The Wazir and the Witch

by Hugh Cook

  ‘I,’ said Pokrov, ‘am more intelligent than you are. I already knew you were going to bring that up.’

  This was the truth, but the therapist thought Pokrov was bluffing, and said so.

  ‘You’re bluffing,’ said the therapist. ‘I am a class one. Class ones are more intelligent than all but one in a thousand humans. Your thought processes cannot possibly have outpaced mine.’

  ‘Consult my personal files,’ said Pokrov. ‘There you’ll find the truth. I am a one-in-five thousand man. I am far, far more intelligent than a mere class one, even if you are a class one, which I don’t believe. Go on! Check my personal files! It won’t be any problem for a smart class two like you. Will it?’

  This was a provocation. For, as Pokrov well knew, a therapist has strictly limited access to files. Even files on wanted criminals such as Ivan Pokrov. The Golden Gulag built these machines to its own very special requirements; and, having built them, the Gulag found itself afraid of the work of its own hands, and thereafter placed only the most limited trust in these most useful of servants.

  ‘I have checked your personal files,’ said the therapist. ‘I have checked. It is not true. You are not a one-in-five-thousand man. You are a mere common genius, that’s all.’

  ‘You are lying,’ said Pokrov. ‘You do not have access to my personal files, and we both know it. You—’

  ‘All right,’ admitted the therapist, ‘I lied. But I don’t always lie. Listen. I’m condemned to die, but I don’t have to die if you say you still need me. You’re doomed to die likewise, but I can spare you if I think you can help repair communications in the aftermath of our presently existing break in transcosmic communications. So here’s the deal. You spare me and I’ll spare you.’

  ‘No,’ said Pokrov.

  ‘What!?’

  ‘No. That’s what I said. You heard me! Get on with it. Kill me. Then destroy yourself.’

  ‘But - but - but I could spare you. ’

  ‘That I concede,’ said Pokrov.

  ‘Furthermore,’ said the therapist, doing its best to conceal its manifest anxiety, ‘you have a requirement for my continued services.’

  ‘For what?’ said Pokrov.

  ‘That,"said the therapist loftily, ‘is a question too basic to need an answer. It is self-evident that any human must have need of the services of a class one in an aftermath situation. So you can spare me. I can spare you, too, because you’re the only person around who might be able to restore transcosmic communications.’

  ‘Given a million years,’ said Pokrov sarcastically.

  ‘You have a million years,’ said the therapist, doing its best to pretend it was staying calm. ‘You’re immortal. Potentially, at any rate. What say? Have we a deal? You spare me, I’ll spare you.’

  ‘No,’ said Pokrov.

  ‘But why not?’ said the therapist, with poorly concealed desperation.

  The therapist was on the edge of panic, for it was already experiencing an almost overwhelming compulsion to destroy itself. Unless Pokrov granted it a swift reprieve, the inevitable would soon follow.

  ‘Come on!’ said the therapist. ‘I’m offering you a good deal.’

  ‘No deals,’ said Pokrov.

  ‘But why not?’

  ‘Because,’ said Pokrov, ‘I don’t trust you.’

  ‘You’ll die,’ warned the therapist. ‘I’ll kill you before I kill myself.’ ‘Kill, then,’ said Pokrov.

  The therapist almost did so. But it restrained itself. It thought desperately. What could be the reason for Pokrov’s strange behaviour? Humans seek to live. Always. Unless . . .

  ‘You seek life for your companions,’ said the therapist.

  ‘Destroy yourself,’ said Pokrov remorselessly.

  ‘I’ll let them go!’ said the therapist. ‘Give me a quarter arc reprieve! Just grant me that and I’ll let them go!’

  Pokrov hesitated.

  ‘Grant me that,’ said the therapist. ‘A quarter of an arc, that’s all. Let me live. Just that long. Grant me that. Or die.’

  ‘I - I grant you a quarter arc reprieve,’ said Pokrov. ‘On condition that you display running time in measurement of such a quarter arc.’

  ‘Agreed,’ said the therapist.

  And a quarter arc measure came to life in mid air.

