The Warlock in Spite of Himself wisoh-2

by Неизвестный

  The Warlock in Spite of Himself

  ( Warlock in Spite of Himself - 2 )

  The Warlock in Spite of Himself

  PART ONE

  VISIT TO A SMALL PLANTAGENET

  The asteroid hurtled in from Capricorn, nosed around a G-type sun, swerved off toward the fifth planet. Such a trajectory is somewhat atypical for asteroids.

  It slapped into the planet's gravity net, swooped around the globe three times in three separate orbits, then stabbed into atmosphere, a glorious shooting star.

  At a hundred feet altitude it paused, then snapped to the surface—but only to the surface. No fireworks, no crater—nothing more drastic than crushed grass. Its surface was scarred and pitted, blackened by the friction-heat of its fall; but it was intact.

  Deep within its bowels echoed the words that would change the planet's destiny.

  "Damn your bolt-brained bearings!"

  The voice broke off; its owner frowned, listening.

  The cabin was totally silent, without its usual threshold hum.

  The young man swore, tearing the shock-webbing from his body. He lurched out of the acceleration chair, balanced dizzily on the balls of his feet, groping till his hand touched the plastic wall.

  Steadying himself with one hand, he stumbled to a panel on the other side of the circular cabin. He fumbled the catches loose, cursing in the fine old style of galactic deckhands, opened the panel, pressed a button. Turning, he all but fell back to the chair.

  The soft hum awoke in the cabin again. A slurred voice asked, with varying speed and pitch, "Izzz awwl (Hie!) sadizfagtoreee… M'lorrrr' Rodney?"

  "All the smooth, glossy robots in the galaxy," muttered Milord, "and I get stuck with an epilepic!"

  "Ivv ut bleeezz m'lorr', thuh c'passsider c'nbe—"

  "Replaced," finished Rodney, "and your circuits torn out and redesigned. No, thank you, I like your personality the way it is—except when you pull off a landing that jars my clavicles loose!"

  "Ivv m'lorrd will vorgive, ad thuh cruzhial momend ovvv blanetfall, I rezeived zome very zingular radio waves thad—"

  "You got distracted, is that what you're trying to say?"

  "M'lorrrd, id was imerative to analyze—"

  "So part of you was studying the radio waves, and part of you was landing the ship, which was just a wee bit too much of a strain, and the weak capacitor gave… Fess! How many times do I have to tell you to keep your mind on the job!"

  "M'lorrd egzbressed a wizh to be like thuh—"

  "Like the heros of the Exploration Sagas, yes. But that doesn't mean I want their discomforts."

  Fess's electronic system had almost recovered from the post-seizure exhaustion. "But, m'lorrd, the chon-cebt of heeroizm imblies—"

  "Oh, forget it," Rodney groaned. Fess dutifully blanked a portion of his memory banks.

  Fess was very dutiful. He was also an antique, one of the few remaining FCC (Faithful Cybernetic Companion) robots, early models now two thousand years out of date. The FCC robots had been programmed for extreme loyalty and, as a consequence, had perished in droves while defending their masters during the bloody Interregnum between the collapse of the ancient Galactic Union and the rise of the Proletarian Eclectic State of Terra.

  Fess (a name derived from trying to pronounce "FCC" as a single word) had survived, thanks to his epilepsy. He had a weak capacitor that, when over-strained, released all its stored energy in a massive surge lasting several milli-seconds. When the preliminary symptoms of this electronic seizure—mainly a fuzziness in Fess's calculations—appeared, a master circuit breaker popped, and the faulty capacitor discharged in isolation from the rest of Fess's circuits; but the robot was out of commission until the circuit breaker was reset.

  Since the seizures occurred during moments of great stress—such as trying to land a spaceship-cwm-asteroid while analyzing an aberrant radio wave, or trying to protect a master from three simultaneous murderers— Fess had survived the Interregnum; for, when the Proletarians had attacked his masters, he had fought manfully for about twenty-five seconds, then collapsed. He had thus become a rarity—the courageous servant who had survived. He was one of five FCC robots still functioning.

