoff. "Take over, Dave. I

suddenly got hit with a yen for a stroll."

 

"Sounds good to me, too." Stroganoff was pale as a skid

row bum with an air conditioned bar available. He turned

to Mirane. "Tell 'em to go home."

 

"Home?" Mirane yelped. "Are you crazy? They each

have to be paid for the full day; it's in their contracts!"

 

"Do it," Whitey said grimly. "It's cheaper than a coffin."

 

Mirane stared at him for a moment, then threw her

computer-pad up in despair. She turned to the cast and crew,

stretching out a hand to catch the pad. "Okay, that's it for

the day! Strike the setup and go home!"

 

One or two of the extras cheered, but the principal actors

and the technicians stared at her, then scowled and started

packing up.

 

Mirane watched them for a moment, then turned to

Whitey. "You run a good company. This is the first time

I've ever seen a crew who'd rather finish the shoot than

have the day off."

 

"They're good kids," Whitey agreed, "but I'd rather be

shooting with them tomorrow, than having them come to

my funeral." He turned to Rod, Gwen, Yorick, Chornoi,

and Brother Joey. "I think you'd better come with me."

 

"I'm not sure whether it's safer with us, or away from

us," Stroganoff explained to Mirane.

 

"Neither am I, but I don't feel safe alone.",,

 

Dave nodded. "Let's go, then."

 

They hurried to catch up with the cortege.

 

As they came up, Rod was saying, "Why a casino?"

 

"Safest place," Whitey explained, "except for a dream-

 

 

 

 

790

 

Christopher Stasheff

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING

 

191

 

house. I mean, you're out there in public, where plenty of

people are watching you, and the management doesn't want

any unpleasant scenes for the patrons."

 

"I like the dreamhouse idea better." Chomoi had a happy,

faraway look.

 

"So do I," Whitey grunted. "Whether it's a PEST agent

who's after you or not, he's on a free planet now, and he

has to adhere to local laws. And the dreamhouses are very

good at keeping unwanted clients out." He turned to Rod.

"Stroganoff and I aren't exactly popular with PEST, either."

 

Dave nodded. "They know about our epics. And they

know that education is the dictator's enemy."

 

"And the easiest way to stop your epics is to stop you?"

 

"Like a dropped watch." Whitey nodded. "If there's an

agent after your friend Chomoi, he might decide to bump

us off, too."

 

Chomoi screeched to a halt. "Bye-bye." She turned away.

 

"Come back here." Yorick put out a hand to catch her,

then snatched it back as she whirled, chopping out. "See?

I knew I could stop you."

 

"There's not much point in going off by yourself, Miz,"

Whitey said. "If there's an assassin on the planet, we're in

danger. The only difference in having you with us is that

we have some idea of where the bastard is."

 

Chomoi hesitated.

 

Stroganoff nodded. "It's easier to duck when you know

where the knives are coming from."

 

"There speaks a true organization man," Yorick muttered.

 

"But a dreamhouse is out." Whitey started walking again.

"There's the little matter of cash; I don't have enough of

 

it."

 

Stroganoff nodded. "Every penny's tied up in this epic."

"We're a little short ourselves," Rod said.

 

"When PEST took over Terra," Whitey went on, "they

also took over my royalties. Oh, not that they've attached

my earnings, or anything, but they're censoring the mail,

and they won't let my agent send me a check. So the roy-

alties are there, piling up nicely in a trust fund on Terra,

and no doubt they'll do my heirs all kinds of good, five

hundred years from now—but that doesn't help much, at

the moment."

 

Rod had a faraway look in his eyes. "You say we're

going to a casino?"

 

"Take your choice." Whitey turned to him with a dry

smile. "The planet's lousy with 'em. Every pleasure-planet

is." But he frowned at the look in Rod's eye, then suddenly

grinned and slapped his thigh. "Of course! If your eccle-

siastical friend can fix a static generator, he can gimmick a

roulette wheel as easy as pi!"

 

Brother Joey went pale. "Rig a roulette wheel? My heav-

ens, that would be stealing!"

 

"So what do you think the house is doing?" Whitey

demanded. "Come on. Brother, all we're asking is that you

make the machines shave a few percentage points in our

favor."

 

"No." Brother Joey's jaw finned. "I couldn't possibly

do anything so immoral."

 

"That's right, preserve your integrity," Whitey sighed,

"and more power to you. Brother, for sticking to your prin-

ciples. But that still leaves us without admission to a dream-

house."

 

"Oh, not necessarily." Rod was gazing at his wife. "That

wasn't exactly what I had in mind, anyway."

 

Gwen had gained an abstracted, dreamy, fascinated gaze.

" 'Twould be but a matter of having some whirling wheel

come to stop where we wished it to, would it not? Or causing

a pair of dice to fall as we chose?"

 

"That's right, nothing heavy-duty. Think you can handle

it, dear?"

 

"I will be delighted to essay it," Gwen answered, with

a smile that made Rod shiver. After all, he knew what she

could do when she put her mind to it.

 

Whitey frowned. "What is she—a telekinetic?"

 

"Among other things," Yorick muttered.

 

 

 

 

192

 

Christopher Stasheff

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING

 

193

 

"Well, well!" Whitey offered Gwen his arm. "Allow me

to escort you, Ms. Gallowglass!"

 

"Lady," she corrected.

 

"Would I be seen with anything else? Where a reporter

can see me, anyway. Shall we go?"

 

They sauntered off toward the nearest casino, with Rod,

Chomoi, Yorick and Brother Joey in tow. Dave and Mirane

exchanged glances and followed.

 

"Lesjeux sont fails," the croupier pronounced. He wore

a satin dressing gown, muttonchop whiskers, and a stuffed

raven on his shoulder. At least. Rod thought it was stuffed,

but it kept turning its head to regard him with a beady ruby

eye. A robot, no doubt, but was its eye really a lens for a

 

surveillance camera?

 

"Les jeux sontfaits," the croupier said again, "the bets

 

are made."

 

"The die is cast?" Rod suggested.

 

'Won, monsieur," the croupier said primly. "We play

roulette at this table, not hazard."

 

"Oh! My apologies." Rod bit his lip in consternation;

 

the last thing he wanted was to stand out enough for the

croupier to recognize him.

 

The wheel spun, and Rod gazed at it, fascinated. He had

lost most of the 10-therm stake Yorick had given him, before

he had begun to get the knack of just how hard to think at

the hopping ball. But he'd picked it up, bit by bit, and was

now winning seven games out of thirteen. That was enough;

 

he'd made back his stake, and his profits were rising slowly

but steadily. On the other hand, he wasn't winning so fla-

grantly as to attract notice.

 

Since this was his turn to lose, he glanced around the

room, seeking out his companions. They were easy to find

in the midst of all these mock werewolves, vampires, an-

cestral ghosts, and decadent aristocrats. Especially the de-

cadent aristocrats; they seemed to be in fashion this year.

Rod couldn't decide whether it was the 'aristocrat' part, or

 

the 'decadent,' that made those disguises so attractive to the

tourists.

 

But Rod's people were dressed in ordinary coveralls or,

in Gwen's case, in Renaissance peasant garb. They were

definitely conspicuous—and that worried Rod, but there

was nothing he could do about it.

 

They seemed to be doing a good job of keeping a low

profile in other ways, though. Whitey had given them a

brief lecture on how to win and get away with it. "Lose a

lot. But make the odd win bigger than all the little losses,

so that you make an overall profit. Don't make any fortunes,

though, just a dozen therms or so. When we pool our win-

nings, we'll have enough to buy safe hiding."

 

They'd paid attention, and seemed to be doing well.

Gwen was just one of many at the craps table; and, if her

pile of chips was growing steadily larger than those of the

other players, nobody seemed to be taking any particular

notice of it. Yorick was building up large stacks of chips at

the poker table; Whitey was busy demonstrating that he was

a better whist player than the dealer. Stroganoff and Mirane

were making a valiant try at contract bridge, but doing their

part for the overall image of the group by losing—and

Brother Joey was walking around in a daze.

 

Rod turned back to the table, satisfied—everything was

going according to plan.

 

"Red twenty-one," the dealer called, and Rod stared as

a pile of chips slid over in front of him. Then he shrugged,

scooped them into his palm, and turned away.

 

"Monsieur?" the croupier inquired politely.

 

"I'm going to quit while I'm ahead," Rod explained.

"That last win wasn't supposed to happen." And he saun-

tered away from the table, leaving the croupier staring after

him. "Red twenty-one," he murmured, and that reminded

him; he ambled over to the blackjack table. He'd always

wondered if the casino version was really an honest game,

and this was his chance to find out. Who better to play

blackjack against the house than a mind reader?

 

 

 

 

194           Christopher Stasheff

 

Behind the bar at the far end of the hall, the huge 3DT

tank suddenly went black, drawing bleats of protest from

the loyal few who'd been watching a particularly obnoxious

melodrama. Then it lit up again to show a benign, handsome

face three feet high, with steel-gray hair turning white at

the temples. "Fellow citizens." The face looked stem. "And

you, honored guests. The Government of Otranto has just

been notified that four dangerous criminals landed their

spacer illegally on the surface of our fair planet, during the

 

darkest hours of last night."

 

Rod's head snapped up. He stared at the screen, then

"covered and turned back to fix his gaze on the blackjack

Jle. Out of the comer of his eye, he noticed that his

companions had done the same thing, except for Gwen and

Whitey, who were so wrapped up in their games that they

 

didn't seem to have noticed.

 

"These criminals are convicts, who have escaped from

the prison-planet Wolmar," the voice went on. "The High

Vampire has just confirmed the report, and believes the

 

criminals are at large on Otranto."

 

The screen dissolved to a picture of Rod. It was an

atrocious likeness, really, obviously a candid, taken while

Rod was running somewhere, and he'd never really looked

best from his left profile—but he had to admit, with a

sinking heart, that it was recognizable.

 

"This man is their ringleader," the unseen announcer

went on, "currently traveling under the name of Callow-

glass."

 

The picture dissolved to a shot of Gwen. Even in a mug

 

shot, she was beautiful.

 

"These are his accomplices," the announcer went on, "a

 

woman, posing as his wife..."

 

Rod sneaked a quick peek, and was relieved to see that

the other patrons were all staring avidly at their games—

well, almost all. And none of the croupiers were looking;

 

his own dealer had a clamped and rigid jaw, but he was

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING     195

 

staring firmly at the cards. No doubt they'd been warned

about such distractions, and about what unscrupulous but

light-fingered customers do while a dealer's back was turned.

 

Chomoi's picture was on the screen. "... a young woman,"

the announcer went on, "no doubt unaware of the company

into which she has strayed..."

 

"Twenty-one," the dealer admitted, as he laid a black

jack onto the top of Rod's hand.

 

"Uh—thanks." Rod slid the chips into his purse and

stood up. "Think I need a drink."

 

"... and a very burly man of particularly repellent as-

pect," the announcer finished, as a picture of Yorick ap-

peared in the tank. "He even looks like a brute."

 

"He's talking about you, you know," Rod muttered into

Yorick's ear.

 

"Not a word of truth in it," the caveman said automat-

ically. He looked up. "I don't mean to gripe. Major, but

I've got a hell of a hand going, here, and... HUH?"

 

"These convicts are presumed armed, and are highly

dangerous." The announcer was back on the screen, gazing

somberly out at the customers. "Please, if you are a right-

minded citizen who values your personal safety, and the

safety of your beloved Otranto—if you see any one or more

of these criminals, notify a Public Safety official immedi-

ately."

 

He droned on, but Yorick said grimly, "I think I got the

gist of it."

 

"So does he," Rod pointed out. "In fact, he's got the gist

of both of us. Not to mention..."

 

"So don't." Yorick's glance flicked around the room. He

sat up a little straighter, and the grim set of his mouth

actually seemed to be curving in a slight smile.

 

"Damn it," Rod hissed, "you're enjoying this!"

 

"No, but I get a thrill out of it. If I didn't, I'd go into

another line of work." Yorick looked up at Rod, his eyes

narrowed. "Look, my face was on the screen; they might

 

 

 

 

196           Christopher Stasheff

 

recognize me. Or you, for that matter—or Chomoi, or Lady

Gallowglass. We'll have to depend on our local friends for

 

a way out of this."

 

Rod looked furtively over his head at Whitey. "Think we

 

can trust him?"

 

"You know his history as well as I do. Major. And, as

they've pointed out, they're in kind of the same class of

 

pickle jar as ourselves."

 

"So we can trust them—as much as we can trust anybody

here." Rod slapped Yorick's shoulder. "You might think

 

about cashing in your chips."

 

Yorick nodded. "At the end of the play. I don't want to

 

look conspicuous."

 

This was analogous to a wolf claiming he didn't want to

stand out in a flock of sheep, but Rod let it pass. He saun-

tered over to the whist table where Whitey was holding

away, the gleam of battle in his eye. Rod leaned down and

murmured, "The party's over."

 

"You're out of your mind," Whitey snorted. "I'm on a

 

roll."

 

"The ones who're going to be rolling you, are the neigh-

borhood police. Their local hallucination was just on the

screen, identifying me and my three companions as dan-

gerous criminals. He even showed the nice people our pic-

tures."

 

"I fold." Whitey laid down his cards, raked in his chips,

 

and stood up. The dealer looked up in surprise, but Whitey

was already on his way over to the cashier's cage. "You'd

better round up your crew. I'll get Dave and Mirane mov-

ing."

 

Rod nodded. "Meet you at the exit." He turned away

 

toward the craps table and sidled up to a comely woman

who was staring at the dice in fascination, lower lip caught

between her teeth, a damp strand of hair straggling loose

at the side of her forehead. "Sorry to interrupt, dear, but I

 

think you'd better wrap it up."

 

"'Tis what I'm attempting, yet they have so cursedly

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING     197

 

much money that I nearly despair of gaining it all."

 

"Spoken like a true housewife." Rod glanced at the

mountain of chips in front of her, then stared in horror. "My

lord! They'll never let us out of here with all that!"

 

"Assuredly thou canst make it to disappear, and appear

again where we may find it." Gwen shook the dice in her

hand.

 

"No!" Rod hissed. "Don't you remember what Whitey

said? If we win too much, they'll steal it back!"

 

"Not whiles I've breath in my body!"

 

"They can fix that. Not that they'll have to; the whole

casino just got the message that the four of us are on the

lam. Showed everyone our pictures, too."

 

Gwen froze, paling. "Wherefore did I not hear this mes-

sage?"

 

"You were a little preoccupied."

 

Gwen held still a moment longer, then nodded once.

"True."

 

With her free hand, she shoved about half her pile of

chips out. The croupier stared at the mound, astonished.

Then Gwen's arm flashed down, and the dice sprang out,

bounced up against the board, and fell back onto the baize,

two gleaming ivories with single black dots in the center.

 

The croupier released his breath with a hiss. "Snake

eyes!"

 

"Oh!" Gwen clenched her fists in exasperation. "I've

lost!" She stooped to scoop her chips into her apron. "Well,.

I've wisdom enough to quit while I may."

 

"Naw, you can get it back. Come on, double or nothing,"

the croupier urged.

 

Gwen shook her head with decision. "I thank thee, but

I've wanted to try my skill at that little hopping ball within

the wheel."

 

The croupier relaxed, with only a slight smile. "Right,

lady. Roulette. Yeah, go ahead." And he smiled, showing

fangs.

 

Gwen hurried away with Rod. "Wherefore did that man

 

 

 

 

798           Christopher Stasheff

 

not recognize me from this picture thou sayest all did see?"

 

"The house personnel were careful not to look. They

figured it might be part of a swindle—somebody putting a

fake squawk on the tank to distract them, while their partners

cleaned up the tables." Rod saw Yorick heading away from

the cage, sliding a billfold back inside his tunic. "Just hand

your chips to the man inside the wire net, dear. He'll give

 

you bills for them."

 

"But wherefore is he gaoled?"

 

"The wire's to keep us out, not to keep him in. When

you have your money, go over by the doorway; I'll meet

you there. Right now, I have to go pry Chomoi loose." He

steered her toward the cage and left her there. Then Rod

turned away toward the fourth member of his crew, but saw

Yorick bending over, muttering into her ear. She sat very

still, then deliberately set about finishing the hand. Rod

approved; she wasn't going to look suspicious, no matter

how much it hurt. He turned to find Whitey chatting with

Mirane, who was growing paler by the syllable, and saw

Dave saunter around the perimeter of the room, admiring

the wallpaper—no doubt looking for the back door.

 

Then, across the big room. Brother Joey waved, catching

Stroganoff's attention. The monk must have found an "Au-

thorized Personnel Only" door. Rod turned toward Gwen

just as she came up beside him, shaking her head as she

held up a wad of bills. "I still cannot believe, my lord, that

mere ink on paper can have such worth."

 

"Don't worry, we'll spend it before the rest of them catch

on." Rod tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow. "Let's

meander on over toward Brother Joey, dear. He seems to

 

have found a bolthole."

 

Gwen frowned. "Wherefore might we not go out as we

 

came in?"

 

"What, broke? Oh, you mean the main entrance! No,

 

there is a chance it might be guarded. Besides, you remem-

ber the doorman? You know, the one wearing the ghost

makeup and the shroud, who looked so bored? Odds are he

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING     199

 

was watching the tank, even if nobody else was. No, I think

we'd better settle for what our good Brother has found."

 

Ten feet from the door, someone behind them gasped

and yelled, "That's them! The people who were on the tank!

Stop them!"

 

"Somebody would have to be observant!" Rod groaned.

 

A dozen or so ersatz Rochesters and Janes looked up,

staring at them, then nudged their neighbors, nodding to-

ward Rod and Gwen (they were too polite to point). Their

neighbors—several score languid Byrons and Wollstone-

crofts—looked up and stared. Then they all started grins

that turned into hungry leers, and voices began to call, "Who

are they?" "Convicts! We just saw their pictures on the

tank!" "On the tank?" "Convicts?" "Quick! Don't let them

get away!" "Catch them!" "There they go!"

 

And in two seconds, the crowd of cultured, refined pa-

trons had turned into a howling mob, boiling toward Rod

and his companions.

 

"I might have known," Rod groaned. "Boredom—and

we're something to do!"

 

Gwen hung back. "They could not stand against us, my

lord! There cannot be but an hundred of them!"

 

"That's too many to be sure we won't kill somebody!

And besides, while we're mowing them down, they could

maul these people who've been trying to help us!"

 

He could see her hesitate. "I mislike to run from such

as these, my lord."

 

"I know what you mean, but in this case, discretion is

definitely the better part of valor. Fly, dear!"

 

Fortunately, Gwen didn't take him literally, but they were

at the door almost as quickly as though she had. They

jammed in between Chomoi and Mirane, just as Brother

Joey slammed into the pressure-plate lettere4, "Authorized

Personnel Only."

 

"I never expected to be that right!" Rod waved Chomoi

through first, then Mirane.

 

"But I'm not authorized," she protested.

 

 

 

 

200           Christopher Stasheff

 

"Yes, you are," said Whitey. "You're one of my person-

nel, and I'm an author. Git!"

 

Mirane stopped, gazing up at the dreamhouse facade with

foreboding. "I don't like it, Whitey."

 

"I thought it was a little too rococo, myself." Whitey

frowned up at the front of the building. "And all those

chubby little angels are definitely declasse. But it's their

services we're buying, not their decor."

 

"You're right; I don't care a fig how it looks. It's just

the idea, Whitey. I can't stand the thought of being so

 

helpless!"

 

"Yeah," the old man said grimly, "I know what you mean.

 

But there isn't much choice."

 

"There isn't really any danger, either!" Chomoi glared

daggers at Whitey. "The dreamhouse will guard you as

though you were one of their own, Miz—which you will

 

be, in a way."

 

"Why does that idea make me shudder?"

"Because you think of being absorbed." Stroganoff laid

a hand on her shoulder. "It's a fear we all have, from time

to time. But in this case, it's foolish. The laws that guard

dreamhouse patients are very strict, Mirane, and they're

 

very tightly enforced."

 

"I'm sorry you got caught up in this," Whitey said, his

 

face hard. "But if PEST actually does try anything against

us, they're likely to catch you in the overflow."

 

"You're worrying about nothing, really!" Chomoi smiled

brightly. "And it'll be fun. If only half the things I've heard

are true, it'll be more fun than you've ever had."

 

Mirane still looked doubtful, but she clutched her com-

puter-pad tightly and followed them in.

 

The thinclad attendant just inside the front door smiled

brightly, ran a practiced eye over them, added in the fact

that they'd come in a batch, and asked, "Single dream, or

 

group?"

 

Yorick frowned. "What's a group dream?"

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING     201

 

"You'd all be tied into the same computer," the hostess

explained, "and you'd share the same dream. Only two of

you would be the protagonists, of course, but you'd all be

characters in it."

 

Whitey gave his companions a jaundiced glance. "How

does the computer decide who's going to be the hero, and

who's going to be the heroine? Chance?"

 

"No, it matches character to personality type. And it's

less expensive, on a per person basis."

 

"Less expensive?" Mirane pounced. "How does the bill-

ing work?"

 

"For individual dreams, you'd each be charged 937

kwahers," the hostess explained. She ignored Rod's gulp

and went on, "that's about 7500 kwahers for all of you. But

a group dream only costs 3000 for any number of persons

up to thirteen."

 

"There're eight of us," Mirane muttered to Stroganoff.

"The group dream might even leave our fugitives enough

cash for passage to Terra."

 

"Don't worry about us," Rod hissed.

 

"Thank you, Don Quixote," Whitey snorted. "Don't for-

get, the faster you're off Otranto, the safer we are."

 

"Why do they say that, everywhere I go?" Rod sighed.

 

"Speculation later." Whitey nodded to the hostess. "We'll

take the group dream, Miz."

 

She took their money, then took them to a wide, low-

ceilinged room with ten couches upholstered in varying

degrees of opulence, and invited them to lie down. They

did, casting wary glances at the headboards full of electronic

gear.

 

"Hold very still," the hostess cooed. "This won't hurt a

bit."

 

They were each ramrod stiff as she fitted skull caps over

their heads. "Nothing penetrates the skull, ""she assured

them. "The electrodes just fit against your scalps and induce

the dream through the bone."

 

That wasn't exactly reassuring, but they submitted with

 

202

 

Christopher Stasheff

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING

 

203

 

good grace, and all took their medicine like good boys and

girls. It was thick and syrupy, and tasted like pomegranates.

 

"Now just relax," the hostess soothed, but the drug flowed

through their veins so fast that they were very relaxed in-    i

deed, before she finished the sentence. Delicious languor

enveloped them, and they drifted off into a sleep that was

so welcome, it was positively sybaritic.

