by Brian Lumley
He led the way round the harbour to the causeway, paused before venturing out over that narrow span. 'No place for vertigo sufferers, this,' he commented. 'You've heads for heights, have you?' And as Moreen and de Marigny nodded in unison he led on.
The causeway was low-walled, perhaps thirty yards long, cobbled. Since there was room for only two abreast, the trio had to cross single-file in order to leave the way free for sightseers leaving the Museum. Looking down over the wall as they went, de Marigny and Moreen were able to gaze almost straight down into uncounted fathoms of air — the 'deeps' of the Cerenerian — at all the towns and rivers, shores and oceans of dream, which sprawled in fantastic vistas to all horizons. Far off they could even see Celephais, clearly landmarked where Mount Aran's permanently snow-capped peak stood proud of the gentling Tanarians.
They entered the Museum through a tall stone archway to find themselves in a three-storeyed building whose sealed windows were of unbreakable crystal. Ventilation was through the archway, which had no door, and also through a square aperture in the ocean-facing curve of the wall which was big as a large window but placed much higher. The first and second floors of the Museum contained only those items with which ordinary museums commonly concern themselves; as David Hero had once commented: 'mummies and bones and books', and suchlike. The ground floor, however, was where the Museum's true valuables were housed — of which the quantity and quality were utterly beyond belief.
For here were all sorts of treasures: jewels and precious stones, golden figurines, ivory statuettes, jade miniatures, priceless antiques and bric-a-brac from lands and times forgotten in the mists of ancient dreams, objets d'art which could only have been conceived in the fertile dreams of very special artists and sculptors. In its entirety, the place would be ransom for fifty worlds!
'Curator's collection,' said Kuranes, drawing back de Marigny and Moreen's minds from rapt contemplation, 'of which he's extremely jealous. Oh, yes, for each item has its place — and pity the man who'd try to change it! Myself, I find the upper floors even more awesome.'
The Searcher knew what he meant. He'd seen shrunken heads from immemorial Kled up there; and shrivelled mummies from a caverned mountain in primal Sarkomand; and stone-flowers from some eastern desert at the very edge of dreams, which must be kept bone dry, for a single drop of water would rot them in an instant; and books whose pages glowed with runes written (so Kuranes had it) by mages in antique Theem'hdra at the very dawn of time. And so:
'It is a very wonderful place,' de Marigny agreed, his hushed voice echoing in the now almost entirely vacated Museum, 'and we've seen wonders galore here.'
And reading his mind, Moreen added: 'But nowhere Curator.'
Kuranes sighed. 'I told you, warned you. No man can ever guarantee or govern Curator's comings and goings.'
They left the Museum empty of human life, walked back across the causeway. There, along the curve of the sea wall close to the time-clock, a pair of sated questers leaned, propped up by the wall, gazed out over folded arms at the merchantmen and other vessels riding at anchor on a bank of rose-tinted cloud. Hero looked up as Kuranes and his visitors from the waking world approached. 'No luck?' He read the answer in their faces.
Now Eldin straightened up, patted his belly, uttered a gentle, happy belch. And: 'Ah, well,' the older quester rumbled. `I'd hoped it wouldn't come to this, but plainly there's little else for it.' Swaying like a sailor - or perhaps swaggering like a pirate - he passed the three by and headed for the Museum. Curious, they turned to watch him as his pace picked up and he determinedly strode toward the causeway over the promontory. And now Hero ambled up and joined them.
`See,' the younger quester explained, 'Curator has a thing about us - especially about Eldin. Damn me, but that old metal man doesn't trust the Wanderer a bit! It has to do with a couple of big rubies we once almost, er, borrowed from the Museum - almost. Curator took umbrage, of course, and stopped us, since when we've steered clear. But now it seems we can use this, er, aversion of his to your advantage. Except Curator-taunting's a dodgy business at best - which is why we tossed for it.' He handed de Marigny an antique, much-rubbed triangular golden tond, upon which - on both face and obverse - the same bearded, long-forgotten face remained faintly impressed. De Marigny stared at the coin in his hand, stared harder, and:
'A double-header!' The Searcher exclaimed. 'You tricked him into it!'