  He was, consequently, a prized treasure of the d'Armand family—prized as an antique, but even more for his loyalty; true loyalty to aristocratic families has always been in short supply.

  So, when Rodney d'Armand had left home for a life of adventure and glory—being the second son of a second son, there hadn't been much else he could do—his father had insisted on his taking Fess along.

  Rod had often been very glad of Fess's company; but there were times when the robot was just a little short on tact. For instance, after a very rough planetfall, a human stomach tends to be a mite queasy; but Fess had the bad sense to ask, "Would you care to dine, m'lord? Say, scallops with asparagus?"

  Rod turned chartreuse and clamped his jaws, fighting back nausea. "No," he grated, "and can the 'm'lord' bit. We're on a mission, remember?"

  "I never forget, Rod. Except on command."

  "I know," growled his master's voice. "It was a figure of speech."

  Rod swung his legs to the floor and painfully stood up. "I could use a breath of fresh air to settle my stomach, Fess. Is there any available?"

  The robot clicked for a moment, then reported, "Atmosphere breathable. Better wear a sweater, though."

  Rod shrugged into his pilot's jacket with a growl. "Why do old family retainers always develop a mother-hen complex?"

  "Rod, if you had lived as long as I have—"

  "—I'd want to be deactivated. I know, 'Robot is always right.' Open the lock, Fess."

  The double doors of the small air lock swung open, showing a circle of black set with stars. A chill breeze poured into the cabin.

  Rod tilted his face back, breathing in. His eyes closed in luxury. "Ah, the blessed breath of land! What lives here, Fess?"

  Machinery whirred as the robot played back the electron-telescope tapes they had taken in orbit, integrating the pictorial data into a comprehensive description of the planet.

  "Land masses consist of five continents, one island of noteworthy dimensions, and a hpst of lesser islands. The continent and the minor islands exhibit similar flora—equatorial rain forest."

  "Even at the poles?"

  "Within a hundred miles of each pole; the ice caps are remarkably small. Visible animal life confined to amphibians and a host of insects; we may assume that the seas abound with fish."

  Rod rubbed his chin. "Sounds like we came in pretty early in the geologic spectrum."

  "Carboniferous Era," replied the robot.

  "How about that one large island? That's where we've landed, I suppose?"

  "Correct. Native flora and fauna nonexistent. All lifeforms typical of Late Terran Pleistocene."

  "How late, Fess?"

  "Human historical."

  Rod nodded. "In other words, a bunch of colonists came in, picked themselves an island, wiped out the native life, and seeded the land with Terran stock. Any idea why they chose this island?"

  "Large enough to support a good-sized population, small enough to minimize problems of ecological revision. Then too, the island is situated in a polar ocean current, which lowers the local temperature to slightly below Terran normal."

  "Very handy; saves them the bother of climate control. Any remains of what might have been Galactic Union cities?"

  "None, Rod."

  "None!" Rod's eyes widened in surprise. "That doesn't fit the pattern. You sure, Fess?"

  The developmental pattern of a lost, or retrograde, colony—one that had been out of touch with Galacti
c civilization for a millennium or more—fell into three well-defined stages: first, the establishment of the colony, centered around a modern city with an advanced technology; second, the failure of communications with Galactic culture, followed by an overpopulation of the city, which led to mass migrations to the countryside and a consequent shift to an agrarian, self-sufficient economy; and, third, the loss of technological knowledge, accompanied by a rising level of superstition, symbolized by the abandonment and eventual tabooing of a coal-and-steam technology; social relationships calcified, and a caste system appeared. Styles of dress and architecture were usually burlesques of Galactic Union forms: for example, a small hemispherical" wooden hut, built in imitation of the vaulting Galactic geodesic domes.

  But always there were the ruins of the city, acting as a constant symbol and a basis for mythology. Always.

  "You're sure, Fess? You're really, really sure there isn't a city?"

  "I am always certain, Rod."