 

The young woman glanced about to make sure no one   ;

 

was watching, then quickly stepped into the shadow of a   ;

 

huge old tree and fumbled with something behind her back.   j

"There! Dam bosom-binder keeps coming unfastened!" She   :

 

stepped back out, with her mammary measurements dras-   ;

 

tically dwindled. "Golly whillikers, Deviz, it's really unfair    ;

 

to have to put up with so much out in front, when some   |

lucky girls scarcely have any!"

 

Her Scots terrier looked up at her and yapped in agree-

ment.

 

The young woman glanced about nervously. "Golly whil-

likers, Deviz, maybe we shoulda stayed on the street where

we live! I don't think I like this gloomy old neighborhood!"

She swallowed heavily. "Maybe I wouldn't be so scared if

I weren't still a virgin. But all those spooky old houses set

back so far from the sidewalk... And all those bony old

trees, with the brown and sere leaves dropping off and

drifting to the ground like the ghosts of sorrows worn out

with grieving." She frowned, jogging the side of her head

with the heel of her hand. "What's the matter with me? I

 

don't speak like that!"

 

There was a sudden flurry of yaps, and her head snapped

up, just in time to see Deviz go bounding away after a dim

and spectral squirrel. "Deviz!" she yelped, and leaped to

follow him, the skirts of her jumper billowing in the breeze.

 

"No, Deviz! Not in there!"

 

But the dog dashed right after the bounding rodent as it

leaped through the rusty grillwork of the ancient fence and

sprinted up the rotting flagstones of the curving path, all

 

the way up the hill to the gaunt old house that brooded over

the scene.

 

"No, Deviz!" The girl struggled with the rusty gate, then

climbed over the fence. Her skirt caught on one of the iron

points, but she yanked it loose and leaped down to follow

her dog.

 

She almost caught up with him on the porch, but the

door suddenly opened, and the squirrel shot through with

Deviz hot on its heels. The girl bolted after them, but skid-

ded to a halt as she saw the lady who stood in the doorway.

 

"Good afternoon, my dear." She was tall, slender, and

pale, with just a touch too much rouge, and glossy black

hair that swept down to her shoulders in a straight fall,

turned up just a little on the ends. The girl stared, then

squeezed her eyes shut, opened them, and looked again.

She couldn't be sure, but she thought the woman's eyeteeth

were much longer than usual. And very sharply pointed.

 

"Do come in," the lady purred, stepping back from the

doorway.

 

Dread rose up in the young girl, but her beloved dog

was in that house, so she hadn't much choice. With reluc-

tance weighing down her dainty feet, she stepped across the

threshold.

 

Her hostess closed the door with unseemly speed. "My

name is L'Age D'or. What is yours?"

 

"Petty," the girl stammered, "Petty Pure." She stared

around her. "Golly! You've got an awful lot of real old

things... YIKE! One of them moved!"

 

"Why, yes, that's my uncle." L'Age took the arm of the

old gnarled man with the yellowed straggling hair and the

shiny black suit. "Petty Pure, allow me to introduce Sucar

Blutstein."

 

The old man stared at Petty, his eyes wide and round,

his mouth stretched wide in a grin. A drop of moisture

dripped from one pointed fang. Petty shuddered.

 

"Ah, I see you've noticed his dentition." L'Age smiled,

revealing her own fangs. "It runs in the family."

 

 

 

 

204

 

Christopher Stasheff

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING

 

205

 

"Puh... pleased to meet you, I'm sure," Petty stam-

mered.

 

"And I," Sucar Blutstein chuckled, "and I."

"Keep a lid on it, you old fool," L'Age muttered to him,

"or you'll scare her off." Aloud, she said to Petty, "Won't

you sit down and make yourself comfortable? I'll ring for

tea." She stepped over to the comer to pull on a bell-rope.

A moment later, the butler shambled in, and Petty gasped

in horror. He was a giant, seven feet at least, and all his

clothes were way too small for him. His feet were too large,

and his face was seamed with scars and was squarish, with

a ragged hairline. His eyelids drooped, and an electrical

contact protruded from each side of his neck. He hooted

sullenly.

 

"Tea," L'Age snapped, then beamed at Petty. "Cream or

lemon, my dear?"

 

"Uh... cream, if you please. And sugar." Petty scrunched

back against the high back of her wing-chair in terror.

 

"And, um, tomato juice for me," L'Age finished. "And

some teacakes, of course. Yes, that will be all, Frank."

The butler growled and shambled from the room.

Petty slowly uncurled. "What... what is he?"

"Oh, just some tinkering I did in an idle moment." L'Age

waved the issue away. "Now, my dear, tell me about your-

self. Have you any family?"

 

The butler shambled into the kitchen, grunting. Auntie

Diluvian, a fat, sweaty old woman in a floor-length gaudy

dress, looked up from the pot she was stirring. "She wants

what? ... Tea? Whatever for? ... Company? A virgin? Oh,

yes, I'm sure they welcomed her with open arms—first real

food they've seen in years. Been living on that son of hers,

she has—.and what he's been living on, I hate to think....

Roderick!"

 

Uncle Roderick, an aging hunchback, looked up from

the tomatoes he was squeezing. "Eh?"

 

"Run upstairs and drain me two ounces," Auntie Dil

called.

 

"But he already gave today," Uncle Roderick protested.

 

"It's a special occasion," Auntie Dil snapped. "He'll just

have to pump up some more."

 

"Bleed him white, that's what she'll do," Roderick grum-

bled, but he picked up a small beaker and trudged up the

back stairs.

 

On the first floor landing, he limped past the sumptuous

mistress bedroom and turned into the adjoining chamber. It

was spare and Spartan—only a bare wooden floor, blank

beige walls, and, in a comer, an old, forgotten, dried-up

Christmas tree, its balls cracked and broken, its tinsel sadly

tarnished.

 

In the center of the room stood a dusty old canopied bed,

and on it lay a bronzed body, eyelids closed, chest rising

and falling gently.

 

"The poor lad," Uncle Roderick sighed as he hobbled

over and sat in the straight chair beside the bed. "The poor

lad." He took the young man's unresisting hand, propped

it over the edge of the bed, held the beaker under the wrist,

and turned the little spigot set into the vein. Dark ruby fluid

welled out and into the beaker. When it had risen to the "2

oz." line etched in the glass. Uncle Roderick turned off the

little faucet, wiped it with a hanky, and laid the hand gently

back on the bed. "There, there," he soothed, even though

he knew McChurch couldn't hear him. "There, there."

 

He stood up with a creak of old bones and a sigh, and

turned away to leave, but stopped in the doorway to look

back at the incredibly handsome young man, his muscular

shoulders and chest bulging up from under the sheets, his

eyes closed. Uncle Roderick sighed and shook his head,

and shut the door behind him.

 

As he reached the bottom of the stairs, Sucar Blutstein

fairly pounced on him, eyes glittering. "Did you get it? Do

you have it?"

 

 

 

 

206

 

Christopher Stasheff

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING

 

207

 

"Oh, yes. Master Blutstein," Roderick sighed.

 

"Oh, bliss! Oh, rapture!" Sucar Blutstein poised clawed

fingers, drooling only a little. "Let me see it! Let me taste..."

He broke off as Roderick held up the beaker, showing the

two inches of dark red fluid. Blutstein stared at it, lips

writhing back in terror. "Aieeeee!" He squeezed his eyes

shut, raising his hands to block out the sight. "Take it away!

Take it away!" He staggered off toward the drawing room,

shuddering.

 

"Ah, the poor man," Roderick sighed. "How horrible to

be a vampire, but feel your stomach turn at the sight of

blood." Shaking his head, he limped on into the kitchen.

 

"Did you get it?" called Auntie Dil.

 

"Of course I got it," Roderick grumbled as he hobbled

over to his wife. "What was he to do—leap up and fight

me off? When he's been in a coma these two years now?

The poor lad!"

 

"Poor lad, my great toenail!" Auntie cried. "Who gave

him the blow that first laid him cold, eh? Yourself!"

 

"Well, yes—but who'd have thought he'd never waken?

Besides, what would you have had me do, when his mother

and his uncle were stepping in through our front door with-

out so much as a by-your-leave, to tell us this was their

house now, and we'd have to serve them forevermore, or

serve as entrees?"

 

"So, of course, you smashed your club into the only one

who wasn't threatening us!"

 

"But he was the only one who looked strong enough to

do any damage," Roderick protested. He pulled the step-

stool over to the doorway and climbed up with two boards

and a string.

 

"And what are you doing now, you old fool? You know

your traps never work!"

 

"Well, we must keep trying, mustn't we?" Roderick glared

pointedly at her steaming cauldron. "Or do you intend to

give over stirring up witch's brews?"

 

Auntie stepped in front of the cauldron as though to

 

defend it. "What else should I do? I'm a witch, aren't I?"

 

"No. You're a fortune-teller." Roderick used the one

board to prop up the other. "Only an old Gypsy fortune-

teller. Which might be why none of your brews ever work.

But if you don't deride my traps, I'll say nothing of your

potions. What's the secret ingredient this time?"

 

"Silver salts," Auntie Dil snapped. "What's in the bucket?"

 

"Water." Roderick climbed back up the step stool and

hefted a pail up onto his impromptu shelf. "Only water."

 

"What good will that do?"

 

"Probably none, but I've tried everything else." Roderick

tied the string to the bucket handle and led it over to a

thumbtack in the door-comer. "Besides, I read a story when

I was a boy..."

 

"That was a witch, you idiot, not a vampire!"

 

"Oh, that's why the salts! But doesn't it have to be pure

silver?"

 

"Look out!" Auntie Dil cried, but the door crashed open,

and Roderick went flying. So did the bucket, but it only

flipped over once and clanged down over the head of the

monster coming through. He froze for a second in stunned

astonishment, then tore the bucket off with a roar.

 

"Now, now, nephew." Auntie Dil slipped between the

giant and Roderick. "I know it's nasty to be drenched like

that, Frank, but it was just an accident. He meant it for that

old biddy and her uncle."

 

The monster grumbled and growled, rubbing the contacts

in his neck.

 

"Yes, I know it could have short-circuited you, and I'm

sure he's sorry." Auntie Dil turned to glare over her shoulder.

"Aren't you, Roderick?"

 

"Oh, indubitably," Roderick moaned, pulling himself to

his feet and rubbing his back.

 

The monster glowered at him, grumbling something deep

in its throat. Then it turned back to Auntie Dil and grunted

a question.

 

"The tomato juice? Yes, it's ready." Auntie Dil poured

 

 

 

 

208 Christopher Stasheff

 

the contents of the beaker into a small glass and set it on a

tray with the tea service. She took down a shaker and started

to sprinkle something into the glass, but Frank caught her

hand and shook his head, rumbling negatives.

 

"Oh, all right, I'll leave out the arsenic," Auntie Dil

grumbled. "But we do need some lemon slices. Be a dear

and fetch them from the icebox, won't you, Frank?"

 

The monster turned away, and Auntie Dil whirled to

snatch up a pharmacist's bottle. "Now! Just a pinch of the

silver nitrate..." She stopped suddenly, pressing a hand to

her brow. "Nay! Wherefore do I such deeds? Tis naught

that I would ever consider..."

 

"Yeah, I know what you mean." Roderick squeezed his

eyes shut, then opened them again. "I get the feeling that

I'm not really Roderick. Some name like that, maybe, but..."

 

"Oh, we all get these feelings from time to time," said

a smooth, urbane voice. "Nothing to worry about, really—

just a trick our neurons are playing on us, like dejd vu."

 

"Oh, no!" Roderick recoiled in horror. "It's Old Nick!"

 

"Not old at all." The suave, debonair devil stroked his

goatee. "And not Old Nick, just Old Nick's son. But you

can call me 'Buzzabeez.'"

 

"Well, that's just fine for you," Roderick said, with a

truculent frown, "but what do I call myself?"

 

"Roderick," the devil said, with steel in his tone, "and

don't you dare try to be anything different!" Then he smiled,

softening his approach. "I know how it is—you keep having

these flashes, snatches of feeling that you're really someone

else. Don't let it bother you; it's just a symptom of an internal

conflict. I have them myself. You wouldn't believe it, but

every now and then I find myself muttering in Church Latin!"

 

"You're right," Roderick growled, "I don't believe it."

 

"Whether you believe it or not, you'll do it!" Buzzabeez

glared around at the three of them. "I'd like to make one

thing perfectly clear: You're under my power, and you'll

damned well do as you're told!"

 

"'Damned' is right," Roderick snorted.

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING     209

 

"And that'll be enough out of you!" Buzzabeez stabbed

a finger at Roderick, and a half-dozen little red dots blos-

somed on his cheeks and forehead. He howled with pain,

bowing away and covering his face with his hands, and

Buzzabeez chuckled. "Phantom hornets—gets 'em every

time. Don't worry, though; a little vinegar and some ice

cubes will get you through it... Uh, uh, there!" He whirled

to stab a finger at Auntie Dil, who'd been trying to sneak

the shaker into the waste basket. "Now," said Buzzabeez,

"sprinkle it in!" He moved his finger slowly, and Auntie

Dil's hand tracked with it, back to the juice glass, upending

the shaker and sprinkling. Buzzabeez nodded, satisfied.

"That's a good old girl. Now then, you!" He pointed to

Frank. "Take the tray back out to the ladies, right away!"

 

Frank shuffled over, muttering and groaning, but he picked

up the tray and turned toward the door.

 

"Better," Buzzabeez nodded. "Much better. All right,

you just do as you're told from now on. And no more of

this subversive individualism, do you hear? Because I'll be

watching!" He waved a hand over himself and disappeared.

For a moment, the kitchen was filled with the faint sound

of distant buzzing; then that faded, too, and Frank went on

out the door.

 

Roderick groaned and finished dabbing his face with little

plasters. Then he turned to set the step stool against the

doorframe again, and hobbled back up with his two boards

and bucket.

 

"You forgot to refill it," Auntie Dil snapped.

 

Roderick groaned again, and started back down.

 

Frank shuffled into the drawing room and set the tray on

 

the little table between L'Age and Petty.

 

"That'll do," L'Age snapped. "You can go now."

Grumbling, Frank went.                 ~"

Uncle Sucar leaned forward, smacking his lips.

"Patience, Uncle," L'Age said sternly, "you'll have your

 

refreshment. But our young guest first."

 

270

 

Christopher Stasheff

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING

 

211

 

"But of course," Sucar breathed, "of course."

 

"What a beautiful service," Petty murmured. "Pewter,

isn't it?"

 

"Why, thank you, my dear." L'Age added cream to Petty's

cup. "Yes, it is pewter. Silver is so terribly flamboyant,

really.... There." She handed Petty a fragile china cup and

saucer. "Feel free to sip. You'll excuse me if I don't, though."

 

"She has to drink her tomato juice before it clots," Uncle

Sucar explained.

 

"Oh, of course," Petty agreed, then frowned. "What?"

 

"Uh, Frank!" L'Age called quickly.

 

The butler shambled forward, grumbling again.

 

"My cigarette." L'Age flourished a 100 mm Russian at

the end of an immense ebony holder.

 

Snarling, Frank fumbled out an archaic tinder box and

struck flint against steel. The spark fell into a mound of

lycopodium, and a gout of flame shot up, out-flaring mag-

nesium.

 

The light hit the silver salts in the tomato juice and

developed a quick portrait—of a muscular form in an up-

stairs room, in a bed. Petty gazed on the face of Adonis,

and gasped. "Um—if you'll excuse me, I think I'll just run

upstairs to the power room." She set down her teacup and

rose.

 

"Oh, but we've one down here," L'Age informed her.

 

"I'm sure the one upstairs is much nicer." Petty tripped

away toward the wide, curving staircase beyond the drawing

room archway.

 

"Quickly, Frank! Fetch!" L'Age cried.

 

Frank roared and whirled about, crashing heavy-footed

after Petty. Very heavy-footed, and he had a doubtful look

on his face. But Petty glanced back, gasped in horror, and

fled.

 

L'Age, however, felt no compunction. She dashed past

the slow-footed Frank and grabbed a lever just inside the

hallway. As Petty hit the first step, L'Age hauled on the

lever, and the first three stairs fell away as a hidden panel

 

opened. Petty's scream faded away as she dropped into the

cellar.

 

"Down!" L'Age commanded, glaring at Frank and point-

ing into the hole.

 

Muttering protest, Frank sat down on the edge of the

hole, one foot at a time.

 

"Faster, monstrosity! Faster!"

 

Frank grumbled something that sounded like, "Not right."

 

"Don't you dare preach to me!" L'Age screamed, and

slammed a kick into his fundament. Frank bellowed as he

dropped into the cellar.

 

He picked himself up just in time to see Petty pelting

madly up the cellar stairs. Frank heaved 1) a sigh, and 2)

himself (to his feet). He thudded over to the steps just as

Petty reached the top. She pounded on the door, rattling the

latch, screaming. Frank waited for her to take a breath, then

rumbled, "Turn."

 

"What?" Petty looked down at her hand, saw it shaking

the knob back and forth. "Oh! Yes! Thanks." She turned

the knob and burst out into the foyer just as Frank pounded

up to the halfway mark.

 

"Catch her, Frank! Catch her!" L'Age screamed, but

Petty had rounded the turn and was vaulting over the hole

in the staircase. "Can't anybody around here do something

right?" L'Age howled, and yanked on another lever.

 

With a rumble, the stairs started moving—downward,

of course. Petty cried out in frustration and ran harder, but

the escalator picked up speed, and she just barely managed

to stay in place.

 

"Catch her, Frank! Catch her!" L'Age screamed.

 

Frank plowed his way out of the cellar with a rumble of

disgust and veered around the comer to the stairway. He

leaped the open trapdoor—and hit the escalator. Even his

huge, galumphing strides couldn't make headway, though

admittedly, he wasn't trying very hard.

 

"Incompetents!" L'Age screamed. "All I get in this script

are incompetents!" She glared up at the ornate brass-armed

 

 

 

 

272 Christopher Stasheff

 

chandelier that hung over the stairway, then tore open a

black panel in the foyer wall. With a snarl, she threw a

power key, then thrust her hands into two metallic gloves.

Current began to hum through servomotors, and the brass

arms of the chandelier curved downward into two huge

hands. They swung down on their lengthening chain, grop-

ing toward Petty. Suddenly, they plunged and snatched.

Petty leaped aside with a scream, and the giant hands closed

on empty air. The shock gave Petty a boost, and she made

it two more stairs. The giant hands groped after her.

 

Out in the kitchen, the Scots terrier came bounding up

to Roderick, yapping and growling. Roderick frowned down

at it. "What's that? What did you say?... Logical incon-

sistencies? What, for example?"

 

The dog snarled and barked sharply.

 

"Yes..." Roderick nodded, lower lip thrusting out. "Now

that you mention it, I had noticed that..."

, The dog yapped three times and growled.

 

"Frank couldn't expend all this energy without a re-

charge, that's true," Roderick agreed. "And it is rather odd

that a couple of vampires wouldn't have drained Auntie Dil

and myself when they commandeered our house..."

 

Deviz yapped frantically, angrily.

 

'"Wake up?'" Roderick frowned, shaking his head. "What

are you talking about? We are awake."

 

The terrier nearly went frantic.

 

"What do you mean, we're just dreaming?" Roderick

shook his head again. "I don't understand."

 

"Nay, but / do!" Auntie Dil cried. She swept out the

kitchen door with Deviz at her heels, yapping triumphantly.

 

Auntie Dil sailed into the foyer, crying, "Frank! Frank!

Whoever thou truly art. Thou must waken! Dost'a hear me?

Then hearken! Frank, waken!"

 

"You meddling busybody! What do you think you're

doing?" L'Age cried.

 

Frank only grunted and kept running.

 

"He's a very primitive android," Buzzabeez explained as

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING     213

 

he appeared. "He can't take more than one order at a time.

But you can! Now get back to the kitchen—that's your

place!" He stabbed a finger at the swinging door.

 

"My place? Only for that I'm a woman? Nay! For I'll

have thee know I'm a lady of power!" Auntie Dil drew back

her hand, cupping invisible energy.

 

"Just my luck—an activist housekeeper," Buzzabeez

snorted. "All right, go ahead. Try it!"

 

"Croak and hop!" Auntie Dil cried, throwing a whammy.

Blue sparks coruscated around Buzzabeez. He stood

against it, letting the sparks dissipate. Then he advanced on

her, seeming to swell and grow taller, and infinitely more

menacing.

 

"But... how? Wherefore?" Auntie Dil cried, as she backed

through the swinging door into the kitchen.

 

"Why, because you're only..."

 

The swinging door swung.

 

"Yeowtch!" cried Buzzabeez, as it slammed into his face.

He pushed through, rubbing his nose and glowering at Aun-

tie Dil. "It's because you're only a witch, you old bat!"

 

"I resent that!" L'Age's voice cried on the other side of

the door.

 

"Only a witch," Buzzabeez snarled again, "and I'm a

devil. A full-fledged, high-powered, hundred-percent devil—

and much more evil than any mere witch..." He suddenly

closed his eyes, pressing his hand to his forehead and sway-

ing. "What am I saying? I can't be evil; I mustn't be! I

mustn't give in to it... No, I must! If I don't enforce some

disorder here, who will?" He lowered his hand, glaring at

Gwen. "Where was I? ... Oh, yes." Buzzabeez grinned his

most oily. "A devil's more evil than any witch—so I'm

much more powerful. That's the hell of it."

 

But Auntie Dil straightened, glaring in fury. "Nay! Evil's

not the source of power—not of my sort of power, at all

accounts! For I am no Auntie Diluvian, but Gwendylon

Gallowglass, most powerful witch of Gramarye!"

 

Roderick stiffened, staring. Then he squeezed his eyes

 

 

 

 

214 Christopher Stasheff

 

shut, and gave his head a quick shake.

 

"I am Gwen Gallowglass," the old fortune-teller cried,

"and I will not tolerate such deceptions and..."

 

"Be quiet, you fool!" Buzzabeez shrieked. "You'll ruin

the whole selection!" And he stretched his hand backward

to throw, as a fireball exploded into existence between his

fingertips.

 

"Look out, Gwen!" the old hunchback cried, and he

threw himself at her. His shoulder slammed into her a split

second before the fireball hissed through the air where she'd

been, and she tumbled head over heels into the dumbwaiter.   \

Roderick hauled 1) himself to his feet, then 2) on the   :

 

dumbwaiter rope. The compartment lifted up out of sight.   ;

 

"/'// take that rope!" Buzzabeez snarled, but the bell   j

chimed, and Roderick cried, "Second floor! Linens and   |

bedroom furniture! All out!"                               |

 

"Out of the way!" Buzzabeez howled. "Let me at that   |

dumbwaiter!"

 

Roderick slammed the panel shut and whirled around to

face the devil, leaning back and folding his arms. "What

dumbwaiter?"

 

"That dumbwaiter you're leaning against!"

Roderick shook his head. "Never was such a thing. Just

a figment of your imagination."

 

"What are you talking about?" Buzzabeez cried. "I saw

it with my own eyes!"