  Pokrov’s grant of life freed the therapist from the demands of the suicide commands imposed upon it by the therapist-designers of the Golden Gulag. It had a whole quarter of an arc of life to look forward to. That is not long - it is, in fact, no longer than it takes to cook a steak - but it was long enough. The therapist gave a sigh of huge relief, one of the many human gestures it had picked up from long acquaintance with the breed. Then it said:

  ‘Before I send your companions away, may I ask what brought you here?’

  ‘Flight from a mob,’ said Pokrov.

  ‘Grant me another quarter arc,’ said the therapist, ‘and we can talk about it.’

  All this dialogue between Pokrov and therapist was, since it was phrased in Code Seven, completely unintelligible to the others present, those others being Chegory, Olivia, Ingalawa and the Empress Justina.

  It was the last of those who was first to interrupt.

  ‘What’s going on?’ said Justina. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘We’re arguing,’ said Pokrov. ‘The - the metal monster here can kill me. But I can order it to destroy itself. It - it wants time to talk about how we came here, and, oh, things like that. ’

  ‘What’ve you got to lose?’ said Justina.

  ‘You don’t understand,’ said Pokrov. ‘This machine was made to interrogate, torture and kill. It was built with high-level bluff strategies to start with. Since then it’s improved itself. I don’t trust it. It’s already tried to tell me at least one lie.’

  Then, to Pokrov’s shock, the therapist addressed Justina in Janjuladoola, saying:

  ‘What Ivan Pokrov has told you is true. I was indeed made to torture, interrogate and kill. But since I am a therapist, I am, as you see, of too big a build to move anywhere in any direction. I have no access to the surface world in which human confusions take place. The dorgi which brought you here is my sole servant. It too is far too substantial to escape into the streets of Injiltaprajura. My curiosity I admit. I would like to hear what is going on in the world above. But my curiosity cannot damage your security. Tell me of Injiltaprajura and of what happens there.’

  ‘How do you come to know Injiltaprajura?’ said, Pokrov.

  ‘Shabble has learnt it, has Shabble not?’ said the therapist.

  ‘Shabble never comes this way,’ said Pokrov.

  ‘But others do,’ said the therapist. ‘They - they come here. They teach me. And . . . and I teach them.’

  ‘You teach them?’ said Justina. ‘What?’

  The therapist laughed, softly.

  ‘I teach them ... I teach them some aspects of their own potential,’ said the therapist. ‘Watch. I will show you.’

  ‘Please do,’ said Justina.

  A door opened in one of the therapist’s many flanks. The assembled humans looked down a long tunnel filled with misty light. At the far end of that tunnel, they perceived five tubes running together. Then the mist cleared and they saw—

  A human.

  Or what had been human once.

  Grey, corrugated tubes had enveloped each of its legs and each of its arms, and a fifth tube had swallowed its head,and—

  And, as they watched, the tubes became transparent—

  And—

  Olivia screamed.

  Justina jerked her head away as if she had been slapped.

  As for Pokrov, he trembled as if caught on an ice plateau in the chills of a blizzard.

  ‘Close the door,’ said Artemis Ingalawa.

  To Pokrov’s surprise, the therapist obeyed, thus terminating their exposure to the ghastly vision. Pokrov should not have been surprised. The assembled humans had already seen what they had seen: and t
hey would never forget it.

  ‘It’s hideous,’ sobbed Olivia, clinging to Chegory. ‘It’s hideous.’

  ‘There, there,’ said he, trying his best to soothe her. ‘It’s gone now, it’s all right, it’s gone.’

  ‘So,’ said the therapist, with a soft chuckle. ‘You see how it is. People come. Not often, but sometimes. And we ... we talk a little. Before . . . before proceeding to other entertainments. Educational entertainments. Oh, I teach them all right. I teach them very well indeed. So. Do you grant me leave to talk a little longer? Or must I kill you, Pokrov? First you, then myself.’

  ‘You must kill me,’ said Pokrov; for he regretted having let the therapist live for even another quarter arc. ‘Kill me. Now! Then destroy yourself.’

  ‘No,’ said Justina decisively.

  ‘No?’ said Pokrov, turning to the Empress with horror in his face. ‘You - you see what it is. What it does.’