  "That's true." Rod pulled at his lower lip. "Sometimes mistaken, but never in doubt. Well, shelve the matter of the city for the time being; maybe it sank in a tidal wave. Let's just make a final check on the life-forms' being Terran."

  Rod dove head-first through the three foot circle of the lock, landed in a forward roll, rose to his knees. He undipped the guerilla knife from his belt— a knife carefully designed so that it could not be attributed to any one known culture—and drew the dagger from its sheath.

  The sheath was a slender cone of white metal, with a small knob at the apex. Rod plucked several blades of grass, dropped them into the sheath, and turned the knob. The miniature transceiver built into the sides of the sheath probed the grass with sonics to analyze its molecular structure, then broadcast the data to Fess, who determined if any of the molecules were incompatible with human metabolism. If the grass had been poisonous to Rod, Fess would have beamed a signal back to the sheath, whereupon the white metal would have turned purple.

  But in this particular case, the sheath stayed silver.

  "That ties it," said Rod. "This is Terran grass, presumably planted by Terrans, and this is a Terran colony. But where's the city?"

  "There is a large town—perhaps thirty thousand souls— in the foothills of a mountain range to the north, Rod."

  "Well…" Rod rubbed his chin. "That's not exactly what I had in mind, but it's better than nothing. What's it look like?"

  "Situated on the lower slopes of a large hill, at the summit of which is a large stone structure, strongly reminiscent of a Medieval Terran castle."

  "Medieval!" Rod scowled.

  "The town itself consists of half-timbered and stuccoed buildings, with second stories overhanging the narrow streets—alleys would be a better term— along which they are situated."

  "Half-timbered!" Rod rose to his feet. "Wait a minute, wait a minute! Fess, does that architecture remind you of anything?"

  The robot was silent a moment, then replied, "Northern European Renaissance."

  "That," said Rod, "is not the typical style of a retrograde colony. How closely do those buildings resemble Terran Renaissance, Fess?"

  "The resemblance is complete to the last detail, Rod."

  "It's deliberate then. How about that castle? Is that Renaissance too?"

  The robot paused, then said, "No, Rod. It would appear to be a direct copy from the German style of the 13th Century A.D."

  Rod nodded eagerly. "How about styles of dress?"

  "We are currently on the night side of the planet, and were upon landing. There is a good deal of illumination from the planet's three satellites, but relatively few people abroad… There is, however, a small party of soldiers, riding Terran horses. Their uniforms are—uh—copies of English Beefeaters'."

  "Very good! Anyone else in the streets?"

  "Um… a couple of cloaked men—uh—doublet and hose, I belive and… yes, a small party of peasants, wearing smocks and cross-gartered buskins.

  "That's enough." Rod cut him off. "It's a hodgepodge, a conglomeration of styles. Somebody has tried to set up his idea of the ideal world, Fess. Ever hear of the Emigres?"

  The robot was silent a moment, mulling through his memory banks. Then he began to recite:

  "Malcontents abounded toward the end of the 22nd Century A.D. Bored with their 'lives of quiet desperation,' people turned primarily to mysticism, secondarily to escapist literature and entertainment. Gradually the pseudo-Medieval became the dominant entertainment form.

  "Finally, a group of wealthy men pooled their funds to buy an outmoded FTL liner and announced to the world that they were the Romantic Emigres, that they intended to reestablish the glory of the Medieval way of life on a previously-uncolonized planet, and that they would accept a limited number of emigrants in the capacities of serfs and tradesmen.

  "There were, of course, many more applicants than could be accommodated. Emigrants were selected 'for the poeticness of their souls'—whatever that may mean."

  "It means they loved to listen to ghost stories," said Rod. "What happened?"

  "The passenger list was swiftly completed. The thirteen tycoons who had organized the expedition announced that they thereby rejected their surnames and adopted instead the family names of great Medieval aristocrats—Bourbon, di Medici, and so forth.

  "Then the ship departed, with its destination care-fully unspecified, so that there would be 'no contamination from the materialist world.' Nothing more was ever heard of them."

  Rod smiled grimly. "Well, I think we've just found them. How's that set with your diodes?"