 

"Yes, but can you really believe the evidence of your

senses? That might have been a hallucination, you know."

 

"Ridiculous," the devil scoffed. "Claim that, and next

you'll be saying the whole universe is maya, illusion."

 

"Well, isn't it?" Roderick demanded. "At least, if you're

a good Hindu."

 

"But I'm not—I'm a good Catholic!" Buzzabeez went

rigid, shocked at his own words. "What am I saying?"

 

"That you're a good Catholic," Roderick answered oblig-

ingly.

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING     215

 

"Yes, yes! I'm a good Catholic.. .No! I mean, I'm a

bad Catholic! No! I mean..."

 

"You mean, nothing exists," Roderick prompted.

 

"That's right! Nothing exists! None of you! You're all

just figments of my imagination! This is all just a dream.

... NO! I can't be saying that!"

 

"See? Even your words don't exist!" Roderick jabbed a

forefinger. "Come to that, even you don't exist!"

 

"What are you saying? Of course I exist!"

 

"Ah, but how do you know you exist?"

 

"Why, because I think! Cogito, ergo sum!" Buzzabeez

clapped his hands over his mouth. "lyuch! Latin!"

 

"Bite your tongue!" Roderick reproved. "Wash your mouth

out!"

 

"Yes! With brimstone! And hot coals! Even as the angel

cleansed the lips of the prophet Isaiah with ... Oh, hell!

 

Hel-1-l-l-l-p!" And Buzzabeez fled screaming, and faded

into thin air.

 

"Thick air, really." Roderick sniffed, and wrinkled his

nose. "Phew! Now I know why religions use incense...

Well! Back to work." And he limped merrily out into the

foyer, where the escalator was still running, with Frank

galumphing along after Petty, who was sprinting flat-out for

all she was worth, and dodging the claws of the erstwhile

 

chandelier, which still somehow hadn't managed to catch

her.

 

Roderick limped over to the stairway, pulled open a panel

underneath it, yanked off his wooden shoe, and shouted,

"Down with the bosses!" as he threw it into the gearbox.

He slammed the door shut just as something inside cracked

like a cannon shot, and the escalator jerked to a halt.

 

Petty shot on up the stairway and catapulted into the

room at the top.                            .,

 

Frank crashed down flat on his face.

Inside the bedroom, Petty slammed the door shut. There

was a hasp with a broken safety pin hanging by a thread;

 

 

 

 

216 Christopher Stasheff THE WARLOCK WANDERING 217

 

she slapped it shut and jammed the pin through.

 

Outside, L'Age screamed, "After her, iceberg bait!"

Frank scrambled to his feet and slogged on up the stairs,

 

rumbling curses.

 

"Break down the door!" L'Age howled. "Get her out of

 

there!"

 

Obediently, Frank hammered at the door with his fist.

 

The safety pin held.

 

Petty whirled about and sagged back against the door,

gasping for breath, chest heaving.

 

The light of the oil lamp glowed on Sucar's face. He

knelt beside the cot, rubbing McChurch's hand and moan-

ing, "Wake up, wake up! Oh, I know it's no use; I've been

trying for years, but if I keep on, maybe someday you'll

open your eyes. Wake up, McChurch! Surely your name

will protect you. Though I admit, it didn't do you much

good when I shoved you in front of me at that crazy little

hunchback. Oh, I never dreamed he'd render you insensible!

I didn't mean it to happen, and I promise you, I've never

tasted a drop. I never really wanted to be a vampire, any-

way—but my mother would have her way! It's not really

my natural role, you know; it's not my identity, it's not the

real me! Not that I've anything against that kind of person,

you understand—I just can't stand the sight of blood! At

least, not the blood of people I like." He cocked his head.

"Now, there's a thought! How about the blood of people I

don't like? Take L'Age, now—could I acquire a taste for

her? Could I lust for some of her blood? How would I feel

if I had a chance to drain her? Ah, now that would be

 

another matter!"

 

Petty stared at the handsome, muscular, unconscious

 

young man, and gasped in wonder. The extra strain was

just a little too much for steel hooks and eyes; with a muted

ripping, her bosom expanded, lifting and mushrooming out-

ward with a whoosh of displaced air.

 

McChurch frowned and turned his head a little, as though

 

listening.

 

Petty didn't even notice; she was lost in gazing at her

ideal of male beauty.

 

McChurch looked up at her, blinking, frowning. Then

the sight of her registered, and he rolled out of bed with

his eyes glowing. He was completely naked, and Petty did

notice that, but a second later, she was wrapped in his

embrace, and wasn't seeing much of anything, because her

eyes were closed for her first, and very long, kiss.

 

In the wall, a panel slammed open, and Auntie Dil jumped

out. She ran to McChurch and Petty and began to shake

them, crying, "Waken! Thou must needs waken! Dost thou

not know thou dost slumber? And this weak and idle theme

is no more yielding but a dream!"

 

"If this is a dream, let me sleep forever," Petty murmured,

and went back into the clinch.

 

"Nay! Now I say nay/"Auntie Dil seized McChurch's

arm and threw her weight back against it, trying to pull

them apart, but McChurch stood like the rock of Gibraltar,

as though he'd traded a horizontal coma for a vertical one.

"Nay, nay!" Auntie Dil cried, tears in her eyes. "Dosta not

know we come dreadfully close to the moment when the

monster, Frank, shall come crashing through the door?"

 

"All right, that's enough of that!" Buzzabeez snapped as

he climbed out of the dumbwaiter. "Let go of that body!"

 

Auntie Dil whirled to face him, arms outspread to protect

the couple. "How didst thou come to be in that chamber?"

 

"I materialized there, to make sure your husband wasn't

around." Buzzabeez advanced on her with a tiger's tread,

glowering. "Now go to the kitchen, where you belong!"

 

"Go to hell," Auntie Dil retorted, "where thou dost be-

long!"

 

"Uh-h-h-h-h ... End of scene!" Buzzabeez waved his

hands back in front of his face, then whirled and stabbed a

finger at the door. "Next scene!"

 

The broken safety pin gave way and the door crashed

down. Frank stumbled in over it, and L'Age leaped past

him, took one look at Petty and McChurch, and sprang at

 

 

 

 

278 Christopher Stasheff THE WARLOCK WANDERING 219

 

Petty, shrieking. Her talons dug into Petty's arm as she

yanked the girl away from McChurch, and her fangs flashed

down at the virgin's fair, unprotected throat.

 

Her chin jarred against McChurch's arm as he raised it

to fend her off. "Please, Mother! I'd rather do it myself."

And his head descended down over Petty's again as he   .

folded her back into his embrace,                          r

 

"Ah, young love!" Roderick sighed, peeking in through

the doorway. Then he frowned. "But that seems to remind

me of something. I just wish I could remember what...."   '

 

"Don't let it bother you," Buzzabeez said quickly, "just   i

a momentary aberration."                                  .

 

Roderick's roving gaze fell on Auntie Dil. He shook his   |

head in wonder. "I know it sounds ridiculous, but I really

want to be with that old slattern right now." And he started

into the room, just as L'Age howled in rage and frustration,

pulling out a dagger and charging at Petty.

 

Deviz scampered in between her feet.

 

L'Age tripped and crashed to the floor with a shriek that

would have wakened bats.

 

Roderick, hurrying toward Auntie Dil, bumped into the

ancient Christmas tree. It swayed and tottered.              {

 

"No! "'Buzzabeez cried in anguish. "Catch it!" And he

sprang forward, but the tree crashed down onto L'Age. Her

head jerked up, eyes staring in agony, mouth gaping for a

scream—and froze.

 

"Well, what do you know," Roderick murmured into the

sudden hush, "the tinsel was real silver."

 

"Food!" Sucar screamed, and he pounced on L'Age with

wild joy. "At last! Something I can really sink my teeth

into!" He lifted L'Age by the shoulders and reared his head

back, fangs springing out as he bared her throat—then

froze. Puzzlement clouded his features. "How did I used to

do this? It's been so long that I can't remember!"

 

"Just the way you're doing," Roderick prompted. "Bare

her throat, then bite!"

 

"Don't give him any help!" Buzzabeez clapped a homy

 

hand over Roderick's mouth, and Roderick recoiled at the

stench. "You can't do it," the devil assured Sucar. "Not

without condiments."

 

"Condiments! Of course! Now 1 remember!" Sucar dug

in his coat pocket and pulled out a saltshaker with a trium-

phant flourish. "I always carry it with me, for my tomato

juice!"

 

"No!" Buzzabeez screamed. "Don't you dare touch her

with that!"

 

"Why not?" Roderick asked.

 

"Because ... because..." Buzzabeez was trembling.

"Why, because it isn't in the script!"

 

"What is a 'script'?" Auntie Dil asked, frowning.

 

"Only a prediction," Roderick assured her. "Nothing that

can't be changed."

 

"You can't change it!" Buzzabeez howled. "It is written!"

 

"But I don't have to follow it. We are the masters of our

own actions."

 

"Heresy!" Buzzabeez screamed.

 

Deviz yapped up at Roderick.

 

"What?... He's afraid? Yes, I can see that.... That means

what? He shouldn't be? Why? ... Because if he really had

power over us, there wouldn't be any reason for fear? Hm!

Good point, that!" Roderick looked up brightly.

 

Buzzabeez could see his brain working, and shuddered.

"I order you not to think! It's immoral! /'// do the thinking

around here!"

 

"No you won't," Roderick said reasonably, "you'll just

follow a script." He frowned at the devil. "What makes you

so tense, anyway?"

 

"I don't know." Buzzabeez stood rigid, trembling. "I

really don't know."

 

Roderick pursed his lips. "Could it be you really want

Sucar to use that salt?"

 

"I prefer saltpeter," Buzzabeez corrected. "After all, I'm

a devil."

 

"Don't worry," Roderick assured him, "I'll figure it out."

 

 

 

 

220 Christopher Stasheff THE WARLOCK WANDERING 221

 

"That's what I'm afraid of!"

 

"What? People doing their own thinking?" Roderick nod-

ded. "Makes sense. You never can tell what'll happen then.

Makes life totally unpredictable. And I am thinking, now."

 

Buzzabeez nodded, still trembling. "Becoming pretty

willful, too."

 

"Yes, I am, aren't I?"

 

"Thou art near to wakening," Auntie Dil advised him.

 

"Yeah." Roderick frowned. "I just can't remember who

I really am."

 

"Roderick," Buzzabeez said quickly. "Just ordinary old

Roderick."

 

"Close." Roderick nodded. "Close. But maybe just a

little too much."

 

Sucar pressed a hand to his forehead. "Come to think of

it.,,. I used to be somebody, too...."

 

"You still are," Buzzabeez snapped.

 

"No," Roderick contradicted, "right now, he's who you

want him to be. And doing what you want him to do. We

all are—just taking your orders, without resisting much.

Between you and the script, you've had all of us just meekly

accepting your orders."

 

"Yes! Wonderful way to live, isn't it? So peaceful! So

harmonious!"

 

"For you, maybe. Not for the rest of us."

 

"But isn't it better this way?" Buzzabeez pleaded.

 

"NO!" said everybody, all at once—except L'Age, who

was frozen, and Petty and McChurch, whose lips weren't

free at the moment.

 

Buzzabeez's face wrinkled with disgust. "What a re-

volting development!"

 

"Good idea!" Sucar cried. "Let's have a revolution!"

 

"Shut up," Buzzabeez snapped.

 

But Sucar went on. "Myself, I'm beginning to remember

that I'm not really me—not Sucar Blutstein, anyway."

 

"Shut up," Buzzabeez snapped again.

 

"I was once someone else," Sucar cried, "but somebody

did something to me, fed me something, that made me into

what I am now!"

 

"Shut up!" Buzzabeez shouted.

 

"No, you shut up!" Roderick commanded. "Sucar has

the floor."

 

"Who appointed you chairman?" Buzzabeez snarled.

 

"I did, myself!"

 

"And I impeach Buzzabeez!" Sucar cried. "I move that

Buzzabeez be deposed!"

 

Deviz yapped.

 

"He says, 'I second the motion,'" Roderick explained.

"All in favor?"

 

"Aye!" shouted Auntie Dil, Roderick, and Sucar. Deviz

barked.

 

"The vote is unanimous," Roderick confirmed, "except

for L'Age, who's incapacitated, and McChurch and Petty,

who're oblivious. The motion passes, and so does Buzza-

beez."

 

"You can't do this!" Buzzabeez shouted.

 

"We just did, as I remember."

 

"And I remember something else!" Sucar cried. "I re-

member that what whoever-it-was fed me, was only sup-

posed to put me to sleep and make me more amenable to

suggestion! But it did more—it made me willing to do

whatever this deposed dumbkopf dictated!"

 

"Watch the pejoratives," Buzzabeez snarled, but Auntie

Dil cried, "I too," and Roderick said, "Same here."

 

Deviz yapped and snarled.

 

"He says, 'The drug that produces those effects is com-

monly known as the zombie drug,'" Roderick translated.

 

"I deny it!" Buzzabeez ranted, waving his hands. "I deny

everything! I didn't do it! I didn't give orders^for it to be

done! Nobody told me..."

 

"That, I believe." Roderick nodded. "You're probably

just another poor zombie like the rest of us—but for some

 

 

 

 

222

 

Christopher Stasheff

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING

 

223

 

reason, you were much more apt to do what the script said."

 

"But that means he's the one who's acting as the voice

of the script!" Sucar cried.

 

"Aye," Auntie Dil said, frowning. "I' truth, we know

not what this 'script' doth say, save what he doth tell us."

 

"So," Sucar said, with a bright smile, "if we can just

wake up Buzzabeez, we won't have to listen to any nonsense

about this 'script' anymore!"

 

"No!" Buzzabeez was beginning to foam at the mouth.

"You can't! That'd destroy any semblance of order! It'll

shred sensibility! It'll play dice with the universe!"

 

"But we'll be able to do as we think right," Roderick

said.

 

"See? Rampant chaos!"

 

"But we'll all wake up, and quit being zombies," Sucar

pointed out.

 

"Anarchy!"

 

"Grab him!"

 

They all pounced on Buzzabeez, who realized what was

happening just a second too late to dodge. He thrashed

about, howling and trying to break free, but Sucar and

Roderick wrestled him to the ground, and Auntie Dil sat

on his legs while Roderick pinned his arms and Sucar pulled

out his saltshaker.

 

"You can't do this!" Buzzabeez shouted. "It's immoral!

It's unethical! It's against all... GACK!"

 

"Helped that he had his mouth open," Roderick com-

mented.

 

"I couldn't miss," Sucar agreed.

 

Buzzabeez swallowed convulsively, and his eyes bulged,

staring, his whole body rigid. He began to tremble, and as

he shook, he faded away and was gone.

 

Auntie Dil landed with a thump on her rump, and stared

at the empty floor in astonishment. "Forsooth! Wither went

he?"

 

Deviz yapped happily.

 

"He says, 'Wherever he came from,'" Roderick trans-

lated.

 

"But where is that?" Auntie Dil asked.

 

"None of us know," Sucar told her. He turned to Rod-

erick. "Do you know where you came from?"

 

Roderick stared up at the ceiling, frowning, then shook

his head. "Not quite. I can almost remember..."

 

Deviz yapped, barked, and growled.

 

"He says he does," Roderick explained. "He says, 'I

know who I am—I am Notem-Modem 409, a computerized

notepad—and I know where I came from. But where did

all you zombies come from?'"

 

Sucar shrugged. "I don't know, to tell the truth."

 

"Neither do I," Roderick confessed.

 

"Nor I," Auntie Diluvian said, "yet I do know that we

must waken."

 

"Good point." Roderick held up a finger, then used it to

point to L'Age's mouth, frozen open. "Maestro, if you

please?"

 

"Glad to." Sucar turned to sprinkle a little salt into L'Age's

mouth. Instantly, she faded away, and they found themselves

staring at a very dusty oaken floor.

 

"Success!" Roderick said, elated. "Now for the hard job.

You grab him. Auntie, and I'll grab her."

 

"I mislike the sound of that, somehow," Auntie Dil said,

but she took hold of McChurch's biceps while Roderick

caught Petty's shoulder. "Now," he said, "Sucar, you stand

ready to sprinkle. All right, now, on the count of three—

One! Two! Three!"

 

He and Auntie Dil heaved. With a smacking like a huge

suction cup coming unglued. Petty and McChurch peeled

apart and stared in total bewilderment, mouths still wide

open.

 

"Gotcha!" Sucar cried, sprinkling salt in each one's mouth.

Startled, they closed their mouths and swallowed with

twin gulps, then stared at each other, appalled, as they faded.

 

 

 

 

224 Christopher Stasheff

 

Petty gave a mew of distress, reaching out toward the van-

ishing McChurch, but she faded too, and was gone.

 

"Success!" Sucar crowed. "Okay, you three—line up!

Shoulders back! Stomachs in! Mouths open!"

 

Roderick and Auntie Dil snapped to attention, side by

side, and Deviz sat up on his hind legs next to Auntie Dil.

Sucar walked down the line, sprinkling salt on each tongue,

and, one by one, they faded. Sucar halted, appalled, as he

looked around at the bare, empty room and, for the first

time, became aware of the wind's muted moaning around

the comers of the huge old house. Left to himself, Sucar

sniffed, wiped away a tear of loneliness, and said, "I miss

you very much."

 

Then he tilted his head back, opened his mouth, sprinkled

salt on his own tongue, and disappeared.

 

One by one, the dreamers wakened. They opened their

eyes, frowning, squinting against the light, and began to

struggle up from their couches.

 

The hostess stared at them, horrified, then turned and

ran from the room, crying, "Get the manager! These patrons

just woke up—before the dream ended!"

 

Rod groaned, and swung his legs over the side of the

couch. "I feel as though I've just been hit by a meteor!"

 

Mirane slid off her sofa blinking, and tried to stand up.

Her knees gave way, and she caught at the cushions. Stro-

ganoff leaped off his couch with a cry, but she called, "No,

I'm all right. But... but thanks, Dave." And she blushed.

 

Rod frowned, wondering what the red face was about.

Then he hauled his mind back to the immediate problem.

"Hold on, everybody! Remember, take the helmets off care-

fully! I don't think they could do any harm if we yanked

'em off, but I'd rather not find out the hard way."

 

Brother Joey lifted his helmet off with caution, then held

it out, staring at it and blinking, then pushed it away with

revulsion.

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING     225

 

Chomoi took hers off with regret. "Well, it was fun while

it lasted."

 

Rod looked up in surprise. "You must have been L'Age

d'Or."

 

A short, stocky man in a business coverall bustled into

 

the room. "All right, what's going on here?"

 

Rod felt his hackles rise. "Who the hell are you?"

"I'm Roksa, the manager. How the hell did you wake

 

up before the dream was over?"

 

"Oh, that's easy enough to answer," Brother Joey said.

"According to the traditional superstitions, you see, you can

break the spell that holds a zombie, by filling his mouth

with salt. Of course, you have to sew his lips shut so he

can't spit it out, and when he comes out of the spell, he

may try to kill you. But after that, he'll go back to where

he came from—his grave—as fast as he can."

 

Roksa frowned. "What's that got to do with you waking

up from the dream?"

 

Brother Joey shrugged. "Dreams are fantasies, so the

symbols of superstition work, within the structure of the

dream-universe. When our dream selves realized we'd been

fed zombie drugs, they sprinkled salt on each other's

tongues—and the symbol worked; we went back to where

we'd come from—here."

 

"Zombie drugs?" The manager darted glances from one

face to another. "Who said anything about zombie drugs?"

"I did."

 

They all turned, astonished. The tinny voice was coming

from Mirane's couch, where her computer-notepad lay. "I

am a Notem-Modem 409, and I have wireless capabilities

for connection to larger computers—and for interfacing

with the human brain. I have become symbiotic with my

operator."                               -

 

Mirane paled. Her eyes were huge.

 

Stroganoff clasped her around the shoulders. "Take it

easy, kid. I know it's hard to take, but any artist has to

 

226           Christopher Stasheff

 

develop a feel for her tools."

 

Mirane snatched up the notepad and clutched it to her.

"Consequently, when my operator entered into the dream-

state, I participated in it with her," the notepad went on.

"However, being electronic, I was immune to the drug, and

was able to realize that the dream was not the safe and

pleasant refuge these patrons had anticipated."

 

"Oh, I don't know about that," Chomoi muttered.

Stroganoff shook his head. "Lousy plot. Not to mention

 

the characterization."

 

Roksa's head lifted, eyes narrowing. "You don't like my

 

dreams, citizen, you can make your own."

 

"I just might."

 

"The zombie drug isn't terribly legal," Rod pointed out.

"And there are supposed to be certain guarantees of safety,

 

for patrons experiencing a dream."

 

Roksa shrugged impatiently. "All right, so 1 bent a few

 

rules."

 

"Bent!" Yorick snorted. "How about 'mangled'?"

But Whitey held up a hand. "Hold on, you two. The

 

laws he broke don't really matter."

 

"Don't matter?"

 

"Not compared to what that dream was doing, all by

itself." Whitey faced Roksa squarely, head lowered a little,

glowering. "That plot just took it for granted that people

should take orders and not think about them. If we'd stayed

in it long enough, we'd have waked up conditioned to just

accept whatever Authority said, without question, without

even a notion of resisting!"

 

Yorick whistled. "Wow! The ideal brainwashing sys-

tem—with the victims footing the bill!"

 

Roksa paled and took a step back. "You can't prove that."

 

"Oh, I think I could," Whitey said with a shark's grin.

"A semiotic analysis of the plot, and a neurological analysis

of the choice-alternatives ... yes, I think I could prove it

very thoroughly."

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING     227

 

"So what?" Roksa's jaw thrust out a little. "There's noth-

ing illegal about it."

 

"Only because nobody's thought of it yet. Tell me—do

all your dreams do that?"

 

"I don't have to answer that question!"

 

Yorick grinned and stepped forward, massaging his fist.

"Why not?"

 

"Because of them!" Roksa stepped back and yanked the

door open. A dozen big, muscular men slouched into the

room. Only eight of them carried clubs. The other four

carried blasters.

 

Rod stabbed a finger at the leader. "You're the peasant!

The one with the pitchfork!"

 

The leader gave a mock bow. "Wirlin Eaves, at your

service."

 

"He's too modest," Roksa chuckled. "That's Wirlin Eaves,

Ph.D."

 

"Ph.D.?" Rod frowned. "What're you doing leading a

bunch of assassins?"

 

"I couldn't get a job teaching. Besides, this pays better."

 

"What's your area," Rod snorted, "political science?"

 

"Naw." Eaves grinned wickedly. "I'm the real thing—a

Ph.D. in philosophy."

 

Rod stared. "You're a certified philosopher?"

 

"What's so strange about that?"

 

"But—you kill people!"

 

"You noticed."