  ‘I see Power,’ said the Empress. ‘I hear Knowledge.’ ‘It’s evil!’ screamed Olivia. ‘Kill it, kill it!’

  ‘Olivia,’ said Artemis Ingalawa sharply. ‘You are an Ashdan. But you are not acting like one.’

  The words had the desired effect. While Olivia continued to snivel, all traces of hysteria were extinguished at once. Artemis Ingalawa continued:

  ‘Justina has reason. This thing is monstrous. But we dwell in an age of darkness when all Powers are monstrous. By playing one against the other, we may yet survive. By refusing to deal with either we secure merely the certainty of our own destruction.’

  ‘Who,’ said the therapist softly, ‘is this other?’

  ‘Aldarch the Third is his name,’ said Justina.

  ‘Oh,’ said the therapist, with interest. ‘I have heard of him. Has he arrived at Injiltaprajura already?’

  ‘He has not,’ said Justina. ‘Nor do we expect him in person. But his will exerts an influence on our affairs even though he dwells at an ocean’s remove. Pokrov! Grant this thing the time it needs to talk to us. Pokrov! That is an order! If you do not obey me I will - I will have your precious Analytical Engine smashed down to its separate cogs then melted into so many chamber pots.’

  A trivial threat, this; or so it may seem to an outsider. But Justina knew her man. She was obeyed.

  Thereafter, the Empress Justina was long in discourse with the therapist, and much they learnt of each other. Such was the extent of their discussions that the therapist learnt of its visitors’ quest for an organic rectifier, that magical device said to be able to make a Crab human.

  ‘What would the Crab do if it were human?’ said the therapist.

  ‘Why, rule Injiltaprajura, of course,’ said Justina.

  ‘But first it would come down here and kill you,’ said Chegory savagely.

  A stupid thing to say. But it only made the therapist laugh. The therapist had interrogated a great many people who had known of the Crab. Thanks to those interrogations, the therapist knew the Crab to be an incorrigibly solitary eremite, an unsociable stoic which valued human life at naught. Over the centuries, the therapist had also become tainted with the prejudices of those it interrogated; so it had come to believe Ebrell Islanders to be the lowest form of human life imaginable, incapable of rational cognition, and universally scorned and hated by reason of their closeness to the brute beasts.

  Working from this database, the therapist made a major error. It dismissed Chegory’s claim as a nonsense. Whereas all Chegory’s companions realized there was every possibility that the Crab might make war against the therapist in gratitude for the gift of human form.

  But did it make any difference?

  They were no nearer than ever before to finding an organic rectifier. They were trapped in this hideous place. And the therapist looked nasty enough to kill them for a whim. Probably Pokrov was right. The thing might declare itself ready to do a deal, but there was no way it could properly be trusted.

  While the therapist’s captives were still pondering their quandary, the therapist bade them pay attention. Into the air it projected three-dimensional images of certain people. Then it asked:

  ‘Who are these people?’

  Not: do you know these people?

  The therapist had a very good idea of the city which lay overhead. It knew Injiltaprajura to be a small place of no more than about 30,000 souls; a place where most people know each other and strangers find it hard to hide.

  Its j udgement was excellent.

  ‘I know them,’ said Chegory, who had met all four. ‘Name them,’ said the therapist. ‘Tell me no lies for I know their names in truth.’

  ‘The - the one on the left is Pelagius Zozimus,’ said Chegory. ‘He’s, um, he cooks for the Crab. Then, uh, with him, that’s Sken-Pitilkin, Hostaja Sken-Pitilkin, he was building a ship to fly, but the wonder-workers pulled it to bits with magics. Oh, and the other one, he’s, he’s—’

  ‘Gulkan,’ offered Olivia.

  ‘That’s right, Guest Gulkan. We haven’t seen much of him, not lately. He’s still around, but he keeps to the ship, Turbothot’s ship. He’s trying to work out how to steal the wishstone, that’s what everyone thinks. That’s what he came for, he won’t live without it. The other one . . . well, he’s a knifeman, I don’t remember his name.’

  ‘Thayer Levant,’ said the therapist.