  "Quite well, Rod. In fact, a statistical analysis of the probability of this being the Emigres' colony reveals the following—"

  "Skip it," Rod said quickly. Statistics was Fess's hobby; given half a chance, he could bore you for hours.

  Rod pursed his lips and eyed the section of the hull that housed Fess's brain. "Come to think of it, you might send the statistics back to SCENT with our educated guess that we've found the Emigres' colony. Might as well get at that right now; I'd like them to know where we are in case anything happens."

  SCENT, the Society for the Conversion of Extraterrestrial Nascent Totalitarianisms, was the organization responsible for seeking out the lost colonies. The Proletarian Eclectic State of Terra had shown remarkably little interest in any colony that was lacking in modern technology; so that the lost colonies had stayed lost until the totalitarian rule of PEST had been overthrown by DDT, the Decentralized Democratic Tribunal. DDT had quickly consolidated its rule of Terra, governing in accordance with the almost-unattainable goals of Athenian democracy.

  It had long been known that the inefficiency of democratic governments was basically a problem of communication and prejudice. But, over a period of two centuries, DDT cells had functioned as speakeasy schoolrooms, resulting in total literacy and masters' degrees for seventy-two percent of the population; prejudice had thus joined polio and cancer on the list of curable diseases. The problems of communication had been solved by the development, in DDT laboratories, of sub-molecular electronics, which had lowered the bulk and price of electronic communication gear to the point where its truly extensive use became practical for the first time. Every individual was thus able to squawk at his Tribune at a moment's notice; and, being educated, they tended to do a lot of squawking just on general principles— all very healthy for a democracy.

  Squawking by radio had proved singularly effective, due largely to an automatic record of the squawk. The problems of records and other bureaucratic red tape had been solved by red oxide audio recording tape, with tracks a single molecule in width, and the development of data-retrieval systems so efficient that the memorization of facts became obsolete. Education thus became exclusively a training in concepts, and the success of democracy was assured.

  After two centuries of preparing such groundwork, the DDT revolution had been a mere formality.

  But revolutionaries are always out of place when the revolution is over, and are l
ikely to prove an embarrassing factor to the police forces of the new government.

  Therefore, DDTJiad decided not to be selfish; rather, they would share the blessings of democracy with the other remnants of the old Galactic Union.

  But democrats are seldom welcome on planets run by totalitarian governments, and scarcely more welcome on planets where anarchy prevails—this due to the very nature of democracy, the only practical compromise between totalitarianism and anarchy.

  What was needed was a permanent organization of revolutionaries, subversive republican democrats. Since there was a large supply of out-of-work revolutionaries on hand, the organization was quickly formed, and christened the Society for the Conversion of Extraterrestrial Totalitarianisms. The "Nascent" was added a century later, when all the known inhabited planets had been subverted and had joined DDT. The old revolutionaries were still a problem, the more so since there were more of them; so they were sent out singly to find the Lost Colonies.

  Thus was formed SCENT, the organization whose mission it was to sniff out the backward planets and put them on the road to democracy.

  Since Rod had found a medieval planet, he would probably have to foster the development of a constitutional monarchy.

  Rod, born Rodney d'Armand (he had five middle names, but they make dull reading) on a planet inhabited exclusively by aristocrats and robots, had joined SCENT at the tender age of eighteen. In his ten years of service, he had grown from a gangling, ugly youth to a lean, well-muscled, ugly man.

  His face was aristocratic; you could say that for it—that, and no more. His receding hairline gave onto a flat, sloping forehead that ran up against a brace of bony brow-ridges, somewhat camouflaged by bushy eyebrows. The eyebrows overhung deep sockets, at the back of which were two, somewhat hardened gray eyes—at least Rod hoped they looked hardened.

  The eye sockets were thresholded by high, flat cheekbones, divided by a blade of nose that would have done credit to an eagle. Under the cheekbones and nose was a wide, thin-lipped mouth which, even in sleep, was twisted in a sardonic smile. Under the mouth was a square jawbone and a jutting chin.