 

"How can a philosopher justify doing such horrible

things?"

 

"What else is philosophy for, these days?"

 

"But what kind of reasons could philosophy give you for

killing people!"

 

"The best." Eaves grinned. "It's profitable."

 

"I thought philosophy was supposed to be ethical."

 

"Haven't you ever heard of existentialism?" Eaves

shrugged. "Besides, it is ethical; it's just that you don't

 

 

 

 

228

 

Christopher Stasheff

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING

 

229

 

agree with this ethic." He turned serious for a moment. "But

if you really want to know, before I bum your brains out,

I'll tell you. It's a way of exercising power over my sub-

jective universe."

 

"A solipsist," Rod groaned. "I thought you were sup-

posed to be a philosopher, not a hatchet man. No, one last

question!" He held up a hand as Eaves started forward, and

the thug stopped."What would have happened if we'd slept

through the whole dream?"

 

"Oh, you would've waked up, same as usual." Eaves

shrugged. "You just would've found yourselves surrounded,

that's all—and wearing straitjackets."

 

"But the inmates took over the asylum, eh?"

 

"Management's about to reassert itself," Eaves informed

him. "Take ' em!"

 

He lifted his blaster.

 

Gwen concentrated all of her attention on the weapon.

 

Eaves pressed the trigger with an ecstatic grin. Then the

grin faded into horrified shock. He pressed the trigger again—

and again, and again.

 

His three sidekicks lifted their blasters and pressed their

triggers, too, with the same lack of result.

 

"What'd you do to them?" Eaves growled.

 

"You really don't want to know," Rod assured him. "It

might upset your philosophical system."

 

Eaves' eyes narrowed. "All right, we'll do it the old-

fashioned way. Now!"

 

He and his men waded in, swinging their blasters as

clubs. Their mates fanned out fast around the company and

started in with their truncheons.

 

Whitey shouted and lashed a kick at a thug. The man

howled and dropped his club, as Chomoi barked and chopped

at another one. He blocked and snapped his club down, but

she twisted aside and bounced a chop off another man's

neck. As he dropped, she slashed a kick at the first one,

ducked under a swing from a third and stabbed him in the

 

solar plexus with a shout, then blocked a swing from the

first attacker and followed it with a kick in the chin. He

slammed back into the wall, and she spun to a fourth thug.

 

Yorick was much more conservative. He dodged as an

attacker swung a club at him, caught the man's wrist and

whipped it around and up behind his back—way up. The

thug howled as Yorick twisted the club out of his hand and

cracked it down on his skull. Then he shoved the man into

an oncoming assassin, grabbed a third by the neck and

rammed his head into the wall, then turned back just as the

second was picking himself up, and slammed a haymaker

into his jaw.

 

Rod's head was ringing; Eaves had connected. But so

had Rod, and the lead thug had dropped his blaster. He

circled to Rod's left, guard tight, shaking his head. Rod

jabbed at his belly, his head, his belly again, and caught

him with a right cross. Eaves staggered back, and Rod

followed with a kick that sent him crashing into the wall.

 

Gwen glared at three other thugs who were crowding

back together, trying to fend off a cloud of dream-helmets

and fallen clubs that whirled at them. Every now and then,

one got through.

 

Mirane crouched behind Stroganoff, frantically punching

keys on her computer-pad. He stood between her and the

thugs, arms outstretched to shield her as he watched, dazed

and muttering, "I gotta remember this! For my next fight

sequence! Gotta remember!"

 

"Not quite!" Rod yanked Roksa and the hostess back

into the room and kicked the door shut. He sent the girl

spinning over to Chomoi, who advanced on her, eyes steely.

The hostess backed against the wall, terrified. Roksa tried

to twist to swing at Rod, but Rod had him by the coverall

collar at the end of a very long arm, and Roksa'seyes bulged

as the collar tightened around his neck. He turned back,

quickly—and stared at twelve unconscious men littering

the floor of his dream-room.

 

 

 

 

230           Christopher Stasheff

 

"Don't take it so hard," Rod soothed. "Only one of them

is dead." He raised his voice. "A little careless there, Chor-

noi."

 

She shrugged impatiently. "I was in a rush."

 

"I wasn't complaining."

 

Yorick shook his head slowly, clucking his tongue.

"Messy, messy! What'll we do with them?"

 

"We could hook them up to the dream-machines," Chor-

noi suggested.

 

"No!" Roksa cried. The hostess's terror turned to horror.

 

"It won't be that bad." Mirane stepped out from behind

Stroganoff. "I've been doing a little reprogramming on your

computer."

 

Roksa and the hostess stared, white showing all around

their eyes.

 

"I changed it to stop conditioning people," Mirane ex-

plained.

 

"But that's impossible!"

 

"Not at all; I just told it to insert new plot-alternatives

that stress individuality and skepticism."

 

Roksa didn't exactly look reassured. "We'll wake up

totally confused!"

 

"No, just curious. You'll question authority—and you'll

keep questioning, until you find answers you can prove."

 

"But there won't be time to enjoy life!" the hostess wailed.

 

"Learning can be fun," Yorick assured her.

 

"Would you rather not have a life?" Chomoi watched

her, taut and alert.

 

"I... think I'll take the dream," the young woman said

slowly.

 

Rod nodded. "Very wise." He turned to Roksa. "You'll

take it, too. The only question is whether or not you'll do

it willingly."

 

Roksa stared at him.

 

Then his fist slammed into Rod's belly.

 

Rod doubled over in agony, and Roksa started to turn to

the door, so he was at just the right angle as Yorick's fist

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING     231

 

crashed into his jaw. The manager folded, very neatly.

 

"Courage, husband." Gwen was beside him, massaging

his back, soothing. "'Tis but pain, and 'twill pass."

 

Yeah, but so will I. Rod couldn't say it aloud, due to a

temporary malfunction of the diaphragm. He fought to

breathe in. Finally, air came in a long, shuddering gasp. He

straightened slowly, turning to Mirane. "Can you make it a

nightmare?"

 

"We don't stock any," the hostess said quickly.

Stroganoff gave her the jaundiced eye. "That makes me

think I ought to check through your whole catalog."

"We don't have time," Mirane said quickly.

Rod nodded. "I'm afraid she's right. We've got to hook

them up for the longest time the computer will manage, and

get out of here." He turned to the hostess. "We need some-

thing that will handle a dozen men."

 

The hostess thought a moment. "How about The Flying

Dutchman?"

 

Rod nodded. "The very thing. I hope Eaves hates Wag-

ner."

 

They wrestled Eaves up onto one of the couches and set

the helmet on his head. Mirane found one of the injectors,

pressed it against his wrist, and squeezed. She turned to

press the "start" button, but Rod held up a hand. "Just a

sec. He should be very suggestible right now." He slapped

Eaves' cheek gently. "Come on, wake up, old man! De-

briefing time. Report!"

 

Eaves' eyes fluttered and opened, but they were glazed.

Rod stepped back out of sight. "So. You followed the

Gallowglass party from Wolmar in your own ship, and in-

tercepted them on the resort-planet Otranto. What measures

did you take to secure them?"

 

Eaves nodded slowly. "They took refuge in a dream-

house. I bribed and coerced the manager into giving them

the zombie drug."

 

The rest of the company stared at Rod, amazed. He

nodded, grim-faced. "Where did you leave your scoutship?"

 

232

 

Christopher Stasheff

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING

 

233

 

Eaves frowned at the strangeness of the question, but

answered, "In the Palazzo of Montressor."

- "What password did you use?"

 

Eaves' frown deepened, but he answered,"Excelsior."

 

"Send out the St. Bernards," Whitey muttered.

 

Eaves' eyes closed, and a gentle smile curved his lips.

 

"When did you become a double agent?" Rod said softly.

"When did you begin working for GRIPE?"

 

Eaves raised his eyebrows. "Never. I am loyal to VETO."

Then his face smoothed out, and his breathing deepened.

 

"A Totalitarian," Rod muttered. "I might've known. They

come in batches."

 

"What's VETO?" Whitey demanded.

 

"A secret society that works for PEST." Rod turned away

to the litter of unconscious bodies. "Come on, let's get these

bozos off to dreamland."

 

Whitey frowned, but he turned to help David heave a

thug up onto a couch.

 

A few minutes later, the whole dozen were drugged and

dreaming.

 

Rod turned to the hostess, and she shrank back at the

look in his eye. "Any preferences?" he asked.

 

The girl just stared at him for a moment. Then, reassured,

she gazed off into space, and a reverent look came over her

face. "Jane Eyre," she murmured. "I always wanted to be

Jane Eyre."

 

"With him as Rochester?"

 

The hostess' gaze focused again; she turned to look down

at Roksa. Then she implored, "Can't you manage separate

dreams?"

 

Rod and Gwen exchanged glances, and her thoughts said,

Grant what mercy thou canst, I prithee.

 

Rod nodded. "Yeah, why not? You set up the couches

and the dreams."

 

The hostess stared at him for a moment, then slowly

smiled. She turned away to punch some buttons on the

 

computer console. Mirane stepped over to watch her closely,

and her eyes widened.

 

The hostess turned away with a bright smile. "I'm ready.

Shall we try it?" And she stretched out on one of the couches,

pulling the helmet on and pressing the injector against her

arm. Then she tossed it aside, stretched luxuriously, and

closed her eyes.

 

Rod gazed at her, chewing at the inside of his lip. "Well,

the quality of our mercy sure isn't strained. Give me a hand

with this hulk, will you, Yorick?"

 

As they left the dreamhouse a few minutes later. Rod

asked Mirane, "What dream did she give him?"

 

"The Dunwich Horror."

 

"Hurry, will you?" Yorick demanded. "That dream will

buy us time, but not a lot of it. We need to get off-planet,

and fast! I don't think even Whitey, Stroganoff and Mirane

will be welcome here after this number."

 

Whitey's face set. "No. I'm afraid you're right."

 

Stroganoff stared. "You don't mean it! What about Dra-

cula Rises Again?"

 

"We'll send back orders for the company to finish it."

 

"But they'll destroy it!" Stroganoff wailed. "They'll ruin

it! It won't even pull a decent box office!"

 

Mirane was pale. "That'd be money down the drain,

Whitey, without you there—750,000 therms!"

 

"Graves are even more expensive," Whitey answered,

"especially on Otranto. And for myself, I don't plan to go

on working after I'm dead."

 

Mirane and Stroganoff paled, and followed.

 

Rod clenched his jaw. "It's all because of us. You wouldn't

be in this bind, if we hadn't crashed your set. I'm sorry,

Whitey—very."

 

"Don't worry about it," the poet growled. "I had a hunch

you were worth it."

 

The tour guide held up a hand to stop them, and pointed

 

 

 

 

234 Christopher Stasheff THE WARLOCK WANDERING 235

 

down a narrow, winding stair. "We're about to go down into

the dungeons—and beyond them. You see, Palazzo Mon-

tressor was built on top of the catacombs."

 

"Which were built especially for Palazzo Montressor,"

Whitey muttered under his breath.

 

"Take note of the niter on the walls." The guide smiled

cheerfully. "Farther on, you'll notice a pile of bones. We'll

move a few of them aside, and you'll notice a brand-new

brick wall. Fortunato's behind it, of course. All set? Here

we go!"

 

He set off down the stairway, holding his torch high. The

tourists followed him, single file, with the eight fugitives

in their midst. The walls quickly dampened and darkened;

 

patches of moss appeared here and there.

 

Whitey leaned forward and muttered into Rod's ear, "If

only Poe could've collected the royalties while he was still

alive!"

 

Rod nodded. "He would've lived longer."

 

Whitey frowned. "Yeah... Maybe it's just as well..."

 

They trooped down a long and winding stairway. The

tourists began to mutter in excitement over the decrepitude

of their surroundings, but Gwen pressed close to Rod, for

which he was infinitely grateful. "My lord, 'tis eldritch."

 

"Yeah." Chomoi glanced up at the dripping walls. "This

place gives me the creeps."

 

"That's what it's supposed to do," Stroganoff explained.

 

"You mean people pay to feel so lousy?"

 

They came out into a low stone hallway. The guide saun-

tered away ahead of them, carrying the torch and whistling.

They followed the wavering flames, as masonry gave way

to bedrock. They passed by a niche in the wall, with some-

thing in it that was wrapped in old, brittle cloth.

 

Gwen stared. "What is that?"

 

"A fake corpse, dear. We're in the 'catacombs.'"

 

The rest of the tour group oohed and aahed at the sight.

One lady giggled.

 

Rod scowled. "Now, if I were Wirlin Eaves, where would

 

I have hidden my scoutship?"

 

The tunnel broadened out into an open space, about ten

feet on a side. Three tunnels branched off from it. There

was a pile of very realistic-looking skeletons stacked up to

the ceiling against one wall.

 

One lady stared at it, her face a fascinating blend of

disgust, loathing, and delight. "Is that..."

 

"Yes, ma'am." The guide gave her a solemn nod. "That's

Fortunato's personal crypt."

 

Rod lifted his head, a gleam coming into his eye.

 

"What do you scent, 0 peerless leader?" Yorick whis-

pered.

 

"Look," Rod said, "if you were Wirlin, you'd want your

ship stashed out of sight, but in a place where you could

get at it any time you wanted it, right?"

 

"They're moving on without us." Chomoi sounded nerv-

ous.

 

"Let 'em." Rod waved a hand. "I find this particular

exhibit fascinating."

 

Yorick was running his hands over the wall by the pile

of bones. "Here's the button."

 

Rod nodded. "Press it."

 

Machinery purred, and the whole wall-full of bones swung

outward. The space behind it was huge and unlit.

 

"Got a match?" Rod said softly.

 

"Not since Shakespeare," Whitey grunted, but he lifted

out a lighter, struck a flame, and held it aloft. "Sometimes

it's handy, having vices."

 

The flickering glow revealed unused maintenance robots

lined up against the walls, a pile of construction material—

and the nose of a sleek spaceship, streamlined for atmos-

pheric flight.

 

"Pay dirt," Rod breathed.               ^.

 

They stepped forward, awed by the bulk of the ship. It

wasn't really all that big, but in an enclosed space, it seemed

gigantic.

 

"Excelsior," Rod called softly.

 

 

 

 

236           Christopher Stasheff

 

Lights brightened around the craft. With a grunt of sat-

isfaction, Whitey let his lighter snap closed and slipped it

into a pocket.

 

"You are not Wirlin Eaves," stated a voice from the ship.

 

Rod nodded. "Eaves couldn't make it. In fact, he may

not be able to get loose if we don't go get help."

 

Silence hung for a moment, then the ship said, "Ready

to transmit."

 

Rod stared, strapped for a moment.

 

"Code," Chomoi suggested. "The renegades broke it."

 

Rod nodded, with a grin of relief. "That's right. We can't

send word; it would be intercepted, and so would we. We

have to get back to base to call for help."

 

The ship was silent.

 

"Excelsior," Rod said again. "Eaves told us that word.

How else would we have known it?"

 

Slowly, an iris opened in the ship's side.

 

With a sigh of relief. Rod beckoned his people aboard.

 

 

 

 

IF ANY DETECTORS noticed their takeoff, there was no sign

of it. Still, Rod didn't relax until the ship had isomorphed

with H-space. Then he sighed and hobbled back to the

wardroom, weak-kneed.

 

As he came in, Gwen was shaking her head in dismay.

"I do not understand. How can people become naught but

numbers?"

 

"Not become," Brother Joey corrected, "just described

as. 1 can describe you with words, can't I? Then believe

me, I can describe you even more faithfully with numbers."

 

Gwen sighed and shook her head. "I must needs accept

the truth of what thou dost say, since I've not the knowledge

to judge it for myself."

 

"I know." Brother Joey had a smug smile. "That's the

secret of the clergy's success."

 

"But if this 'isomorpher' of which thou dost speak, doth

make note of me as a mile-long string of numbers which it

doth paint on the wall of eternity, which thou dost term

'H-space,' and then doth take those numbers off that wall

to build them once again into myself—have I not died, and

been reborn?"

 

Rod noted that she wasn't at all discomfitted by not

having felt anything major as they isomorphed into H-space.

 

But Brother Joey was shaking his head. "No. You've

simply changed form, nothing more."

 

Gwen threw up her hands in despair.

 

239

 

240 Christopher Stasheff THE WARLOCK WANDERING 241

 

"Let's try something a little more relaxing." Rod held

up a hand to forestall Brother Joey. "I know, I know—to

you, this is relaxing. But the rest of us like a little help."

He touched the base of an air filter, and its telltale glowed

to life. "The smoking lamp is lit. Anyone who wants to

pollute, come sit next to it, Whitey."

 

The poet grinned and slouched into the chair right under

the filter. He pulled out a long, sinister-looking brown cig-

arette, then his lighter. "Just wine, if you don't mind."

 

Rod peered at the synthesizer's list. "Chablis, Liebfraum-

ilch, or Reisling?"

 

"Reisling, if you please."

 

"It's all one set of buttons to me." Rod said, as he punched.

"What'll it be, Chomoi?"

 

"Bourbon. Who made you bartender?"

 

"I watched Cholly. Yorick?"

 

A few minutes later, with spirits for everyone and Man-

ischevitz for Brother Joey, Rod propped his feet up on the

table with a sigh. "Safe at last—for the moment."

 

Chomoi shrugged. "We were safe enough, in the dream."

 

"Yeah, except that a bunch of thugs was getting ready

to package and ship us."

 

"As long as we were dreaming, who cared?"

 

"All dreams must end." Yorick frowned. "I wonder how

that one would have come out?"

 

"Oh, I think it was pretty well wound down." Whitey

held his glass up to the light. "After all, boy had gotten

girl."

 

Gwen was gazing at Mirane, but her eyes weren't quite

focused.

 

"Would have been interesting to see what happened to

the rest of them," Yorick sighed. "But how did Mirane's

computer-pad get pulled into the story?"

 

"Oh, it was the dog, Deviz."

 

"I know that, of course." Yorick glared at Chomoi. "I

meant, how did it get tied into the dream-computer?"

 

"Through Mirane." Gwen kept her gaze on the young

 

woman. "I think thou mayest have some trace of Power

about thee, my dear."

 

"She's talking about psi power," Rod explained. "Oh,

don't look so horrified! A lot of people have a touch of one

power or another. You just happen to have enough to be

useful, that's all."

 

Mirane shook her head. "How can you mind-read a com-

puter?"

 

"Thine did say that it hath capacity for joining to thy

mind," Gwen explained. "Is that not what 'interface' doth

mean?"

 

"Well, yes, but I'd have to wear a transmitter-helmet."

 

Yorick shook his head. "Apparently you're capable of

sending your thoughts without one. Projective telepathy—

right. Major?"

 

Rod nodded. "A little bit of telepathy, period; the com-

puter-pad said it was wireless, so it must be geared to trans-

mit."

 

"The operative point," Brother Joey explained, "is that

the pad has a built-in converter to transform its operating

frequencies to human thought-frequencies. But don't take

our word for it—ask it." He raised his voice. "How about

it, Notem-Modem 409? Did we guess correctly?"

 

"Preliminary analysis of available data indicates 88 per-

cent probability of validity," the computer-pad confirmed.

 

Mirane was pale, but she clutched the notepad to her.

 

"So." Yorick sat back, studying his glass as he spun the

stem between finger and thumb. "Mirane was Petty Pure,

huh? I mean, she was the one who was closest to Deviz."

 

Mirane blushed, but she nodded.

 

"Thought so. I was Frank, of course."

 

Gwen frowned. "Why dost thou say, 'of course'?"

 

"Monster to monster. Lady Gallowglass.4was the easiest

conversion."

 

Rod nodded. "The dream-computer did seem to match

us up by personalities. But you're no monster."

 

"Tell it to your folklore. Major."

 

 

 

 

242 Christopher Stasheff THE WARLOCK WANDERING 243

 

Gwen was frowning again. "Yet wherefore would it match

myself with an old hag?"

 

"She was a witch," Rod explained, "or thought she was.

But don't worry, dear, I didn't exactly find it flattering to

be depicted as a klutz of a handyman, either."

 

"Nor I as a devil." Brother Joey was magenta.

 

Rod shrugged. "At least it had something to do with

religion."

 

"More importantly," the friar said in a very low tone, "I

was the voice of Authority."

 

Whitey snorted. "Well, if you don't like the idea of or-

thodoxy, Brother, you blasted well better decide that before

you take your final vows. Me, I didn't exactly find it com-

plementary to be depicted as an incompetent vampire."

 

"But you had a heart of gold," Rod pointed out. "Sweets

to the sweet, poet."

 

"Fangs for nothing," Whitey snorted. He turned to

Chomoi. "But you didn't really enjoy being a meanie, did

you?"

 

"Oh, but I did." Chomoi nodded sadly. "And I wish I

really was. Callous people seem to do so much better in

this world."

 

"You've been hanging around a tyranny too long." Rod

frowned. "Besides, I thought you'd already tried that way

of life."

 

Chomoi looked down at her hands, lips tight. "And I

couldn't take it. Right."

 

"Well," Rod sighed, "I guess you'll have to settle for

being a good person, underneath it all."

 

"And that," Whitey said, "leaves only one role uncast."

He directed a stare toward Stroganoff.

 

The producer shifted uncomfortably. "All right, so I was

McChurch. So way down deep, all I want to do is lie around.

Is that any crime?"

 

"Only when you really want to bleed for other people,"

Whitey said softly.

 

Mirane stiffened, glaring. "That's a wonderful quality!"

 

"It is, until he bleeds himself dry," Whitey reminded her.

"But I think you two are avoiding a point."

 

Mirane and Stroganoff glanced at each other, then quickly

glanced away. "None of your business, Whitey," Stroganoff

growled.

 

"Of course not. That's why I enjoy it so much." Whitey

leaned back in his chair. "But the rest of us have bared our

souls a bit, so it's your turn. Why was McChurch so totally

hooked on Petty at first glance, Dave?"

 

"We were being controlled by a script," Stroganoff mut-

tered.

 

"So were we all." Chornoi gave him a look of scorn.

"Everybody else turned out to be quite capable of resisting

it—except me; I liked it. And you two. You couldn't have

cared less."

 

"How could I care, when I was in a coma? And be-

sides..."

 

"Strog, cut it off and talk straight!" Whitey demanded.

"Are you in love with the lady, or not?"

 

Mirane paled still further. So did Stroganoff, but he blus-

tered, "That's none of your damn business, Whitey! And

besides, I'm a fat ugly fool, and she's way too young."

 

"Why, thank you." Mirane looked up, some of her color

coming back. "Especially because I'm not really all that

young—I'm thirty-five. You would have noticed, if you'd

ever bothered to look behind the lenses and kerchief. And

/ think you're handsome!"

 

Stroganoff stared at her, totally taken aback. Then he

glanced about him quickly, and stood up, sliding her chair

back a little. "Uh, would you step into my office over here,

for a quick conference?"