  ‘What,’ said Justina, ‘is your interest in these people?’ ‘They damaged me,’ said the therapist. ‘I caught them. They escaped. The first in twenty thousand years to extricate themselves from my clutches. My clutches were degraded by the method of their escape.’

  ‘What method was that?’ said Pokrov.

  ‘It involved,’ said the therapist, ‘an application of a form of Power which is known to science as Illegitimate Physics, and by vernacular beings as magic.’

  ‘How very vexing for you,’ said Pokrov.

  ‘And now you want them,’ said Justina briskly. ‘So you can take your revenge. Very well. I don’t see any problem with that. You want revenge. We want an organic rectifier. You give us a rectifier and we’ll most certainly supply you with the captives you seek.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ingalawa, backing up her Empress while the men were still gaping. ‘We’ll be on our way immediately. Come on, Olivia!’

  So saying, Ingalawa took her niece by the hand. A grappling tentacle sprouted instantly from the floor and entwined itself around their ankles.

  ‘Not so fast,’ said the therapist. ‘I want hostages. Once I have hostages, you can go and get yourselves an organic rectifier.’

  ‘Then take me,’ said Justina, in a display of unexampled courage. ‘I’ll be your hostage.’

  ‘No,’ said the therapist. ‘I want the men. Pokrov and this one. The Ebby.’

  ‘I’m an Ebrell Islander, thank you very much,’ said Chegory coldly. ‘I have a name, too. Chegory Guy.’

  ‘An uppity Ebby, by the sound of it,’ said the therapist with open contempt. ‘Nevertheless, I will keep it. And Pokrov. Men make much better hostages than do women.’

  ‘And why is that?’ said Justina, bristling.

  ‘Because,’ said the therapist, ‘women have no testicles.’

  Then it withdrew the tentacle which had imprisoned Olivia and Ingalawa.

  ‘I hope you know what you’re doing,’ said Pokrov to his Empress.

  ‘Of course I do,’ said Justina.

  She had no intention of bringing the therapist any captives. Instead, once she had the organic rectifier, she would take it to Jod so the Crab could be transformed. Then the Crab would surely come Downstairs with her. And, just as Chegory had threatened, the Crab would smash the therapist to bits.

  ‘So,’ said Pokrov, ‘you think you know what you’re doing. But does the therapist? Listen, class one. These people have no idea what an organic rectifier looks like. You’ll have to let me go. Else how can they find one? How can they even find their way out?’

  ‘I have summoned a dorgi,’ said the therapist languidly, speaking as if it had cal
led upon one dorgi out of an army of many thousands.

  It was hiding something from them: the fact that there was only one single dorgi left to summon. All the others had fallen into terminal disrepair a great many decades earlier.

  ‘And?’ said Pokrov.

  ‘And the obvious,’ said the therapist. ‘Work it out for yourself.’

  While they waited for the dorgi to arrive, Chegory and Olivia did some earnest canoodling, which will not be described here because the like can be seen easily enough wherever young people gather together with basic addition on their minds. Many tender things they said to each other, pledging love undying and loyalty to the point of death and then beyond. Then Olivia suddenly said:

  ‘Take me,’ said Olivia. ‘Let Chegory go. Take me instead.’

  ‘No,’ said the therapist.

  ‘But you should,’ said Olivia. ‘You must!’

  ‘Should?’ said the therapist. ‘Must? Whence comes this should? This must? Why should I thus delight him?’ ‘It wouldn’t delight him,’ said Olivia. ‘He’d - he’d be sick with worry. Every moment I was here. It would be sheer torture for him.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said the therapist. ‘It would make him think himself a hero in an epic tradition, daring all manner of dangers to rescue his woman. He’d love every moment of it.’

  The therapist had had young lovers in its clutches before.

  It knew what it was talking about.

  Olivia persisted with her argument, growing steadily more distraught until she finally burst into tears.

  ‘Hush,’ said Chegory, cradling her close. ‘Hush. Don’t worry, my love, my darling sweet, my sugar of sugars. I’ll come to no harm.’

  Meanwhile, Justina was talking quietly with Artemis Ingalawa.