Hero looked at de Marigny and narrowed his eyes a little - but only for a moment. Then he smiled and said: 'When you know Eldin and me better, you'll know there's no such thing as cheating or trickery between us. A bit of one-upmanship, maybe, that's all. The gamble was Eldin's suggestion, not mine. The coin's his, too. Oh, and incidentally - he's the one who won!'
De Marigny's embarrassment knew no bounds, but before he could say anything to perhaps make it worse -
'Ahoy there in the Museum!' called Eldin, his great hands cupped to his mouth. Passers-by paused in small groups to stare at him, and seagulls on the wall flapped aloft noisily, shocked by his shouting. 'Ahoy old klanker! Come out, come out wherever you are!. An old friend's here to see you, and perhaps sample some of your valuables. And if he doesn't see you, he'll certainly sample them!'
Hero grinned as he and the other three moved closer to where Eldin stood at the mainland end of the causeway. 'He's just getting warmed up,' he stated. 'He can taunt a lot better than that, believe me.'
`Well then, you metal mute, what's it to be?' roared Eldin. He swaggered forward a few paces onto the walled bridge, cautiously began to cross. But for all his bellowing, his eyes were fixed firmly on the Museum's archway entrance at the other end of the causeway. 'Ho, tin-ribs!' he shouted. 'The Wanderer's back and lusting for loot! So where's the rusty pile of rubble who runs this ruin, eh? Come out, you cowardly can of nuts and bolts!'
Eldin was a third of the way across now and beginning to think that perhaps Curator really was absent. Hand in hand with that thought had come another: if Curator really
wasn't here, what was there to stop him from implementing his threat? Say one small pigeon's egg-sized ruby? Why, he could be in and out of the Museum's ground floor quick as thought, and not even Hero would guess what he'd done - not until they were well away from here, anyway. Eldin's eyes gleamed. On wealth like that, why, they could live like lords for years!
Now Eldin could have stamped up and down the causeway and bellowed for a month to no avail. Likewise his taunting: it would not have turned the trick. Curator was not attuned to stamping, bellowing or taunting. But he was attuned - sensitive to an infinite degree - to all thoughts of thievery, malicious damage, or other fell intent where the Museum was concerned. Such thoughts or intentions would have to be investigated and dealt with no matter what the source, but when that source happened also to be Eldin the Wanderer ...
'Oh-oh!' gasped Hero. 'Do you see what I see?'
Kuranes, de Marigny and Moreen, they alt saw. But not Eldin, for he was facing in the wrong direction. In the middle of the causeway he now crept like a cat (remarkable, for one his size and shape), and his bluster had fallen to little more than a whisper: 'Curator? Oh, Curator! Eldin's here to purloin a pearl, or burgle a bauble, or filch a figurine. Or maybe simply rip off a ruby, eh?'
`Eldin!' Hero called out, trying to stay calm. `I think -'
`Quiet? the Wanderer hissed without turning round. 'Shh! - I'm concentrating.' Two-thirds of the way across, he could almost taste success.
But at the landward end of the causeway, behind and below him, Curator 'tasted' something else entirely: he tasted the essence of a thief, the scent of a scoundrel, the suspicious spoor of Eldin the Wanderer. And that was a scent he knew all too well.
Dry-mouthed, Kuranes, The Searcher and Moreen could only look on as Curator emerged more fully from under the causeway; but Hero was already running forward. 'Eldin, you idiot! You've succeeded, man - only too well! Look behind you!'
Curator was a vaguely manlike thing; tall and spiky yet so
mehow lumpy looking, with many spindly arms, a metallic sheen, and faceted, glittering crystal eyes that missed nothing. He came up from beneath the causeway like some strange steel spider, making scarcely a sound as he swung his thin legs up over the wall and drew himself erect on the cobbles of the narrow bridge. At which point, hair bristling on the back of his neck, Eldin slowly turned and saw him.
`B'god!' said Eldin, trying to smile and gulp at the same time. 'If it isn't my old pal the estimable Curator!'