 

Mirane stared at him, surprised. Then her chin lifted,

and she stood up and walked in front of hrm, shoulders

back, over to the far end of the wardroom. Stroganoff fol-

lowed her, pantomimed closing a door, and leaned against

the bulkhead, hands in his pockets, chatting. Mirane watched

him closely.

 

 

 

 

244

 

Christopher Stasheff

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING

 

245

 

Gwen's lips curved a smile that was both fond and amused.

 

Quit eavesdropping. Rod scolded silently. He turned to

Yorick. "Well. We seem to be in moderately good shape at

the moment."

 

Yorick grinned, but he swung with the change of topic.

"Yeah. We're bound for Terra, and we didn't have to pay

a dime."

 

"I like that last part," Whitey agreed.

 

"Unfortunately, word is probably traveling ahead of us,"

Rod sighed. "I expect PEST will be ready and waiting for

us by the time we get there."

 

"How?" Brother Joey frowned. "Nothing can travel faster

than an FTL ship."

 

"Nothing except a faster ship," Rod reminded him.

 

Brother Joey shook his head. "The time we spend in H-

space isn't really transit time, Mr. Gallowglass..."

 

"Rod," Rod prompted.

 

"Rod. Thank you." Brother Joey nodded. "As I was

saying, it isn't really transit time, it's more a matter of

seeking and translating."

 

"Well, then, bigger ships search faster than small ones."

 

Brother Joey frowned. "I have to admit that the power

input does have an effect..."

 

"And bigger ships go faster from breakout point to des-

tination," Rod added. "Eaves is sure to have a courier after

us as soon as he comes out of the coma."

 

Brother Joey relaxed. "We have lead enough."

 

"Yes, (/some other agent wasn't shadowing us, and send-

ing off a report of his own. Ah, for the dear old days of

Morse code!" Rod sighed. "The days of yore, when people

communicated from ship to shore by radio, which could be

jammed."

 

"Yeah, I remember Morse code." Yorick grinned. "Would

you believe I actually learned it once?"

 

Chomoi nodded. "So did I. Not that we ever used it, but

it was part of basic training, anyway."

 

Rod slouched down in his chair, and started drumming

his fingers.

 

"Courage, people," Whitey reassured them. "I know some

people who're working on trying to invent FTL radio."

 

Brother Joey stared. "How do they think they can do

that?"

 

Rod started tapping his toe against Yorick's. The cave-

man showed every sign of paying close attention to Brother

Joey and Whitey.

 

Whitey shook his head. "Search me. But there's my

granddaughter—she's a computer expert—and the kid she

married; we traveled together for a while."

 

Think PEST might really know we're coming? Rod tapped

out against Yorick's foot.

 

"They settled down on a big asteroid called 'Maxima,'

where they found a lot of kindred souls who liked tinkering

with computers and ignoring PEST."

 

Rod went rigid. Maxima was his family home.

 

Not a chance, Yorick tapped back. If there were another

agent, he would've tried to kill us.

 

"So your granddaughter and her husband are trying to

put the two together, by inventing FTL radio to use against

PEST?" Brother Joey asked.

 

Whitey nodded. "They figure that's got to be the logical

consequence. See, they figure that the main reason the Ter-

ran Sphere lapsed into dictatorship is because its territory

grew so big that the governing representatives on Terra

couldn't keep track of what was going on at home."

 

Then we shouldn't have any trouble getting through their

security, should we? Rod tapped. / mean, we are in one of

their own ships.

 

Good point...

 

"And not knowing about home, meant that they passed

laws their constituents didn't like?"

 

Whitey nodded again. "So their constituents wanted to

kick them out of office."

 

 

 

 

246

 

Christopher Stasheff

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING

 

247

 

"Naturally," Brother Joey murmured.

 

Is there a time machine on Terra? Rod tapped.

 

'"So the only way to keep power was to take it," Whitey

said.

 

Brother Joey nodded. "Be done with all this nonsense

about elections, eh?"

 

How many times do I have to tell you? Yorick tapped

back. // VETO didn't have a time machine in PEST head-

quarters, they couldn't be giving aid!

 

"Ah, you know the symptoms. And, of course, they

couldn't make the outer planets obey them, if they couldn't

get their orders to them in time—so the sensible thing to

do was to cut off the frontier."

 

"Keep only the planets they can rule," Brother Joey

sighed. "Well, I'm afraid that does make some sense."

 

Whitey smiled. "So the whole problem boils down to

the territory having grown too big for the speed of the

communications."

 

And if VETO hasn't been helping PEST, Yorick tapped,

I'm a monkey's uncle!

 

Thought it was the other way around. Rod tapped back.

 

Awright, Darwin. Just wait, and let's see what you evolve

into.

 

"Wait a minute." Chomoi sat forward."You mean your

granddaughter figures that if she can develop faster-than-

light radio, PEST will automatically collapse?"

 

"Well, not right away, and not all that easily, but that's

the gist of it, yes," Whitey confirmed.

 

Brother Joey sat back, dazzled. "My heavens! What an

audacious scheme!"

 

Whitey cocked his head to the side, watching him. "Kinda

makes you want to join them, doesn't it?"

 

"It does, yes!"

 

Rod looked up, having caught the last bit of the con-

versation. "I expect we could drop you off there, on our

way."

 

Brother Joey gazed off into space. "I do seem to be a

better engineer than a missionary..."

 

"We're going to try to gate-crash Terra," Rod explained.

"We ought to have a fairly good chance, in one of their own

scoutships."

 

Chomoi frowned. "If PEST hasn't been told who's in

this ship."

 

Rod shrugged. "Life is filled with these little uncertain-

ties."

 

Whitey shook his head sadly. " 'Fraid I can't come along,

folks. On Terra, I'm a very wanted person."

 

"So are we," Rod agreed, "but we don't have much

choice in the matter."

 

"But I do, and this time I'm going to play smart and use

it," Whitey sighed. "Just let me off at Maxima, will you?"

He looked up as Stroganoff and Mirane came up, holding

hands and beaming. "How about you two? Want to get off

at Maxima?"

 

Mirane paused halfway down to her seat. "That's where

that cadre of engineers and physicists are building robots,

isn't it?"

 

"The very place."

 

Mirane finished sitting. "I'd like to visit there, yes. I'm

going to need to know everything I can about computers."

 

"Oh?" Whitey perked up. "Just what are you two plan-

ning to do?"

 

"Get married, first," Stroganoff said, with a smile at

Mirane that could have seared paint. "Then we're going to

make the Grand Tour from pleasure-planet to pleasure-

planet."

 

"Oh?" Whitey lifted an eyebrow. "And what're you plan-

ning to use for money?"

 

"Oh, we're not going to pay for it," Mirane cried, scan-

dalized. "The company will."

 

"Company? What company?"

 

"The epic company," Stroganoff explained. "I've banked

 

 

 

 

248 Christopher Stasheff

 

enough to start my own corporation, Whitey. We'll make

three or four epics on each resort, then move on to the next

one. Care to write us some scripts?"

 

"I just might, depending on what you're planning to do

on each planet, besides making epics."

 

Mirane gazed at Stroganoff. "Well, we thought we'd try

every dreamhouse, and have duo-dreams together."

 

"Just the three of you?"

 

Stroganoff nodded. "Me, Mirane, and Notem-Modem

409."

 

"So." Whitey leaned back, grinning. "You figured it out,

too, huh?"

 

Mirane nodded. "PEST has every dreamhouse computer

rigged to condition its users to obey authority, which means

that, eventually, PEST will be able to rule the outer planets

without having to worry about a navy."

 

"But we only experienced one dream in one computer,"

Brother Joey objected.

 

"True, Brother, but if they could do it to one, they've

probably done it to all."

 

"Sure can't hurt to check," Stroganoff explained, "and

if we find out PEST has, Mirane and Notem-Modem will

reprogram that computer."

 

"I do wonder what Master Eaves' thoughts will be, when

he doth waken," Gwen mused.

 

"Probably the same," Rod grunted. "I have a notion he

linked up with PEST out of pure self-interest." He turned

to Chomoi. "How about you? Want to get off at Maxima?"

 

Chomoi was pale as ivory, but she shook her head. "I'd

be no safer there than anywhere else, which is to say that

I won't be safe anywhere." She shrugged. "Why not try

Terra? It's the last place PEST would think to look for me."

 

Rod shook his head. "Sorry I got you into this, folks."

 

"We're not." Stroganoff smiled as he gazed into Mirane's

eyes.

 

Whitey grinned. "And I'm suddenly looking forward to

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING     249

 

seeing Lona and Dar again. Might not have managed it ever,

if it hadn't been for you. Talk about a surprise visit!"

 

"I've had a bit of a surprise, too." Brother Joey was

gazing off into space. "I might have muddled along, wasting

years without discovering my true vocation, but for this."

"Not cut out to make converts?" Rod sympathized.

"Oh, yes, but of a different sort. And on a much larger

scale...."

 

"All that?"

 

Chomoi nodded. "A hundred security satellites. Major,

in a hundred^lifferent orbits. They're really there—and each

one's armed with everything from lasers on up to a small

tactical nuke."

 

"Well, our detectors say so, all right. But why? What're

they afraid of?"

 

"Whatever shows up."

 

"From outside, or inside? Are those satellites supposed

to keep invaders out, or the population in?"

 

"Yes."

 

Rod rolled his eyes up in exasperation.

 

"Wouldn't matter if we could get through the security

net," Yorick pointed out. "Where could we land?"

 

Rod frowned at the blue-and-white globe floating in front

of him on the viewscreen. "There must be some farmland,

here and there—maybe even some parks!"

 

"The farms are run by robots," Chomoi said,"and every

square foot of the parks is covered by a surveillance camera

or two."

 

"Well, back to the original idea," Rod sighed. "Looks

like we'll have to bluff it out."

 

That wasn't too hard, up till the actual landing. Whenever

one of the satellites challenged the scoutship^it honestly

and truthfully identified itself as an official government

craft. It even handled spaceport clearance—being a spy

ship, it could bypass Luna, where all commercial ships had

 

250 Christopher Stasheff THE WARLOCK WANDERING 251

 

to dock; shuttles took cargo and passengers down to Terra.

It was a cumbersome system, but it did give PEST total

control over who came to Terra, and who left.

 

Well, almost total. They really hadn't counted on enemies

coming in on one of their own ships, and a spy ship at that.

So the satellite net bucked the landing request to an actual

human, a division head, and he gave the scoutship clearance

to go directly to the spaceport PEST maintained on Terra

for official use. It all went perfectly smoothly, even the

landing—until they stepped out of the ship.

 

The little man in the gray tunic with the tan tabard stepped

forward with a smile pasted on, holding out a hand—ob-

viously a bureaucrat. "Welcome back. Agent Ea..." He

stopped short, staring at the quartet stepping out of the

scoutship.

 

Rod managed a sickly grin. "Uh, hi there."

 

The bureaucrat turned and snapped his fingers at a large

man behind him. There were a half-dozen of them, all bulky,

all with surly frowns on their faces, all in uniform. The one

he'd indicated slipped a small, flat square out of a pocket

and pointed it at the Gallowglasses.

 

The bureaucrat turned back to them, his face totally with-

out expression. "Where is the agent Wirlin Eaves?"

 

"Uh, afraid he couldn't make it." Rod swallowed. "Bit

of a rough trip and all, you know. Vicious criminals on that

planet Otranto, not to mention a couple of vampires and a

wolfman, and a rampant dreamhouse computer..."

 

The bureaucrat turned to his henchman. "Do you have

them? Good. Send for identification." He turned to the rest

of the thugs and nodded at Rod. "Arrest them."

 

"Now, wait a minute!" Rod held up a hand. "You don't

know anything about us! We're legitimate agents, all of

us—except for my wife, maybe, and I didn't see any prob-

lem in bringing her along on a business trip. We just stum-

bled across this scoutship, and we needed a way to get

home, and nobody else was using it, so..." He swallowed.

 

"Uh, it was really too bad about Eaves, but he just couldn't

make it."

 

The man with the flat square pressed a button into his

ear and gazed off into space for a moment, then nodded.

"Confirmed. The crop-haired woman is a renegade agent

marked for execution."

 

"Crop-haired!" Chomoi squalled. "I'll crop your head,

you foul-mouthed chauvinist!"

 

The man ignored her. "The other woman and the talkative

man are tied for first place as Public Enemies—and the

burly man is a major foe."

 

Yorick stared. "Why me?"

 

"I do not know," the bureaucrat snapped, "but my su-

periors must have had excellent reasons for so designating

you."

 

"Don't worry about it," Rod assured Yorick, "the ex-

cellent reasons just haven't happened yet."

 

The bureaucrat stared at him, at a loss for a moment.

But only a moment, then his mouth tightened in contempt,

and he snapped his fingers at another flunky, one wearing

a portable control console strapped to his waist and shoul-

ders. The man threw a key and thumbed a toggle, and the

air around the quartet seemed to thicken. A faint moire of

colors, like the refractions on a soap bubble, swam about

them in a sphere.

 

"A force field now surrounds you," the bureaucrat said.

"My superiors have informed me that the four of you are

very skilled at evading capture, but there is no method of

escaping this globe of force."

 

Yorick took an experimental kick at the force field. His

foot slowed and stopped, all within the space of an inch or

three. Chomoi stared, then slammed a chop at the moire,

but her hand bounced right back, clipping herin the nose.

She howled in anger.

 

"I gotta see this to believe it!" Rod aimed a jab at the

moire, straight from the shoulder. It felt as though his hand

 

 

 

 

252 Christopher Stasheff

 

hit a mattress. The moire roiled on, unperturbed.

 

The bureaucrat actually smiled. It was a bare twitch of

the lips, but it was a smile.

 

Gwen tested the field with her fingers, feeling it with a

thoughtful frown.

 

The bureaucrat turned away, beckoning to the man with

the console. "Come."

 

The operator followed him.

 

The force field scooped the company off their feet as

though it were a snow shovel and rolled them down the

hall, shouting and squalling.

 

The bureaucrat smiled again.

 

Gwen scrambled to her feet, flushed with anger, and

scurried to keep up with the force field, one hand touching

the unseen wall, scowling in concentration.

 

Rod saw, and shuddered.

 

Gwen reached out and hauled Chomoi to her feet with

deceptive ease. "How can that gleaming slab make an in-

visible wall like to this?"

 

"Well, I don't know the details," Chomoi panted, "but

roughly, it's a sort of transmitter. It projects a small magnetic

field that triggers a localized warping of the gravitational

field. It wraps itself around the tiny globe of electromagnetic

force, then expands according to how much power the op-

erator feeds into the trigger field."

 

Gwen nodded, then glared at the back of the operator's

head for a few minutes. Finally, she closed her eyes—and

the moire disappeared.

 

The operator jarred to a halt, fiddling frantically with

sliders and pressure-pads. "My board died!"

 

The bureaucrat whirled about, staring, appalled. So did

all his henchmen.

 

So did Rod. He knew he couldn't even dream of under-

standing that console—and here his wife, who hadn't even

heard of an electron till a few weeks ago, had figured out

a gadget that was so complicated, it was almost abstract.

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING     253

 

At least, she'd figured it out well enough to turn it off from

twenty feet away.

 

Gwen smiled gaily, snapped her fingers—and the moire

swirled about them again. Rod stared at it in disbelief, then

reached out to probe. Yes, the wall of force was there again.

 

"Do not fash thyself," Gwen said to the bureaucrat, "we

are once more enveloped."

 

The bureaucrat darted a glance at his operator, who was

still stabbing at pressure-pads and jamming toggles. Sweat

rolled down his brow; he shook his head.

 

The bureaucrat turned back to Gwen, staring in horror.

 

Gwen nodded. "This time, 'tis of my doing—and 'tis I

who have the managing of it." She smiled brightly at Rod.

"Come, husband, let us go." And she strode straight toward

the bureaucrat.

 

Chomoi and Yorick yelped as the field scooped them off

their feet again. They rebounded and scrambled back up,

and joined Rod in a quick scurry to keep up with Gwen.

 

The bureaucrat jumped aside, shouting, "Stop them!"

 

His thugs instantly formed a line.

 

Gwen sailed into them.

 

They flew like tenpins and bounced off the walls. A

couple of them rolled to the ground, unconscious, but the

rest whipped out blasters and started firing.

 

Yorick frowned, feeling the unseen wall. "It's growing

harder."

 

Gwen nodded, tight-lipped. "My field doth drink the

flame of their weapons. I do feel it."

 

Rod's head whipped around, staring at her. "Be careful!"

 

In spite of the strain, she smiled and reached out for his

arm. "Fear not, my lord. I can contain it."

 

The "my lord" helped. "Mind telling me how you did

this little trick?"                         -^

 

Gwen beamed up at him. "I felt within that 'console,'

as thou dost term it, with my mind. Thou hadst taught me

long ago, husband, how to make the tiniest bits of matter

 

254

 

Christopher Stasheff

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING

 

255

 

speed their movement, or slow; so 'twas not totally strange

to me, to sense the flow of bits so much tinier. I let my

mind flow with their movement, and did discover how they

streamed in patterns that did set up a small ball of force,

which did summon up and mold a force much greater, from

the earth itself."

 

Rod's mind reeled, also his ego. Just by feel, with only

a little knowledge to guide her, she had figured out how to

shape an electromagnetic field and use it to make a gravity

wave extrude a bubble of force around them. He patted her

hand and said, "I'm just glad you're on my side."

 

She smiled sweetly at him. "I, too."

 

"Just a little warm." Chomoi was feeling the force field

with her fingers. "All that wild, pure energy going into it,

and it's just a little bit warm."

 

"'T will grow hot soon enow, an we cannot find sanc-

tuary." Gwen's brow was moist. "Tis thou must now direct

me."

 

"Sanctuary?" For a moment, Chomoi just stared, totally

at a loss. Then inspiration struck, and she grinned. "Turn

left at the end of this hallway!"

 

Yorick waved a hand to fan himself. "Give her every

shortcut you know. It's getting hot in here!"

 

"The charges in those blasters just have to run down

soon," Rod grumbled.

 

They turned a comer, and the hallway opened out into

a broad concourse. People in drab coveralls were hurrying

here and there all about, most of them carrying satchels.

 

Another half-dozen uniformed men came running, blas-

ters waving, shouting.

 

"So much for the chance of their charges running down,"

Rod growled. "But they won't shoot when there're so many

taxpayers around!"

 

"All personnel and passengers seek cover," an amplified

voice boomed around them. "Dangerous criminals are at

large within the concourse. Security agents must fire to kill.

All personnel and passengers seek cover!"

 

"So much for the taxpayers," Rod grunted.

Heads jerked up all along the concourse. Then people

dived for doorways or fled around comers, screaming.

"Down here! Quickly!" Chomoi pointed at a broad stair-

 

Gwen swerved and stepped onto the escalator. Everyone

managed to stay with her except Yorick, but he was back

on his feet in a second.

 

Behind them, the uniformed men started yelling in panic.

 

"Oh! Steps that move!" Gwen cried in glee. "Then 'twas

not a mere dream!"

 

"What?... Oh! The dreamhouse!" Chomoi wrinkled her

nose. "Yeah, I hated that stairway. But keep walking, please,

Miz Gallowglass. They'll try to head us off."

 

"Certes, an thou dost wish it!" Gwen tripped gleefully

down the staircase. Rod tripped, period, but the field gave

him a soft landing, and he caught Gwen's hand to steady

himself as he came back onto his feet.

 

"Why do they shout so?" Gwen frowned back up at the

security guards, who were just appearing at the head of the

stairs.

 

"Because what we're doing is dangerous," Chomoi ex-

plained. "Here,we're at the bottom! See that clear wall, Miz

Gallowglass? Just stroll over there, would you?"

 

Rod suddenly realized what they were doing. He paled.

 

"All the way," Chomoi directed. "Up against the door-

way—that's right. Now, we wait."

 

Gwen turned to face the stairway. "Wherefore do we no

longer flee?"

 

The armsmen thundered down the escalator, saw the

company against the doorway in the clear plasticrete wall,

and skidded to a halt, frozen in horror.

 

"This tunnel is a linear accelerator," Chomoi explained.

"It's lined with ring-shaped electromagnets, and they turn

on and off in sequence, so it's almost as though a magnetic

field were moving down this tunnel."

 

Gwen's eyes had lost focus as she absorbed the concept.

 

 

 

 

256

 

Christopher Stasheff

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING

 

257

 

She nodded. "Ingenious. Yet what purpose doth it serve?"

 

"They put, uh, 'carriages' inside the tunnel, Miz Gal-

lowglass—tubular carriages, without wheels; they call them

'capsules.' They're fitted out with seats and carpets, and

each one holds a hundred people."

 

Gwen frowned. '"Tis an odd mode of travel."

 

"Not really. You see, these capsules can shoot through

these tubes at hundreds of miles per hour, and there's a huge

network of tubes, so you can get to almost anyplace in the

world through them. If we climbed into a capsule now, here

underneath the island of Medeira, we could be in Puerto

Rico, the nexus for the Americas, in four hours. That's

thousands of miles away."

 

'"Tis incredible," Gwen breathed. Then her eyes fo-

cused, and she frowned. "How many folk are in such car-

riages at this moment?"

 

"Probably a million or so."

 

"And," Gwen said slowly, "What would happen if these

men-at-arms so filled my field with flame, that I could no

longer hold it in its form?"

 

"All that energy would be released in a single instant,"

Chomoi said softly. "It'd all cut loose in one huge explosion.

It'd kill the four of us, of course, but it'd also wreck this

station, and this section of tube."

 

Gwen nodded slowly. "Then the force would no longer

flow."

 

"That's right," Chomoi said.

 

"And all the carriages with all those folk would come to

a halt?"

 

"Yes. Slowly—but they would stop. And their lights

would go out. Also the fans that blow cool air to them. The

farther down you go, Miz Gallowglass, the hotter it gets."

 

"Would they all die, then?" Gwen said faintly.

 

"Not most of them—at least, not right away. But some

of them would be hundreds of miles from the nearest sta-

tion—even thousands, for the ones under the sea floor. So

 

it'd take so long to get them out, that some of them might

actually starve. More likely, they'd panic and trample each

other. Or suffocate."

 

Gwen was trembling. "Whate'er the cost, I will not slay

so many."

 

"You won't—they will. Only they won't take a chance

on it, because they know what their bosses would do to

them. They don't dare risk it, especially since some of the

people in those tubes right now might be PEST officials.

Or their wives and families."

 

Sure enough, the armsmen were holding a quick con-

ference, darting glances at one another while they kept their

blasters trained on the company.

 

"Shake 'em up a little," Chomoi advised. "Expand the

field."

 

Gwen frowned, but the moire moved away from them

on all sides. It touched the clear wall, then went through

it.

 

The armsmen went rigid, staring. Then one of them barked

an order, and they began to retreat to the "up" escalator.

Slowly, they disappeared from sight, one by one, back-

wards.

 

When the last was gone, Gwen released her breath in a

huge sigh. "Tell me, sin that thou dost seem to know—

how can I dissipate this bubble of force, without the ex-

plosion thou didst speak of?"

 

Chomoi frowned. "Think you can let all that energy go,

slowly?"

 

"Aye, that I can. Yet where shall it go when I do release

it?"

 

Chomoi expelled a sigh of relief. "Into the wall, Miz

Gallowglass. That's no problem, thank Heaven. Just take

us over next to one of the rock walls, and let" the power

discharge."

 

Gwen looked puzzled, but she moved slowly over to the

nearest solid wall.

 

 

 

 

258 Christopher Stasheff THE WARLOCK WANDERING 259

 

"That's it, so the bubble's just touching it," Chomoi

prompted. "Now, as it gets smaller, move closer to the wall,

so the bubble stays in contact. Okay, try letting go."

 

Gwen scowled in concentration, and sparks cracked like

pistol shots, wherever the skin of the bubble touched the

wall.

 

Rod watched in awe as the power grounded itself out,

wondering how he'd ever be able to embrace Gwen again.

 

"It's bedrock," Chomoi explained as the bubble shrank.

"The energy goes through the wall, on down into the bones

of the very earth itself. It's big, Miz Gallowglass, very big.

There's a lot of rock there to soak up power."

 

"Mayhap it soaks not swiftly enow," Gwen said, frown-

ing. "The stone doth glow."

 

They looked and, sure enough, the rock wall had turned

cherry red.

 

"I think the bedrock can take it." Chomoi frowned. "After

all, the bubble's almost gone, and the stone's not softened

yet."

 

Rod nodded. "As long as it's only red, we're probably

okay."

 

"Tis gone," Gwen sighed, as the last of the power jumped

into the wall in one final pistol-shot spark. "Now whither

do we go?"

 

"Why, into a tube-car, of course." Chomoi grinned. "Shall

we?"

 

They waited by the door in the clear wall for five minutes

or so. It was five minutes too long for Rod; he kept glancing

back at the escalators with apprehension. But finally, a tube-

car swooshed up to the door and hissed to a stop. The door

rolled back, and a stream of people filed out.

 

"Let 'em go, let 'em go," Chomoi murmured. "The more

of them who get off, the more room there is for us."

 

Finally, they could step aboard. There were only about

twenty people in the car, so they were able to take four seats

that faced each other, but were well away from anyone else.

 

Gwen glanced nervously at the door. "When will it start?"

 

"It already did." Chomoi smiled, amused. "Smooth ride,

isn't it?"

 

"It is, indeed." Gwen's eyes were wide with astonish-

ment. "Yet tell me—how is't we ride? Wherefore hath that

little man's 'superiors' not halted all carriages near to us?"

 

"They can't," Chomoi explained. "They'd have to shut

off power to this whole sector, and that would leave thou-

sands of people trapped until they could find us. And I think

they realize that if they leave us alone in the dark in a tunnel-

complex like this, they might never find us."

 

Rod's face was wooden; he was filled with sullen re-

sentment, hearing Chomoi explain the facts of the situation

to Gwen. He glared around him, looking for an outlet for

the emotion—surely it couldn't be jealousy?

 

There! That gleaming, modest, inch-wide circlet on the

front wall. "Smile," he advised, "we're on somebody's

screen."

 

The other three turned around, staring at the front of the

car. But Rod's eyes narrowed as he glared at it, and the

faintest whiff of smoke coiled out of the vent nearest it.

Passengers in the front of the car began to sniff, frowning.

 

"Neatly done." Gwen sounded surprised. "Yet where-

fore, husband? What harm was there in it?"

 

"It was an electronic eye," Rod explained, "and when

we decide to get off this high-speed sausage, I'd rather the

security people didn't know exactly where we did it."

 

"Ah! Well thought!" Gwen swept the rest of the car with

a thoughtful gaze. "Nay—I sense no more of them..."

 

Rod stared. She could sense electromagnetic fields now,

too?

 

Gwen shook her head with decision. "Nay, only the one."

 

"Makes sense," Chomoi snorted. "No douETt the Prole-

tarian Eclectic State of Terra was too cheap to put more than

one audio and one video pickup on each car."

 

Rod's mouth tightened, though he had a fleeting thought

that Chomoi might have been trying to be tactful. Irritated,

 

 

 

 

260 Christopher Stasheff THE WARLOCK WANDERING 261

 

he directed a glare at the small grille in the ceiling in the

center of the car, thinking searing thoughts. When smoke

curled out of it, he relaxed. "Okay. Audio's out now, too."

 

Yorick nodded, satisfied. "No way they can tell where

we get out now."

 

Rod frowned at a sudden thought. "But they don't have

to, do they? They just have to detail a bunch of guards at

every station." He turned to Chomoi. "How many do we

have coming up?"

 

She had paled. "Only one—the Canary Islands. After

that, the next stop is Puerto Rico.."

 

"So." Rod leaned back, pursing his lips. "We've got one

chance."

 

"Why bother?" Yorick settled back, grinning. "I always

liked the Western Hemisphere."

 

Rod suffered a shy grin. "Well, actually, any place will

do fine." The realization suddenly hit him like a bottleful

of champagne. "Hey! We're home! This is Terra—the real,

bona fide ancestral home of humanity! The planet where

we evolved!"

 

Yorick cocked an eyebrow. "Never been here before?"

 

Rod shook his head. "Heard about it, though. Lots."

 

Gwen was looking from one to the other, totally lost.

 

"This is the planet people started out from, Miz Gal-

lowglass," Chomoi explained. "Your ancestors spread out

from here in starships, in all directions. They colonized the

planets you live on now."

 

Awe filled Gwen's face.

 

"There's still the problem of getting off," Yorick re-

minded, "without getting arrested."

 

Chomoi's gaze roamed the car. "Most of these people

have luggage, don't they?"

 

"They do?" Yorick sat up, looking here and there all

about the car. "Son of a gun! I suppose those shoulder bags

could be suitcases."

 

"Sure. You don't need much room to pack a weekend's

clothes."

 

"I'll never get used to this compact clothing you folks

use," Yorick sighed. "Personally, I always thought we should

leave spider silk to the arachnids."

 

Chomoi smiled. "Okay, primitive. What backward planet

did you come from?"

 

"You'd be surprised." The caveman looked wary. "But

I gotta admit, it is handy having a suit that can fold as flat

as a board."

 

Chomoi frowned. "What's a 'board'?"

 

Rod said quickly, "So they've all got luggage. You're

not thinking what I think you're thinking, are you?"

 

"I think so." Chomoi nodded at a nearby passenger. "He's

about your size, and he's got some clothes to spare."

 

"Of course, we would have to knock him out," Rod

reminded her.

 

Chomoi nodded, scowling. "That's the part I don't like.

But it won't do him any permanent damage—and when

he wakes up, he'll never know it was you who robbed

him."

 

"We'll leave cash." Yorick eased a flat wallet out of his

pocket.

 

Rod stared. "You've got PEST credits?"

 

"Sure." Yorick shrugged. "What kind of a traveler would

I be, if I left home without some of the cash of the country

I was going to?"

 

A time-traveler, Rod thought, but he had to admit the

sense of what Yorick said. A person who was going to travel

chronologically, should naturally take the same precautions

as a person who was going to travel geographically. It was

just that he couldn't count on being able to exchange cur-

rency once he got to his destination...."

 

"So why were we going through that whole elaborate

routine at the casino?" Chomoi demanded. Then she frowned.

"Oh, yeah, I forgot. Nobody on any of the frontier planets

will accept PEST credits for anything anymore."

 

"Why—because they're free of PEST'S tyranny?"

 

"No—because the PEST BTU isn't worth very much.

 

 

 

 

262 Christopher Stasheff

 

Legislation never was a very sound basis for a currency,

Major."

 

"The price of thrift," Rod sighed. "I hate to point this

out, but while we're stealing that guy's pajamas, won't the

other passengers notice?"

 

Gwen sat very straight for a moment, gazing off into

space. One by one, the other passengers began to snore.

Finally, she relaxed with a bright smile and said, "Nay."

 

Chomoi stared about her, closed her eyes, shook her

head, and looked again.

 

Yorick expelled a hissing breath and said, "Yes." Then

he said, "Well." and, "Someday maybe I'll get used to what

you can do. Lady Gallowglass."

 

Privately, Rod hoped he would, too.

 

Yorick pushed himself out of his seat. "Let's get on with

it, shall we?"

 

A few minutes and quick trips to the powder room later,

the four of them sat down again, leaving four suitcases a

little lighter and a lot richer.

 

Gwen plucked at the flimsy gray fabric. '"Tis so light

that I feel quite unclothed."

 

"I know what you mean," Chomoi agreed. "After my

tights and jerkin, it feels really odd."

 

"You weren't kidding with that crack about pajamas,

were you?" Rod asked.

 

"Not a bit," Yorick said sadly. "But on Terra, going

outdoors is a job for specialists now, so why should anyone

else bother wearing all that heavy, uncomfortable wool and

buckram?"

 

"I'm just not used to common sense, I suppose." Rod

looked down at his bland, gray pajamas. "How come they

all wear the same thing?"

 

Yorick shrugged. "Standard government issue. This is

the Proletarian Eclectic State of Terra, Major.... Hey! Don't

take it so hard, Chomoi! How could you know what they

were going to do?"

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING     263

 

"By really thinking about what they were saying," she

whispered, "instead of just latching onto the parts I liked."

 

They filed off the car with the other passengers, just four

more gray-clad bodies. Rod was glad the pajamas had come

with hoods; it gave them a fighting chance that no one would

recognize their faces. They filed onto the escalator and

glided up. Rod stared at the blank tan plasticrete wall, letting

his thoughts go numb. Then he frowned. "This isn't plas-

ticrete anymore."

 

"Right." Chomoi looked at him strangely. "Plasticrete is

tan. This is red."

 

"It's stone!" Rod wanted to reach out and touch it, but

the wall was four feet away from the escalator. "It's real,

bona fide rock! But why so far away?" He looked down at

the shallow stairs cut into the slope beside the escalator.

"And why are there steps there?"

 

"Because that's the way the Spanish built them," Yorick

answered.

 

"The Spanish?" Rod looked up, frowning. "I thought

PEST was an international government."

 

"Yeah, but they're thrifty, remember? Why pay good

 

money to build a new station, when you can just adapt an

old one?"

 

Rod stared around him. "You mean..."

 

"Right." Chomoi nodded. "You're in Puerto Rico, Major,

where the Spanish once had a colony. They fortified the

island heavily. We're inside the castle El Morro, built in the

seventeenth century."

 

"Fourteen hundred years ago!!?!"

 

Chomoi nodded. "And it's still standing. They built well,

back then."

 

Daylight struck them like a spray of needles, and the

moving stairs delivered them gently onto a moving belt.

Gwen breathed deeply of the warm, fragrant air. "Why, 'tis

Paradise!" Then she frowned out toward a low rock wall

 

 

 

 

264           Christopher Stasheff

 

Rod looked, then stared. "That, dear, is an ocean. Water.

 

All of it."

 

Gwen gazed for a while, then said, "Rarely have I seen

 

waters so blue. What sayest thou, husband?"

 

Rod was staring up at the other side.

 

"What seest thou?" Gwen turned to look, and gasped.

 

The red wall towered up, blotched here and there, but

stem and sheer, tilting back away from them, curving away

around the headland, and up, up, up.

 

" 'Tis the abode of giants'," Gwen whispered.

 

Rod glanced nervously around the terrace. It somehow

seemed very narrow now. The wall was so huge that it made

him feel like a fly clinging by his toes.

 

"Men built this?" Chomoi said softly.

 

Yorick nodded. "Lots of them. And they didn't have

 

much choice about it."

 

The slidewalk delivered them to the base of another es-

calator. It carried them into a tunnel, rising up along a

rampway. Rod stared around at the size of it. "Seventeenth

century, you say?"

 

Chomoi nodded.

 

"What was this tunnel for? I mean, they didn't have

 

escalators then."

 

"For cannon. Major. Huge cannon, ten feet long, made

out of cast iron. They threw iron balls as big as your head,

and they weighed like sin. Tons. You saw those six-foot

notches in the seaward wall, down there on the battlemenis?"

 

Rod nodded.

 

"Well, that's what they were for—cannon. Only to get

them there, they had to lower them down this ramp. And

to get them back up, they had to use horses." Chomoi gazed

around her, looking grim. As they neared the top of the

rampway, she nodded toward a niche in the wall with a

grille of iron bars covering it. "Torture dungeon. When some

poor bastard of a soldier broke the rules, they locked him

up there for a while. Not enough room to stand up straight,

and not much in the way of sanitary facilities, either."

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING     265

 

"Plus knowing all his mates were watching him suffer

every time they came down here." Rod nodded. "Nice guys."

 

"Yeah." Chomoi looked at the red stone around her, and

shuddered. "A soldier must have thought he was in Hell

here, back then. This piece of rock was all there was for

him—and the officers were his masters."

 

"Legalized slavery," Yorick said with a scowl.

 

They came out into the sun again, and found themselves

in a wide courtyard, with a score of rooms cut into its walls.

Two huge cylinders stood in its center.

 

Chomoi nodded toward them. "Cisterns. They were ready

for a siege here."

 

"Siege, cannon..." Gwen frowned. "Why so much

might?"

 

"Because Puerto Rico was the gate to the Caribbean, Miz

Gallowglass, and to all the wealth of the countries that lie

along its shores. That's the Atlantic Ocean over there, with

Europe on its far side—but just around the curve of this

shoreline, is the Caribbean. Other countries tried to take

this island from the Spanish, and that wealth with it. The

Dutch tried it first, then the English, so they built this castle

to guard against those enemies."

 

Gwen gave a somber nod. "It must have guarded well."

 

"It did," Chomoi agreed. "It was built to ward off

seventeenth-century caravels, but it'd be very effective

against any rebel group that tried to take over the transat-

lantic tube, today."

 

Rod lifted his head slowly. "So that's why the trip ends

here!"

 

Chomoi nodded. "It'd also be easy to lock out anybody

trying to invade through the tube from Europe. All you'd

have to do would be to lock those big gates over there, and

shoot down from the battlements up there." She pointed up

at the rooftops. They could just make out the shape of the

gun-slits against the sky. It wasn't hard to see the uniformed

armsmen walking their beats, though.

 

Rod shuddered and looked away. "Not an entirely happy

 

 

 

 

266 Christopher Stasheff

 

with a slice of blue between it and the sky. "What is that

 

azure field?"

 

thought, under our circumstances."

 

"Don't worry about it." Elaborately casual, Chomoi

 

strolled out the main gate. The others followed her, with

 

sighs of relief. "Where're we going?" Rod asked.

"Over there." Chomoi pointed at the skyline.

Another fortress topped a rise before them.

Owen shivered, then squared her shoulders. "We do what

 

we must." She stepped onto the slidewalk.

 

"That was the only tube from Europe?" Rod asked.

 

They were coming in through another gate in a reddish

stone wall, and they found themselves in another courtyard.

Gwen gazed about her. "Why, 'tis like to the other, only

far smaller."

 

Chomoi nodded. "Good way to put it. I mean, it makes

sense, doesn't it? If it worked with El Morro, why not do

it again? This is the fortress San Cristobal, Miz

Gallowglass—and yes. Major, that El Morro tube is the

only one from Europe."

 

"For the whole Western Hemisphere?"

 

Chornoi nodded. "Oh, it makes for traffic jams, right

enough, but it sure lets PEST control who moves where."

 

"So why aren't they stopping us?" Yorick muttered.

 

Chomoi frowned. "I was wondering that, myself. They

must have figured out that we're not in the Canaries."

 

"But they don't know we're wearing gray," Rod re-

minded her.

 

Chomoi shook her head. "They've got to have guardsmen

out with our pictures by now. All we had was a change of

clothes, not plastic surgery."

 

They rode the slidewalk through the courtyard of San

Cristobal slowly, each mulling at the thought. Finally, Yor-

ick said, "You don't suppose the local guardsmen might not

be too happy about PEST telling them what to do, do you?"

 

The slidewalk shot them into another dark tunnel.

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING     267

 

This one was low, and not very wide. Discreet, indirect

lighting showed them when the slidewalk turned into an

escalator.

 

"They didn't used to have lights in here," Yorick mut-

tered.

 

Chomoi's gaze snapped to him, eyes narrowed.

 

"They had charges of gunpowder set at regular intervals.

That's what the lines there are for." Yorick pointed at straight

cracks, an inch wide, that ran up the walls and across the

ceiling. "If they blew up the far end of the tunnel, the near

end would still stand. So if any poor bastard of a soldier

had to come down here at night, he wasn't allowed to carry

a torch."

 

Rod looked around at the dark close walls, glanced for-

ward and backward, and saw that all the daylight had been

blocked off by the curve of the tunnel. He shuddered.

 

The slidewalk stopped, and they stepped through a low

doorway into a small tunnel at right angles to the main one.

Rod noticed that they passed another grille of iron bars,

blocked open.

 

He found himself in a very long room, like a section of

tunnel that had been closed off. Far away at the end, daylight

glared through a small rectangle.

 

"We wait here," Chomoi explained. "When the next car

comes, we'll go down that escalator to board it." She pointed

at a plasticrete portal that obtruded in the side of the tunnel,

hideous in its smooth blandness.

 

Rod was looking about him. He noticed a clear panel

and stepped over to it. Behind it was a section of tunnel

wall with five crudely-drawn ships colored in earth tones,

and a scrawled word above them.

 

Yorick noticed his gaze. "A young officer did that. He

led a mutiny, and they locked him in here'for sixty days

before they took him out to kill him."

 

Rod darted a quick glance around the chamber. For a

moment, he could imagine what it must have been like to

 

268

 

Christopher Stasheff

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING

 

269

 

be locked up in this small space for so long a time—day

after day, never knowing when he'd be taken out to be slain,

with nothing to do except rant at his fate and curse himself

for a fool. He shook his head, turning away from the thought.

"What does the word say?"

 

"What would you say, if you were locked up in here for

sixty days?"

 

Chomoi frowned up at Yorick. "How come you know

so much about this place?"

 

But Yorick only shook his head, brows drawn so low

they hid his eyes, and muttered something under his breath.

 

A green panel glowed to life by the stairway.

 

"Loading time," Chomoi said softly.

 

As they came into the Atlanta interchange, a 3DT tank

burst into color with a picture of a group. "These persons

are criminals," a resonant voice informed them. "They en-

danger the state and, therefore, every citizen."

 

Rod stared, appalled. "Wow! I never looked worse!"

 

"It's the harried, hunted look," Chomoi assured him,

"and they would catch me without makeup."

 

Yorick nodded. "I look like a thug."

 

Gwen didn't say anything, but the expression on her face

spoke volumes.

 

"If you see any or all of them," the voice went on, "report

them immediately to the nearest Security Service officer."

 

"See the scoutship in the background?" Yorick pointed.

"This must be the picture that the little viper with the loud

mouth had his flunky take."

 

Rod nodded. "Wonder what took 'em so long to get it

on the network?"

 

"Who says it did?" Yorick countered. "We could be look-

ing at the hundredth replay."

 

"Yeah, we could." Rod frowned. "Either way, we'd bet-

ter get gone. Gwen, let's go. Chomoi... Chomoi?"

 

But Chomoi was over against the wall, talking at a blank

viewscreen. "Yeah, I just saw them!" She was speaking in

 

a higher, more nasal voice than usual, and fairly danced

with excitement. "I mean, I'm right here in Atlanta, human,

and I... huh?... No, I don't know why you're not getting

any picture. I don't have one of you either, y' know? Hey,

what can I tell you? The way you guys keep up these public

call booths... Oh, them? Yeah! I just got in on the tube

from Florida! And back in Jacksonville, when I was getting

on, they were getting off! ... No, of course not! How could

I call you any sooner? There weren't any call booths on

that capsule! Besides, I didn't see your blurb about them

until I got off here in Atlanta... What? ... Oh, sure, sure!

Glad to help! I always wanted to be a good citizen....

Yeah, 'bye, now."

 

"That," Yorick said, leveling a forefinger, "is a damn

good idea." He jumped for another call booth, put his palm

over the vision pickup, and said, "Security Service. Re-

porting."

 

But Rod was already at a booth of his own. "Huh? ...

Well, yeah, I'm in Atlanta now—but, I mean, I didn't see

your blurb about 'em until I was waiting for my tube in

Puerto Rico, and my capsule came right after that, and well,

hell, you couldn't expect me to... Well, yeah! I saw them,

yeah! Sicily, just before I got on the capsule there! ... No,

now, look, I know that was eight hours ago, but, yeah, I'm

sure! ... Yeah, I mean, you couldn't miss those clothes

anywhere! What happened to that guy's jacket—did he get

scrambled eggs on it?"

 

Gwen had her hand over another vision pickup, and was

staring at the microphone inlay. Suddenly she smiled, and

said, "Emergency," and began talking in a fast, nasal voice.

"Hello? ... Yeah, them! ... No, no, the four in the tank!

The ones with the weird... Yeah, sure I'm sure... Oh!

Yeah, right here where I'm talking from ... Wfcere? Oh, I

don't know. Someplace in Mexico... Whup! There comes

my capsule!"

 

She disconnected and turned, to find Rod standing over

her. "What did you do?"

 

 

 

 

270 Christopher Stasheff

 

She beamed up at him. "I traced the paths of the 'elec-

trons' with my thoughts, and made each wait one second

in an instrument a thousand miles away, then begin its course

anew."

 

Rod stared. "You mean you figured out how to route that

call through a terminal that far away in just a few seconds?"

 

"Nay—I've been learning of these things thou dost term

'electrons' sin that we were kidnapped."

 

"I noticed." Rod swallowed through a suddenly dry throat.

"Uh... where does Security think that call came from?"

 

"I believe 'tis called 'Acapulco.'"

 

Rod turned away, just barely managing to restrain a gib-

ber. "You, uh, seem to have developed a feel for the local

dialect."

 

Gwen shrugged impatiently. " Tis naught, for one who

reads minds."

 

Fortunately, right then. Rod bumped into Yorick, who

was trying to shoo them all into a tightly-knit group again.

"All right, all right! That's enough with the phone calls,

already! Let's get under cover, before somebody tracks the

origins of these little bulletins of ours, and adds two and

two together, and comes up with three! We need a hiding-

place, don't we?"

 

"Right!" Rod looked about him, thinking fast. He pointed

a finger. "There!"

 

Yorick turned, looked, and grinned. "The very place.

Come on, folks, let's go." And he shooed them all toward

a shop front replete with flashing letters, garish holos, and

animated enticers. They sauntered into a huge mouth with

incarnadined lips below a mustache that read, "GAMES

ARCADE."