Curator's eyes, a glittering icy blue one moment, turned scarlet in the next. At the same time Hero hurled himself at the metal man's back and grabbed hold of the blunt projection which was his head. Which action doubtless saved the Wanderer's life. For as Hero yanked at Curator's head, twin beams of red death lanced out of his eyes, missed Eldin by a fraction and blackened a patch of stonework on the archway behind him. 'He was only joking, you metal monster!' Hero roared, still trying to pull Curator's head off.
`Curator!' Kuranes was shouting. 'Curator, you're making a dreadful mistake.' But Eldin, who knew he wasn't, had already darted inside the Museum and disappeared from view. Now Curator turned his attention on Hero, for after the Museum and its contents, his next priority, was himself.
De Marigny yelled, `Moreen, the clock!' and raced for his time machine. If he could put the time-clock between Curator and the questers, then they would stand something of a chance. The girl, on the other hand - who had no fear of creatures no matter how weird or monstrous - ran the other way, onto the causeway where even now Curator was
hauling Hero off his back and holding him at arm's length. There was a split-second of near-instantaneous and yet minute scrutiny, and then Curator pivoted and swung Hero out over the wall. Hero's legs hit the wall and hooked there clung for dear life - as Curator released him!
Moreen was almost upon the metal man but Curator hadn't seen her yet. Instead his head bent forward and his crystal eyes lit on Hero's legs, bent at the knees over the top of the wall. A metal hand reached out, grasped one ankle, straightened the leg. Another arm stretched its hand toward the other ankle, and -
Moreen was there. Without pause she got between Curator and Hero, reached over the wall and grabbed at one of the quester's flailing arms. And half-turning to Curator she cried: 'How dare you? How dare you?! Who are you to murder men for the sake of your stupid Museum? Now you fetch Hero up at once!'
Kuranes arrived puffing and panting. He leaned over the wall and caught at Hero's other hand, began hauling him up. Together, he and Moreen finally dragged the wheyfaced quester back to safety - of a sort. But still Curator had not quite released him. Nor had he forgotten Eldin.
Seeing Hero in deadly danger, the Wanderer had come charging from the Museum, fists up, adopting a classic boxing stance. Curator saw him, relinquished his hold on Hero (however reluctantly), stepped clankingly, threateningly, toward Eldin. At which point de Marigny set the time-clock down on the causeway between the two.
Curator saw the time-clock; his scarlet eyes slowly cooled to a still-dangerous orange, burned a fierce yellow for a moment, finally turned blue. They glittered like chips of ice as he took one clanking pace, then another, toward the clock. And inside the time-clock, suddenly de Marigny knew what he must do. Hadn't Atal told him that Curator `talked' to the grey metal cube by imitating the movements of its four hands - a robotic semaphore? Well, now he must use the time-clock to 'talk' to Curator in the same manner. But how? The time-clock hid many secrets in its intricate being, and this was one of them. Titus Crow had often hinted that the device was half-animate, semi-sentient; but that it should also have this power of mechanical speech . And yet why not? Didn't computers 'talk' to each other in the waking world? And why shouldn't time-clocks? Even Crow had never known the real significance of those four, often wildly vacillating hands: the time-clock, calculating, thinking, 'talking' to itself?
De Marigny knew how to use the clock's scanners, its sensors, its voice-amplification and weapon systems. He could drive it through time and space and places between the two. The 'buttons' and 'switches' and 'triggers' were all in his mind. In the clock's mind. In their minds, his and the clock's, when their minds were one. He closed his eyes now and felt for those familiar instruments, controls, and found them. And: I have to talk to Curator, he told the clock. Through you. Please, help me talk to Curator.
In the waking world it might not have worked, but in dreams things are often simpler. This time it was simple: de Marigny felt a door open in his mind, or rather a door between his mind and the clock's, and knew he'd found the space-time machine's 'communicator'. And now he could talk to Curator.
Outside on the causeway, Curator came closer still; his crystal eyes seemed full of strange inquiry; he 'stared' expectantly at the hands on the time-clock's dial. And de Marigny didn't keep him waiting.