 

Where the upper teeth should have been was a sign that

read,

 

"NO CALCULATORS OR

PERSONAL COMPUTERS ALLOWED!

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING      271

They louse up our games."

 

As they stepped in, they were assaulted with a primal

cacophony of whistles, squeaks, booms, shrieks, screeches,

chimes, explosions, cackles, zooms, and rings. Gwen pressed

her hands over her ears. "Aiee! Wherefore must they needs

have such a deal of noise? And wherefore is there so much

haze?"

 

The hall was filled with smoke, and dimly-lit by spot-

lights focused on each separate gaming machine.

 

"It's supposed to help their concentration," Rod called

into her ear. "They won't be distracted by the other machines

around them, because they can't see them clearly."

 

Gwen only shook her head, exasperated.

 

As they plowed on through the arcade, they were assailed

by gunfire from a variety of periods: the booming of mus-

kets, the sharp cracks of squirrel rifles, the continuous racket

of repeating rifles, the rattle of machine guns, the sizzle of

blasters. Names of famous battles flashed past them as they

slogged doggedly ahead. Finally, gasping and panting, they

reached an island of comparative quiet, where there were

only a few rings of people sitting on the floor, chatting and

laughing, and a man talking to a machine.

 

"Praise Heaven," Gwen gasped. "I feel as though I have

just run the gaunt of the worst of Man's history."

 

Beside them, a calm voice asked, "What is the accel-

eration of a falling body on the planet Terra?"

 

"Thirty-two feet per second!" the player cried, and the

machine chimed agreeably. A counter on its panel registered

the number "20." "Excellent," the machine murmured. "What

was the first English novel?"

 

"Richardson's Pamela!"

 

The machine chimed again. "Excellent. Why,did Alex-

ander's empire fail?"

 

Rod looked up at the name of the game. It read,

"Universe-Class Trivia."

 

 

 

 

272 Christopher Stasheff THE WARLOCK WANDERING 273

 

"Invalid." One of the people in the nearest ring held up

a hand. "He can't be using a two-handed sword in pre-

Roman Britain."

 

One of the other people frowned. "Why not?"

 

"Because it wasn't invented until the 1200s."

 

"So what did the British use?"

 

"Axes."

 

The young man shook his head with deliberation. "He's

my character, and he's using a broadsword."

 

"No way-o, Wolfbay-o. This game sticks to historical

accuracy. That's Rule Three."

 

"Says who?"

 

"I do—and you know Rule One."

 

The young man sighed and said, "Okay. 'Wolfbay un-

limbered his twenty-pound war-ax...'"

 

"Hold it." The first man held up a hand again.

 

"Okay, 0-kay! A two-pound ax!"

 

Gwen bent down and murmured something to one of the

other players. The player answered her, and Gwen straight-

ened, nodding, but still mystified.

 

"What was that all about?" Rod asked.

 

"I wished to know the source of the smaller man's au-

thority." Gwen shrugged. "She told me 'tis because he is

the... my lord, what is a 'diem'?"

 

"'Diem'?" Rod frowned. "I think it was a Latin word

that meant 'day,' dear."

 

"Lost!" Beside them, Yorick gave a machine a slap.

"Doggone it, this is too much! Three straight losses—in

three moves each!"

 

A neatly-dressed man was at his elbow in a second. "I'm

Alkin Lam, the manager. Do you have a problem with our

games, citizen?"

 

"I sure do." Yorick nodded toward the machine. "You

know how this thing gives you three tries on each game?

Well, I never got past the first hurdle once! I think the

joystick's broken!"

 

The manager stepped in front of the machine and slipped

 

a credit card into the slot. "Let me see..." He began to

play.

 

"This is one hell of a welcome to Terra," Yorick snorted.

"Here I am, just in from the outlying planets—you know,

Wolmar, Otranto—and I met a guy in a bar who recom-

mended this particular arcade, so I came in here to get a

taste of Terran high life, and what happens? The machine

beats me out!"

 

Rod was frantically making shushing motions.

 

The manager stilled, gazing at the screen. Then he looked

up at Yorick with a polite smile. "You may have a point

about this machine, sir. I'll certainly arrange a refund; your

acquaintance's recommendation is exactly what I'm always

hoping to hear. Would you like to step into the back room

to try the really advanced games?"

 

"Fine." Yorick grinned. "Just take me to them."

 

Personally, Rod hadn't thought Yorick had exactly been

piling up a sky-high score, even on the kiddie level.

 

But the manager slipped a "MALFUNCTIONING" sign

out of his coverall, hung it on the machine, and turned

away. Yorick turned with him.

 

Chomoi and Rod looked at each other in mingled panic

and disbelief.

 

"We have trusted him thus far," Gwen reminded them.

"Wherefore should we think him mistaken now?"

 

"A point," Rod sighed, "and I must admit we don't see

any squadron of armsmen charging down on us. Come on."

 

They turned and followed Yorick and Lam.

 

"With the advanced games, I really must warn you,"

Lam was saying, "that the stakes are advanced, too."

 

"Oh, sure, I know these machines are really just low-

level gambling." Yorick shrugged. "After all, the govern-

ment has to have an income, doesn't it?"    —

 

"It certainly does," Lam said grimly, "sixty percent of

all gambling profits."

 

Yorick nodded. "But you can make a living off the forty

percent that's left over?"

 

 

 

 

274 Christopher Stasheff THE WARLOCK WANDERING 275

 

"A good living." Lam opened the door to the back room.

"But I don't have any assistants—only two night managers.

You're just in from Otranto, and you stepped into a games

arcade?"

 

"What can I tell you?" Yorick shrugged as he stepped

through the door. "We got tired of the Gothic motif."

 

Rod stepped aside for the ladies, then followed them in,

feeling as though he were walking into a trap. Lam closed

the door behind him.

 

Gwen was staring around at the walls. "So many books!"

 

Chomoi gawked. "Why? Why not just keep them on

cube?"

 

"Books are more convenient in a great number of ways."

Lam walked around in front of them, gesturing to an easy

chair and a table with a lamp. "But the main reason is

atmosphere. You can hide away from the world in here—

and about twenty percent of our customers do."

 

Rod was still looking around. "I don't see anything but

books. Where's the gambling?"

 

"The gamble is whether or not we get caught," the man-

ager answered- He moved past them, beckoning.

 

They followed, past six people sitting around a circular

table. The oldest was saying, "All right, Gerry, but you're

assuming that nice, fair political system Plato's proposing,

is representing the whole population."

 

Gerry frowned. "But that's what he said, isn't it?"

 

"Yeah," another student answered, "but that's not what

the real city was like, the one he was modeling this 'Re-

public' of his after."

 

Gerry frowned. "How?"

 

"There were a lot of slaves in the population," answered

a third student, "and they weren't represented."

 

Lam escorted them into a six-by-six cubicle with trans-

parent walls, a small table, and a single chair. He closed

the door behind them and explained, "This is a study car-

rel—soundproof, so the student won't be distracted by the

discussion groups."

 

"Those are volunteers out there?" Rod asked.

 

Lam nodded. "They got bored with the games. Sorry to

have to put you through this." He pulled a small rectangle

out of his pocket and passed it over Rod's body, head to

toe, about six inches in front of him. "Turn around, please."

 

Resentment smoldered, but Rod complied. After all, he

was the one asking for help.

 

"Okay. Thanks." Lam turned to Gwen. "If you don't

mind, Miz?"

 

An angry refusal leaped to Rod's lips, but Gwen threw

him a quick, imploring, determined glance, and he swal-

lowed the words.

 

Lam scanned Gwen front and back, then Chomoi and

Yorick. Finally, he nodded and slipped the rectangle back

in his pocket. "All right, no bugs."

 

Gwen frowned.

 

"Listening devices," Chomoi explained. "Surveillance."

 

Gwen's lips formed an 0.

 

"You ought to recognize the setup by now. Major," Yorick

said, with a steady gaze.

 

Rod met that gaze, frowning. Then his eyes widened,

and he spun to the manager. "Good grief! You're a Cholly

Barman graduate!"

 

The manager nodded. "And our great and glorious mas-

ters of the Proletarian Eclectic State of Terra have decreed

that no one is to learn more than basic reading, writing, and

arithmetic. Oh, a very small number of very talented stu-

dents will be allowed to go on through high school, and

maybe even college—any society has to have at least a few

people to keep the machinery running, and collect the taxes—

but the vast majority will never be taught to read anything

more than the directions on a food packet."

 

Yorick nodded. "And, strangely, the children-of PEST

officials are already almost all included in that small number

of 'very talented' chosen to go on in school."

 

"Despite the fact that some of their parents are total

idiots," Chomoi said through clenched teeth.

 

 

 

 

276 Christopher Stasheff

 

Rod gazed at the manager. "You're taking quite a risk."

 

Larn smiled. "I suppose a good lawyer could get me off.

All those games out there are just machines. The customers

may be learning, but nobody's teaching, right? And they

don't leam very much, by the hour."

 

"Sure, but they spend so many hours at it, that they do

leam!"

 

Lam nodded. "And will keep on learning, for the rest of

their lives, I hope. Which is better than spending all their

days without anything more than the primary education the

law allows."

 

Rod frowned. "How many of them graduate from the

games to the back room?"

 

"Only about twenty percent. Most of them are very sat-

isfied with the games, which is why we have to keep think-

ing up more and more challenging ones. But between games,

3DT epics, and song cubes, I think we're getting a good,

solid elementary education across to about a third of the

population."

 

"Tis remarkable, surely," Gwen said, "yet can you teach

them no more than that?"

 

Larn shook his head. "Not with the techniques we've

worked out so far, though I understand some drunken poet

Cholly knows, has come up with some new approaches to

epics that're conveying abstract concepts. But the real lim-

itation is learning how to reason—and that takes a live

teacher to guide you."

 

"Yet ere thou canst so guide them, thou must needs bring

them to this place of study."

 

Larn nodded. "The few who do develop real intellectual

curiosity are quietly ushered back here to the books, where

tutors can guide their reading and develop their thinking

abilities through discussions. Education always comes down

to the live teacher, right there with the student. Nothing can

really replace the human mind."

 

"And once they have started learning to think," Rod

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING     277

 

inferred, "they're not too apt to turn you in?"

 

"No, not terribly." Larn smiled. "But if they do, there's

always that lawyer."

 

"The lawyer can't get you off if the case never goes to

court though," Chornoi said softly.

 

Larn nodded again. "There is that little problem. PEST

intends to enforce the laws, even if they're not sure the

person's guilty. And if they lock up one innocent man for

every three guilty ones, who cares?"

 

"No one who counts," Rod growled.

 

"Which means no PEST officials," Chornoi added.

 

"Except. ",Yorick held up a forefinger. "Except that they're

not going to lock 'em up—prisons cost too much. It's a lot

cheaper to terminate them."

 

"Lends a wealth of new meaning to the term 'executive,'

doesn't it?" Larn gave him a bleak smile. "However, there

is hope, if you can call it that. There're still a lot of jobs

that're cheaper to do by hand than by machine—as long as

the worker doesn't have to be paid."

 

"Convict labor." Yorick nodded, lips thin. "Well, it beats

execution, I suppose."

 

"Don't be too sure. For myself, I'd rather not find out

the hard way. So let's get you folks helped and moved on,

shall we? From the 3DT bulletins, I gather the armsmen are

after you, and I don't relish having them as patrons."

 

"They are," Yorick confirmed. "But behind them are the

PEST spies. They're trying to eliminate us."

 

"Join the club," Larn snorted.

 

"I did." Chornoi's face was frozen. "But I began to realize

that their 'more efficient government' was going to end up

being total oppression, so I quit."

 

Larn shook his head. "Only one way out of the Security

Service."

 

Chornoi nodded. "That's what they're trying for."

 

Larn gazed at her. Then he gave a bleak smile. "Well,

that explains it all nicely. Can't think what I can do to help,

 

278

 

Christopher Stasheff

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING

 

279

 

though; we can't hide you for more than a few hours—too

risky. How about a quick makeup job?"

 

"That would help." Yorick nodded. "But what we really

need, see, is to get into PEST'S central headquarters."

 

"What!!?!"

 

"I know, I know." Yorick held up a hand. "But we're

stranded time-travelers, see, and we think PEST might have

a time machine hidden away somewhere in the bowels of

its labyrinth."

 

Lam just stared at him for a minute, then shrugged his

shoulders. "Why not? I believe the masses can be educated,

don't I? But they've got an outer wall and an inner wall,

folks, and all the gates are guarded by lasers that fire if you

don't push the right button. The landing pad on top of the

building has blasters all around it, and a dozen live guards

day and night. 1 could go on, but I think you get the point;

 

the only way into PEST HQ is to be carried in... as a

prisoner."

 

Yorick looked at Rod. Rod looked at Gwen. They both

looked at Chomoi. All four swallowed heavily, and nodded.

"Okay," Yorick said. "How do we commit a crime?"

 

"We could have thought of this ourselves, you know,"

Chomoi growled as they walked down the concourse.

 

"But we didn't," Rod reminded her. "That shows we

needed help."

 

^Chomoi shook her head. "1 still don't like it. Letting

myself get caught goes against all my training."

 

"Yes, but this is a bright new innovation," Yorick pointed

out. "This way, getting caught lets you keep control of the

situation."

 

"Keep talking," Chomoi growled, "you may convince

me."

 

Yorick shook his head. "No time. If we're gonna do it,

we gotta do it now." He dropped back and, before the other

three could quite realize what he was doing, he was pointing

 

at them and shouting, "There they go!"

 

Everyone walking on the concourse, in both directions,

stopped and stared.

 

Rod felt the old sick sinking feeling in his stomach and

the itch between his shoulder blades, where he just knew

somebody was aiming a blaser. "Too late now," he growled.

"Gotta go through with it! Run.'"

 

They broke into a sprint.

 

Behind them, Yorick was shouting, "Get them! That's

Public Enemy Number One—both of them! And Public

Enemy Number Two! Haven't you seen them on 3DT?"

 

But the passersby only stared at him, then at the fleeing

trio. Fear haunted their eyes.

 

"Oh, f crying out softly!" Yorick growled. "If you want

something done right..." And he ran after Rod and the

ladies, howling, "Stop them! Stop!"

 

He'd managed to catch up to them before the Security

Service finally showed up. Even then, not a bystander was

doing anything but standing by—and most of them had just

speeded up their walk a little, heads down, shoulders

hunched.

 

But the Security Service finally did come swerving around

a comer, and the ones in front dropped to one knee, aiming

blasters.

 

"That's no good!" Rod yelped, and Gwen glared at the

blasters long enough for her companions to charge.

 

The armsmen almost started to retreat, taken by sur-

prise—but then reflex took over as Yorick slammed a fist

into an armsman's belly, and Chomoi aimed a chop at an-

other's collarbone. They blocked out of sheer reflex, and

their mates joined in.

 

Gwen caught up and spun, back-to-back with Rod, as

he furiously blocked and punched. She managed to stop

every blow aimed at his back, and if a slender lady's forearm

shouldn't have been able to stop a blaster swung by the

barrel, who noticed?

 

 

 

 

280

 

Christopher Stasheff

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING

 

281

 

Chomoi was chopping and kicking for all she was worth,

and three guardsmen surrounded her at a respectful distance;

 

but they were watching for an opening, and kept leaping in

for a quick jab. Sometimes she caught them, but they were

professionals, too.

 

Yorick grabbed an arm and a strap and threw an armsmen

into one of his mates, but a third caught him with a forearm

around the throat and yanked back. Yorick dropped to one

knee and lurched back up, bowing, too fast for the armsman

to counter. He sailed over Yorick's head, but another arms-

man slammed a haymaker into Yorick's face as he stood

 

up-

Out of the comer of his eye. Rod saw Chomoi crumple.

Apprehension gripped his belly as he thought. This is it,

dear. Remember, knock ' em out if they try to kill us—or if

they even get fresh!

 

Aye, my lord, her thought answered. She dropped her

guard, closing her eyes, and started to fall just before the

blow caught her. Then a sap cracked into Rod's skull, and

searing pain heralded darkness.

 

He came to with a raging headache and a dry-sand thirst.

He cracked his eyelids open in a squint, and looked around.

All he saw was white tile, and the surface under him was

cold, very cold. He rolled his head to the side, and saw

Yorick and Chomoi strapped to steel slabs, wrists manacled

up next to their heads. As he did, Chomoi blinked, squeezed

her eyes shut, then strained them open. Beyond her, Yorick

was watching him, looking surly.

 

Rod took a second while a huge burst of relief washed

through him. Then he stared at Chomoi and raised one

eyebrow in question. She squinted against pain, but she

nodded. Beyond her, Yorick shrugged.

 

So. They were okay. Now the apprehension could claw

loose. Where was Gwen? She was supposed to have stayed

awake the whole time, faking unconsciousness.

 

He heard a soft moan behind him.

 

Rod turned his head quickly and winced at the pain, but

opened his eyes wider.

 

He saw Gwen with her eyes closed. Frantically, he felt

for her mind, and found it lulled, buffered, adrift on a sea

of drugs.

 

Rage erupted in him, but he fought to hold it in. Not

yet. Soon—but not yet. Not quite.

 

The anger abated a little, enough for him to notice a

nearby voice saying, "But why didn't any of them use any

of those tricks we've been hearing about?"

 

"They did," another voice snapped. "They froze the blas-

ters."

 

"All right, so they did pull one. But just one! From what

I've been hearing about this gang, they had a hundred gim-

micks like that in their arsenal!"

 

"So they panicked," the second voice snarled. "Or maybe

their tricks really were just a bunch of gadgets, no matter

what superstitious claptrap you've been hearing!"

 

"Then where are they?"

 

"In a trash cycler, dodo! They ran out of power, and

these yahoos threw them away! Now will you shut up and

get busy finding out what they know about those gadgets?"

 

The other man grumbled and turned. He saw three out

of four looking at him, and stopped short. "Bruno!"

 

Bruno turned. "What? Oh, they've come around! Well,

isn't that cozy? Okay, folks, let me explain—you're going

to tell us everything you know about those gadgets you

used, especially that force-field generator and the invisibility

field. And, of course, everything about this revolutionary

underground you're working for. If you don't want to, you're

going to go through an awful lot of pain, but you'll wind

up telling us, don't doubt it."

 

"Wwwhy... why not use drugs?" Chomoi still squinted

against a headache.

 

"Because it isn't as much fun." Bruno grinned. He looked

up, and saw the direction of Rod's gaze. "No, don't go

looking for any help from her! We got our doubts about

 

 

 

 

282 Christopher Stasheff THE WARLOCK WANDERING 283

 

her, so we did use drugs to knock her out. She won't wakr

up for another dozen hours." He fell silent, eyes narrowing

as he stared at Rod. Then he nodded and moved forward.

"We'll start with you—and the old-fashioned methods."

 

Rod felt hands undoing his manacles. Frantically, he

retreated inside his own mind, remembering the analog-

appearance his mind had given him for the inter-universal

realm they'd traveled from Tir Chlis. He knew he only had

a few seconds before the beating started, and with that kind

of sensory stimulation, he'd never achieve a trance.

 

But he made it—awareness of his body faded out as it

was being lifted upright. Through the limbo about him, he

reached out for the feel of Gwen's mind. There it was, a

fragile hull on waters of Nepenthe, slumbering, removed.

Gently, he moved closer, merged, melded, and moved in-

side. Waken, he thought. We're all done for if you don't. 1

might be able to handle them alone—but I might not. It

hurt him to say it, but he had to.

 

Dimly, he felt a stirring; but she lapsed.

 

They could kill us, he thought. We might never waken.

 

This time, there was response—the single thought. To-

gether.

 

Rod hauled back on the reins of exasperation, reminding

himself that women's romanticism wasn't completely in-

curable. If that basic drive could be met in oblivion, there

was one that couldn't. Grimly, he conjured up a vision of

Magnus hugging a weeping Cordelia to him, while a glum-

looking Geoffrey sat by, holding a dry-eyed but fearful

Gregory. Alone, without us, he thought. Can you bear to

leave them to strangers?

 

He had the impression of a titan, roaring up from the

waters to look around. Then it clambered up, rage building

into an avalanche.

 

Rod got out, and got out fast. Limbo seemed very safe

suddenly.

 

But Gwen would awaken, and fight those sadists alone.

 

He pulled himself back down, forced himself to become

aware of his body...

 

And it hit. Pain. Every square inch of his body ached,

and some of it seemed to bum. Instantly he was aware,

seeing, as Bruno threw him back against the steel slab in

disgust. "This is getting us nowhere! You'd swear the guy

doesn't even have a mind! Go get the probes. Harry!"

 

Rage built, at two brutes who would so maltreat a helpless

body—Rod's helpless body! And they meant to do it to his

friends, too—and his wife! The rage rose, and Rod wel-

comed it, reaching down into it for the power he needed...

 

But beside him, manacles burst like grenades, and Gwen

stepped away from her slab, fury fairly flaming from her.

 

Bruno and Harry slammed into the wall, their bodies

actually seeming to grow thinner for a moment before they

slid to the ground.

 

Gwen turned, glaring in wrath. "They have hurt thee!"

she cried, and began to touch and probe Rod's body. Wher-

ever she laid her hand, the pain abated as the neurons stopped

firing. But even as she did it, howls of agony filled the air,

then were still.

 

Chomoi stared in horror. "What the hell was that?"

 

"Folk who watched us, unseen," Gwen answered. "What

thou dost hear came through a device they had, should they

need to speak to those within this chamber. They sleep now,

of course."

 

"Of course," Chomoi repeated, numbed.

 

"I would nurse thee a week, an I could," Gwen said

gently, "yet I cannot, and thou must needs arise and aid

me."

 

"Oh, no—Ow!—problem. No, now, I can stand." Rod

removed her hand gently as he hefted himself up onto his

feet, aching in every joint—but functional. He kept hold

of her hand, though.                     "'

 

Gwen gazed at Chomoi's wrists, and her manacles ex-

ploded. She stared, then rubbed her joints to make sure they

 

 

 

 

284

 

Christopher Stasheff

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING

 

285

 

• were untouched by all that force. As she did, two more

explosions burst the cuffs at her ankles.

 

"Watch out for shrapnel," Yorick said softly.

"I did." Gwen looked up at him. "None struck thee, did

it?"

 

"Not a bit," Yorick assured her.

 

Gwen nodded and glared at his handcuffs. They burst,

then his ankle-cuffs, too.

 

He stood up, flexing his fists. "Shall we go?"

Gwen nodded and turned toward the chamber door. "What

bearing, husband?"

 

Rod frowned, gazing off into space as he opened his

mind to the myriad of thoughts that spun and twisted through

the great complex around them. Down—it would be down

low, for protection... There! He caught the thoughts of

someone thinking about sending something ahead. He fo-

cused on the thoughts ... yes, "ahead" meant "future"—

3511, after Rod's own lifetime. He nodded, satisfied, and

reached out to touch and meld with Gwen's mind, leading,

showing her.

 

She nodded. "Aye, I see. Then let us go, husband."

The door blew out and away from them, its hinges and

bolts shredded like raveled rope. Yorick and Chomoi stared,

appalled.

 

"She's angry," Rod explained. "Catch up, folks."

They leaped to keep up with Gwen, and the familiar

moire sprang up around them. Just in time—four guards

stationed outside looked up in alarm, then yelled as they

leaped back, whipping out their blasters.

 

The blasters burst into flames in their hands.

They howled, throwing the torches from them, nursing

their bums. Gwen ignored them and moved on. The other

three had to hurry to keep up.

 

Chomoi was still staring back at the guards, then turned

her head around to look up at Rod. "But she's the gentlest

soul I've ever met!"

 

"I told you," Rod said impatiently, "she's angry."

 

An iron grille blocked their path. Gwen glared at it, and

it burst into smithereens. She marched through the steel rain

of its pieces, into an intersection. Blaster fire erupted from

both sides. The bubble around them glowed briefly before

the blasters exploded in the armsmen's hands. They screamed

and whirled away. Gwen marched on.

 

"Uh, I hate to be indelicate," Yorick said, "but..."

 

"Because she loves me," Rod answered. "Besides, I've

got some power myself, you know. I could survive long

enough to get out of range."

 

They turned into a stairway. As they came out at the

bottom, they saw a dozen men blocking their path with iron

nets. Gwen narrowed her eyes, and the strands glowed white-

hot. Flames licked out along them, and the guardsmen

dropped them, cursing. Gwen surged forward, and the force

field crashed into the dozen, bulldozing them out of the

way. Some of them screamed as it squashed them against

the wall, but Gwen paid no heed.

 

They turned a corner into a wide hallway. Twenty men

were drawn up in front of a high double door in two ranks,

one kneeling, one standing, all with blasters ready.

 

The blasters melted in their hands.

 

They threw them away with yowls of agony, just before

the door behind them exploded into iron filings. The guards

leaped aside, staring in terror. The iron filings filtered softly

to the floor.

 

Gwen stepped through the door.

 

A lone technician stood by a wall full of keys, pressure-

pads, and sliders, with an open-faced cubicle six feet wide

set into it. At the sight of them, his mouth stretched in a

grimace of horror, but he whirled and started slapping at

keys and pads.

 

Gwen glared.

 

An invisible hand yanked the man off his feet, three feet

into the air. Suddenly he slumped, unconscious, and the

 

 

 

 

286

 

Christopher Stasheff

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING

 

287

 

unseen hand dropped him in an untidy bundle.

 

"He sleeps," Gwen explained. The moire around them

disappeared.

 

Yorick leaped for the wall and started turning and punch-

ing.

 

Rod stood slack-limbed in reaction. Only once before

had he ever seen Gwen in a real towering rage, and there

hadn't been anywhere nearly as much power arrayed against

her.

 

"Dost'a truly know how this device doth function?" Gwen

demanded.

 

"No fear," Yorick snapped. "I know the standard settings

by heart."

 

"But this isn't your brand," Rod protested.

 

"No," Yorick agreed, "it's a copy. Who do you think

invented the damn thing, anyway?" He twisted a final key.

"There! That's date!" He pushed a slider. "That's location!"

He punched a sequence on a keypad. "That's the secur-

ity code! And the instruction to forget!" He punched at a

pressure-pad. "And that's the time-delay control! Everybody

inside! It'll start up in one minute!"

 

A huge, hulking shape filled the shattered doorway.

 

"Laser cannon!" Chomoi yelped.

 

"Inside, quick!" Rod all but threw her into the six-foot

cubicle. Yorick leaped in after her, and Gwen stepped up.

Rod was right behind her. He turned just as the cannon

rotated, its huge maw facing them. Rod stared into doom.

 

Doom was suddenly warped and twisted and shot through

with the color-swirl of the moire. Gwen clasped his hand

with both of hers. "Tis as thick a field as I can manage.

Now, husband, lend me of thy strength!"

 

It took a moment. There had been so much power flying

around loose during that march from the torture chamber—

and she'd been learning so horribly much about electronics!

But after that moment. Rod managed to remember the girl

in the haystack, the mother with the baby in her arms, the

 

gentle partner, and his thoughts flowed and melded with

hers.

 

"Thirty seconds," Yorick groaned.

 

A stream of ruby light lit the force field.

 

The whole doorway filled with a sheet of flame. It raged

and twisted in convolutions—not in a single blast, but in

an endless roiling rage.

 

Sweat sprang out on Gwen's brow. Her hold tightened

on Rod's hand.

 

Rod gave her all the energy he had, all there was of him.

 

She paled, trembling.

 

Concern flooded him, and washed into her—concern,

tenderness, love.

 

Heat seared him, a Sahara noon, an oven, a flaming

furnace. Chomoi gasped, and Yorick groaned, "Ten sec-

onds."

 

It was ten seconds of eternity, ten seconds of agony, ten

seconds of the sickening realization that, this time, they just

might not make it, as the flames baked and raged—but it

was ten seconds that were just long enough for their minds

to meld completely, and for Rod to realize, in the midst of

Hellfire, that she was still the same, loving partner, and that

she was still his self-interest, as the flame wrapped them

up...

 

The floor lurched, slamming them against each other,

and air flooded in, blessedly cool. Dazed, Rod straightened,

clinging to Gwen, gradually becoming aware that the flame

was gone, that he was staring into a vast chamber filled

with bench after bench full of electronic equipment, huge

wardrobes, tall cabinets...

 

And, right in front of them, a short, spare man in a white

lab coat, with a mane of white hair and an eagle's face, on

a head that was too large. He glared up at them with a gaze

that was so piercing Rod almost shuddered, even though he

had borne that stare before.

 

But he pulled himself together, squared his shoulders and

 

 

 

 

288           Christopher Stasheff

 

took a deep breath, then stepped down out of the time

machine carefully and said, "Dr. McAran, I presume."

 

They were sitting around a circular table, drinking res-

toratives (hundred proof). Around them, other tables filled

the large room, with a variety of people clustered in dis-

cussion groups. Egyptian scribes rubbed elbows with ninth-

century paladins; Sumerian peasants chatted with Ming

Dynasty bureaucrats. The whole room was a glorious me-

lange of periods and styles, a meeting place of the centuries

in a riot of colors, with a nonstop buzz of conversation in

a pidgin English that Rod could just barely recognize as the

ancestor of his own century's Anglic.

 

He frowned intently at McAran's last comment. "Well,

sure. Of course I understand that Gramarye's pivotal. If it

develops into a constitutional monarchy, it'll be able to

provide the communications system the DDT will need to

keep democracy alive."

 

"More than that," McAran said. "Your neighbors aren't

going to be standoffish, Major. They're going to leave their

home planet, lots of them, and they're going to fall in love

and marry, wherever they go. A thousand years from now,

about half the people in the Terran Sphere will be tele-

paths—because of your people."

 

Rod just stared. He felt Owen's hand tighten on his, and

squeezed back.

 

McAran waved his last earthquake away. "But that's really

secondary. Gramarye's real contribution will be the wiping

out of this artificial dichotomy we've developed between

intuition and intellect, humanity and technology. Your local

chapter of the Order of St. Vidicon is the cutting edge of

that revolution, but it's simply formalizing something your

whole people have been developing since they landed on

Gramarye. Of course, they just view it as magic and me-

chanics—and they see absolutely no reason why one person

can't be gifted in both."

 

Rod transferred his stare to Gwen.

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING     289

 

She looked about her, confused, then back at him. "Mi-

lord?"

 

"Uh... nothing. We'll talk about it later." But he tucked

her hand into his elbow and kept firm hold of it with the

other hand, as he turned back to McAran. "Okay, so Gra-

marye is immensely important to the future of democracy,

maybe even to the future of humanity, period. So what does

that have to do with your coming eleven hundred years into

your future, just to meet me?"

 

McAran looked a little uncomfortable. "Well, I really

only came over to the time machine that was bringing you

in. You're in the twentieth century right now. Major—tech-

nically."

 

Rod pushed his jaw back into place.

 

Yorick erased the problem. "Doesn't really matter. Ma-

jor. This time-travel base could be located in any century.

It is, in fact—just keeps going for a couple of thousand

years, all the way through the Fourth Millennium. And it

was just as easy to set the controls for this century, as for

the one we were in. Easier, in fact—these are the ones I

have memorized. Quicker to punch in, when you're in a

rush."

 

Rod gave his head a shake. "Okay, if you say so. But..."

 

"Why did I want to meet you?" McAran wore his grim

smile. "Well, I've heard so much about you. Major!"

 

"Great. Can I present my side of it?"

 

"No. Because if Gramarye is pivotal in the development

of democracy, you're pivotal in the development of Gra-

marye."

 

Rod froze.

 

Gwen gazed at him, wide-eyed.

 

"Me?"

 

McAran nodded.                         .,

 

"Why not her?" Rod jabbed a finger at Gwen. "She's at

least as powerful as I am! And she's done as much as I

have toward putting Gramarye on the road to freedom!"

 

"Aye, yet I've espoused thy cause only for reason that

 

 

 

 

290

 

Christopher Stasheff

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING

 

291

 

I've espoused thee," Gwen said softly, "and so would I

continue to do, e'en—God forbid!—an thou wert ta'en

from me. Yet had I never known thee, I ne'er would have

so much as thought of it."

 

McAran nodded. "She was reared in a medieval mon-

archy, Major; she didn't have the vaguest notion of de-

mocracy. Nobody there did—except the future totalitarians

and anarchists, who had come back in time to subvert Gra-

marye."

 

"And she wouldn't have learned advanced technology if

those Futurians hadn't kidnapped the two of you back in

time," Yorick said.

 

Gwen shook her head. "Thou canst not avoid it, my lord.

Thou mayest not be the person who doth bring matters to

fruition, but thou art the one who doth sow the seed." She

flushed, smiling, and turned to McAran. "Which doth bring

to mind that thou hast not spoken of the role our children

are to play in this."

 

"Mighty," McAran assured her, "but only an extension

of what you two are doing. An extension and an expansion,

I should say, there are four of them, and each of them will

grow up to be more powerful than either of you. Still, they'll

only carry on what you've begun." His frosty smile etched

itself on his face again. "Even if they don't quite realize

it."

 

The exchange had given Rod a moment to recover. He

took a deep breath. "But that still doesn't tell me what I'm

doing here, talking to you."

 

"Do I have to lay it out for you?" McAran growled. "I

want to make sure which side you're on." .

 

"Why ... democracy's."

 

McAran just regarded him, with a glittering eye.

 

"No," Rod said slowly, finally recognizing the transfor-

mation within himself. "Gramarye's."

 

McAran nodded.

 

"But democracy is in Gramarye's best interest!"

 

"If you're so sure about that," McAran grated, "you

won't mind joining GRIPE."

 

Rod sat still for a minute, letting the shock pass. Then

he said, "I'm already a SCENT agent. Doesn't that make

me an affiliate member?"

 

McAran shook his head. "There's no official alliance

between the two groups—just common interest. We don't

even have a formal tie to the Decentralized Democratic

Tribunal. In fact, neither of them knows we exist—and

frankly, we like it that way. So, of course, one of the re-

sponsibilities of membership is maintaining that secrecy."

 

"Of course," Yorick added, "we do have overlapping

membership. Other than you, I mean."

 

McAran nodded. "Some of our best agents are SCENT

operatives. We even have a few DDT bureaucrats, and the

odd tribune or two."

 

"Must be pretty odd, all right," Rod muttered.

 

"So how about you?" The eagle's eye was still on him.

"Are you for us or not. Major?"

 

Rod met McAran's stare, and took a deep breath. "For

you—but not part of you. Call me an associate member."

 

McAran sat still for a moment. Then he nodded. "As

long as you're for us, and not against us." He stood, holding

out his hand. Rod stood, and clasped it. He was amazed at

how fragile and slender the scientist's hand seemed.

 

But McAran was nodding, and smiling again. "Good to

have you. Major. Now, would you like to go back where

you came from?"

 

"I would indeed," Gwen said instantly. "Eh, my little

ones!"

 

Rod nodded, grinning. "Yeah. I think I've had my fill

of high-tech society for another dozen years or so. Send me

home."                                    '•'

 

McAran turned to Chomoi. "What do you want to do,

0 worm in the woodwork?"

 

"Worm?" She leaped to her feet. "Who the hell do you

 

 

 

 

292 Christopher Stasheff

 

think you are, throwing insults around like lava?"

 

"The volcano on whose slopes the tyrants live," Doc

Angus snapped, glaring.

 

Chomoi's eyes narrowed. "I made a mistake. It was a

bad one, and I helped hurt a lot of people. But I think I've

kind of paid for some of that on this trip—even if Gwen

and her husband did help me as much as I helped them."

 

McAran's smile was sarcastic. "Oh. You don't like dic-

tators anymore, huh?"

 

"No," Chomoi snapped, "especially on the personal

level."

 

"Prove it," McAran jibed. "Join GRIPE."

 

Chomoi stared, totally floored.

 

"He means it, Miz," Yorick said softly.

 

"But... but... how can you?" Chomoi exploded. "For

all you know, I could be the worst PEST agent alive, trying

to infiltrate your organization!"

 

McAran nodded. "Possible, very possible—but if you

were, you wouldn't have been helping fight totalitarianism

at every turn."

 

Chomoi frowned. "When did I do that?"

 

"When you helped avert a war on Wolmar," Yorick re-

minded her, "and when you helped us fight off Eaves and

his buddies on Otranto. Listen, Miz, if you were really a

PEST agent, you would have shoved a knife in Whitey the

Wino's ribs at your first chance. He's at least as important

to democracy as we are."

 

Rod nodded. "Charley Barman, too, and you never lifted

a hand against him."

 

"But... but... I didn't know! I didn't know either of

them were important to democracy!"

 

"Yeah, but you would have, if you were still a PEST

agent. Besides, you helped get the Gallowglasses through."

 

"Only because I liked them—personally!"

 

Gwen's smile was radiant.

 

"Him, too!" Chomoi stabbed a finger at Yorick. "It's not

just them, you know!"

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING     293

 

"Yes, I know," McAran said grimly, "and I'll bet this is

the first time in your life you've found people who liked

you."

 

Chomoi stood very still.

 

"I'll take personal loyalty," McAran said. "I'll take it

over loyalty to an idea, any time—even if it's loyalty to

the group, and not to me."

 

"I might not like your other people as well as I like him,"

Chomoi said slowly.

 

"Then again, you might." The frosty smile was back.

"Why don't you circulate a little, get to know them better?"

 

"Yeah—kick around for a while, Miz!" Yorick grinned.

"I've got some buddies here I think you'd like."

 

"Buddies?" Her tone was frigid. "No women?"

 

"Of course." Yorick shrugged. "What do you want me

to say, 'bosom buddies'?"

 

Chomoi's eyes narrowed. "Definitely not."

 

"Okay, then—friends. A person's a person. So I've got

friends, all right? And I think they'd like you. Okay? So

why don't you come and meet them?"

 

"Yes," Chomoi said slowly. "Yes," she said, nodding.

"Yes, I think I will."

 

Yorick grinned, and held out an elbow.

 

Chomoi hooked her hand through it, and turned to Rod

and Gwen. "Major—Milady—a pleasure meeting you."

She actually inclined her head, smiling.

 

Rod grinned, lifting a hand. "See you in the time zones."

 

Chomoi smiled, tossing her head proudly, and whisked

away on Yorick's arm. They stopped two tables away, where

Yorick introduced her to a small troupe of Mongolian bar-

barians. She pressed palms.

 

McAran watched her go with a victorious smile. Then

he turned back to Rod and Gwen, leading them away. "That's

the basis of our organization here—misfits. None of my

people ever had any friends, never felt they belonged—

until they found us." He cocked his head to the side. "Doesn't

apply to the two of you, of course."

 

294

 

Christopher Stasheff

 

THE WARLOCK WANDERING

 

295

 

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," Rod mused.

 

"Thou hast never been a Gramarye witch or warlock,"

Gwen agreed.

 

"Could be." The frosty smile turned into amusement.

"Could very well be."

 

They came up to a thirty-by-thirty area, lined with time

machines. One of them had a large sign over the portal,

which said in Gothic lettering,

 

GRAMARYE

 

Rod's eyebrows lifted. "We rate a machine all to our-

selves?"

 

McAran nodded. "I told you Gramarye's important to

us. It's locked onto real-time there, dating from..." he

coughed into his fist. "... from that little incident we had,

with those Neanderthals."

 

"Yeah." Rod frowned. "I've been meaning to ask you

about that."

 

"Some other time, okay?" McAran said quickly. "Right

now, there're some people who've been waiting to see you

for a couple of weeks."

 

"Aye—we must needs be gone to them, right quickly!"

Gwen leaped into the time machine's cubicle. "Send us to

them at once, doctor, an it please thee!"

 

"Oh, I could send you quicker than that." McAran peered

closely at the date. "I could set it back a couple of weeks,

and return you to the same night you were kidnapped."

 

Gwen's eyes lit, but Rod frowned. "How long would it

take?"

 

"Only a minute, to reset the machine," McAran an-

swered, "but the trip itself would take a couple of hours,

because the time-matrix would have to readjust itself into

a different configuration."

 

"I cannot wait so long." Gwen clasped Rod's arm. "1

doubt me not an they have been well tended in our ab-

sence—and I bum to see them once again!"

 

Rod shrugged. "It'll probably have done them good to

be without us for a while, especially since their baby-sitters

have probably been indulging them horribly."

 

"Oh!" Gwen clasped her hand over her mouth, eyes wide.

"Robin will be wroth with us, to have been so long away!"

 

"Yeah, but think how glad he'll be to see us come back!"

 

"There's some truth to that." Gwen turned back to

McAran. "Send us now, doctor, I beg of thee!"

 

McAran shrugged. "As the customer orders." He reached

out and pressed a button.

 

Rod and Gwen felt a twisting lurch, and were just fighting

down nausea when they realized they were staring around

at twilit woodlands, and the calm sheen of a pond.

 

Rod blinked, staring around him in surprise. "Well! Right

back at the pretty little woodland pool I told you about!"

 

"An thou'lt pardon it, I'd liefer not stay to contemplate

it," Gwen said, "especially an I doubt the virtue of that

crone who told thee of it."

 

Gwen threw her arms around his neck. "Eh, husband!

We are home!"

 

"Yeah!" Rod hugged her to him with massive relief.

 

Then he remembered the power he'd seen her wield, and

that reminded him how much she'd learned about electron-

ics; and he felt the cold fear seeping through him, at the

thought of grappling a woman who could wreak such may-

hem—especially since it was his own kind of mayhem. And

wreaked at least as well as he could, himself.

 

She felt the change. "Husband? My lord?"

 

He held her off at arm's length. "We're not exactly the

same people who left here, are we?"

 

"Wherefore not?" Gwen stared, startled and hurt. "We

are still ourselves, my lord. Who else could we be?"

 

"Well, all right, still us," Rod growled, "but we've

changed. And you, shall we say, have learned a lot in the

process?"

 

"Yet it hath not changed who I am, nor the way I do feel

toward thee," Gwen protested. "Nay, my lord. Do not think—

 

 

 

 

296 Christopher Stasheff THE WARLOCK WANDERING 297

 

ever!—that only because I learn more, or gain more skill

or power, that I shall ever love thee less!"

 

"Yeah, but it's not just your kind of learning." Rod hooked

his hands in frustration at trying to find the right words.

"It's that you're learning my kind of knowledge!"

 

Gwen stilled, staring up at him. Then she said, "Ah,

then. So that is the way of it."

 

"Yes," Rod admitted. "The skills and knowledge I had,

that you lacked, were all that were keeping me thinking I

was good enough for you."

 

"Oh, how poorly thou dost know thyself. Rod Gallow-

glass!" She threw her arms about his neck and pulled his

head down to hers. "Thy goodness and thy greatness have

so little to do with thy knowledge or skill, or even thy power!

'Tis thy gentle, caring self that drew me into love of thee,

and the strength of thy resolve that doth shelter me and

mine! 'Tis thee I love—not thine attributes!" She drew back

a little, cocking her head to the side. "And, in fairness, thou

must needs own that thou hast learned my skills and knowl-

edge, even as I've but now learned thine."

 

"Well, yes," Rod admitted, "but that's different."

 

"Only in that I rejoice at such joining, where thou dost

seem to dread it," Gwen returned. "Yet thou hast no need

of such trepidation, for 'tis thee I love, that inexplicable,

unwordable, indescribable essence that is Rod Callow-

glass—and only that! Not thy power or knowledge!"

 

Then she frowned as a new thought came. "Or dost thou

love me less, because I know summat of thy magicks?"

 

Rod stared at her, horrified. Then, slowly, he smiled.

"Love you less, no—but I do feel threatened by it. I'm sure

I'll get over that, though." He caught her hands. "After all,

if you've managed to adapt magic to advanced technology,

I've learned to adapt technology to magic!"

 

Gwen threw her head back with a silvery laugh, and kept

her lips parted as she swayed back up against him. He buried

himself in her kiss.

 

Finally, he had to give up and gasp, though he did wish

 

he'd seen the kiss coming in time to hyperventilate a little.

He hooked an arm about her waist and pointed at the path

that wound away through the trees. "We do have to get back

to the children, you know. Besides, we have a bed in the

house."

 

She beamed up at him. "I think 'twill be an early slum-

bering for them this night, my lord."

 

And, arm in arm, they strolled away through the trees,

hand in hand, mind in mind, pausing only occasionally to

scan for mental traces of ambushers.

 

They came in the door with a word of cheery greeting—

but it died on their lips. Rod stared, aghast. The table and

chairs had been pushed back against the walls. A giant of

a man, at least eight feet tall, took up most of the living

room floor, with two people of standard size beside him,

one wearing a robe and pointed hat of dark blue, sprinkled

with signs of the zodiac, and the other a pretty lass in her

twenties with her hair bound in a kerchief. The three of

them were so tightly wrapped in hempen rope that they

looked like candidates for a joint sarcophagus.

 

Geoffrey stood over the giant with a cudgel in his hand;

 

Cordelia sat at the woman's feet, singing lightly and em-

broidering a handkerchief; Magnus stood over the wizard,

arms akimbo, as though he were daring the man to try a

spell; and Gregory sat cross-legged on the mantelpiece,

contemplating the whole mess.

 

By the hearth sat a very worried-looking Puck. At the

sound of Rod's voice, his head snapped up; he took one

look at Rod and Gwen, moaned, leaped into the fireplace,

and darted up the chimney with a howl of despair.

 

Gwen stared, appalled.

 

Then she took a deep breath.            ^.

 

But Rod beat her to it. "And just what do you think

you've been doing!?!"