The change come over the metal man was at once apparent to Kuranes, Moreen and Hero; the change, too, in the time-clock. Its hands, never less than erratic in their movements, now seemed to lose every last vestige of normalcy; they moved insanely, coordination all awry. Or all together, coordinated as never before. Not in de Marigny's experience, anyway. And:
`Look!' whispered Kuranes. 'Curator makes hands like those of the time-clock. See, they converse!'
Four of Curator's spindle arms had swivelled round to the front of his canister body. Now they clicked into a central position, retracted or extended themselves into appropriate lengths, commenced to whirl and twitch and jerk in keeping, in rhythm - and yes, in conversation with de Marigny.
`I am The Searcher,' said de Marigny. 'I think you've heard of me.'
`Indeed. I've heard of many things. Of you and Moreen, of the time-clock through which you talk to me, and of Elysia which you would discover. I have heard of a primal land at the dawn of time, and a white wizard named Exior K'mool. I have heard of Lith where the lava lakes boil, while Ardatha Ell sits in his floating manse and measures the pulse of a dying sun which would yet be born again. And I have heard, from many quarters, of a rising up of evil powers, one which threatens the fabric of the multi-verse itself.'
`Then you can surely help me,' said de Marigny. 'Can we talk somewhere, in privacy, in ... comfort?'
`I am comfortable anywhere,' Curator answered, 'but I am most at ease beneath Serannian, clinging to the sky-suspended stone, with all the dreamlands spread below. I perceive, however, that this would never do for you; are you not comfortable in the time-dock?'
`Yes, but - '
- But you are a human being, and need familiar surroundings, accustomed atmospheres, personal privacies. Well, I understand that. I, too, am a private being. $hall we enter the Museum? But first, there are certain annoyances I must deal with - two of them. One of which hides behind your time-clock even now ...'
De Marigny was quick off the mark with: 'Curator, you must not harm the questers!'
' "Must not?" ' Curator seemed surprised. "Harm?" I know the meaning of such words, but fail to see their application here. You have not understood: I merely protect the Museum, in which are stored fragments of the strangest, greatest, most fabulous dreams that men ever dreamed! For here are dreams untold, forgotten by their dreamers when they awoke; and here are nightmares, safely stored, whose release would drive men mad. There are dreams of empire here, and dreams quite beyond avarice -except-'
`Yes?'
`While I know the meaning of that last, and while I am sure that you know it, still there are two here who do not. Nor could they ever perceive the consequences of interfering with this Museum which I protect, and from which I must protect the lands of Earth dreams. But you say must not harm them? Nor would I - but they do not know that! So step aside and let me deal with them my way. First him who cowers behind you.'
On Curator's word that he would do the questers no harm, de Marigny lifted the time-dock skyward and revealed Eldin who again raised his great hands. `Come on then, Curator! Just you and me - man to man,' he cried, - or whatever!'
&nb
sp; Curator's eyes glowed scarlet. Twin beams reached out faster than thought, ignored Eldin's fists, cut through his clothes here and there without so much as scorching a single hair beneath them. And without pause the beam relocated, slicing at this and that, reducing the Wanderer's clothing to ribbons. As fast as Eldin could move his hands, clutching at his rags, so the beams sought other targets. His pockets were sliced, releasing a fistful of large, glittering jewels to fall to the causeway's cobbles - following which Curator went to work with a vengeance!
In mere moments Eldin was almost naked, holding scraps of rag to himself to cover more than his embarrassment.
And when all of the Wanderer's bluster had been quite literally cut out of - or off of - him, then Curator turned his attention to Hero.
Kuranes and Moreen at once stepped aside; Odin had not been hurt - except for his pride, possibly - and therefore Hero should also be safe. As for Hero's feelings:
When first the metal man had 'attacked' Eldin he'd been thoroughly alarmed; but the Wanderer's punishment had seemed only just, so that soon Hero had started to grin, then laugh. But now:
Now Curator's eyes were silver, them and the beams that issued from them. Hero felt those beams tugging at him, held up his hands as if to ward Curator off. 'Now hang fire, tin-shins!' he cried. 'I mean, what did I do?'
