King Kobold Revived

by Christopher Stasheff

  Fess’s robot brain, a globe the size of a basketball, hung in a niche in the curv-ing wall. Rod had temporarily taken it out of the steel horse body and plugged it in to act as the ship’s automatic control section. Not that he was going anywhere; he just needed Fess to operate the ship’s auxiliary equipment, such as the graphic survey file. And, of course, the autobar.

  “Well, yes, now that you mention it.” Rod scowled at the aerial picture of the Gramarye coastline, the mainland coastline opposite, and the open sea in be-tween. Fess had taken the pictures during their orbital approach to the planet two years earlier. Now they were stored as rearrangements within the electrical charges of giant molecules within the crystal lattice of the on-board computer memory. “I hadn’t expected to find anything except plants and animals—but I hadn’t said so. Better watch out, Metal Mind—you’re getting close to intuitive hunches.”

  “Merely integrating large numbers of nonverbal signs, Rod,” the robot as-sured him.

  “I should be so good at integrating.” Rod stabbed a finger at a bump on the mainland coastline. “Expand that one for me, will you?”

  The glowing plate in the tabletop stayed the same size, of course, but the pic-ture within its borders grew, expanding out of sight at the edges, so that the bump became larger and larger, filling the whole screen.

  Rod drew an imaginary line with his finger. “Quite a demarcation here—this arc that goes across the bump. Divides the vegetation rather neatly, don’t you think?”

  “I do not think, Rod; I simply process data.”

  “One of these days, you’ll have to explain the difference to me. What’s this stuff in the upper left? Looks like the tops of a lot of ferns.”

  “It may well be so, Rod. The majority of the planet is in its Carboniferous Era, and giant ferns are the dominant plant form.”

  “There’s a strip of beach alongside them. What’s that lying on it?”

  “A primitive amphibian, Rod.”

  “Kind of fits in with the whole ambiance,” Rod said, nodding. “Wonder what’s under the Carboniferous flora?”

  “Carboniferous fauna, I would presume.”

  “You certainly would. No bogeymen?”

  “Human habitation usually occurs in cleared spaces, Rod.”

  “You never know; they might have something to hide. But if you’re going to talk about a cleared space, here’s the rest of the bump.” Rod frowned, peering closely. “Looks like there might be some small trees there.”

  Fess was silent for a few seconds, then said slowly, “I agree, Rod. Those do appear to be trees. Stunted, but trees nonetheless.”

  “Odd-looking for a fern, isn’t it? Where did trees come from, Fess?”

  “There can only be one source, Rod—the Terra-formed island of Gramarye.”

  “Well, let’s be fair—maybe some of the seed got scattered during the Terra-forming.”

  “Quite possible, Rod—but it is the mechanism of scattering that is of impor-tance. There must be some sort of communication between this mainland area and Gramarye.”

  “Such as the ocean current I’m looking for? Well, well!” Rod peered closer, delighted. “Let’s see—besides the trees, it’s just a featureless light green. Can you check what makes that color, Fess?”

  The picture stayed the same size on the screen, but the robot analyzed the pattern of electrical charges that was the recorded image. “It is grass, Rod.”

  Rod nodded. “Again, that couldn’t come from a Carboniferous fern-patch. But it’s such a clean break between the ferns and the grassland! What could make such a clear demarcation, Fess?”

  “Exactly what you are no doubt thinking of, Rod—a line of cliffs, the cliffs Toby mentioned.”

  “I was kind of thinking along that line, now that you mention it.” Rod looked down at the picture. “So we could be looking at the beastmen’s lair. It does match Toby’s description—except for one little thing.”

  “I see no anomaly, Rod.”

  “Right. It’s not what is there—it’s what isn’t. No village.”

  Fess was silent for a moment. Then he said, “I see your point. There is no sign of human—or subhuman—habitation.”

  “No dragon ships drawn up on the beach, anyway.”

  “There is only one logical conclusion, Rod.”

  “Yeah.” Rod leaned back and took a sip of Scotch. “I know what I think it is—but let’s hear what you’ve got in mind first.”

  “Surely, Rod. We recorded these pictures two years ago during our first ap-proach to this planet. Apparently the beastmen were not here then. Therefore, they arrived within the last two years.”

  “That’s kinda what I was thinking, too… Say!” Rod leaned forward again. “That reminds me. I’ve been meaning to tell you about something I noticed dur-ing the battle.”

  “Some historical inaccuracies in the beastmen’s Viking equipage, Rod?”

  “Well, an anachronism, anyway. Fess, those beastmen are Neanderthals.”

  The little ship was very quiet for a few seconds.

  Then Fess said, “That is impossible, Rod.”

  Rod answered with a wicked grin. “Why? Just because the last Neanderthal died off at least fifty thousand years before the Norse began to go a-viking?”

  “That was rather the general trend of my thoughts, yes.”

  “But why should that bother you?” Rod spread his hands. “We found a time machine hidden away in the back hallways of Castle Loguire, didn’t we?”

  “Yes, but we disabled it shortly after we defeated Anselm Loguire.”

  “Sure—but how did it get there in the first place?”

  “Why… a time-traveler must have been sent back to build it.”

  “Quick figuring, Reasoning Robot.” Rod pointed a finger at the nearest vision pickup. “And if they could do it once, they could do it again.”

  “Why… that is certainly logical…”

  “Sure is. ‘Sensible’ is another matter. But that time machine didn’t exactly look as though it had been improvised, you know?”

  “Surely you are not implying that they are mass-produced.”

  “Well, not mass-produced, really—but I did have in mind a small factory somewhen. Two or three a year, maybe.”

  A faint shudder vibrated the little ship. “Rod—do you have any idea how il-logical such an event could make human existence?”

  Rod looked up in alarm. “Hey, now! Don’t go having any seizures on me!”

  “I am not that completely disoriented by the concept, Rod. I may have the ro-botic equivalent of epilepsy, but it requires an extremely illogical occurrence to trigger a seizure. A time-machine factory may be illogical in its effects, but not in its sheer existence.”

  That wasn’t quite the way Fess had reacted to his first discovery of a time ma-chine, but Rod let it pass. “Well, I did have some notion of just how ridiculous widespread time machines could make things, yes. Something like having nean-derthals dressed up in Viking gear, showing up on a planet that’s decided to freeze its culture in the Middle Ages. That what you had in mind, Fess?‘’

  “That was a beginning, yes,” the robot said weakly. “But are you certain they were Neanderthals, Rod?”

  “Well, as sure as I can be.” Rod frowned. “I mean, conditions were a little rushed, you know? I didn’t get a chance to ask one of them if he’d be good enough to take off his helmet so I could measure his skull, if that’s what you mean.”

  “No, but several beastmen did meet with fatal accidents during the battle. Perhaps we should send a scribe with a tape measure.”

  “Brother Chillde will do; might as well put him to some use. But he’ll just confirm what I’m telling you, Fess: heavy jaw, no chin, brow ridges, sloping forehead—and I mean really sloping; obviously no prefrontal lobes.”

  “An occipital lump, Rod?‘’

  Rod scowled. “Well now, that I can’t really say. I mean, after all, that’s down at the base of the skull where the helmet
would hide it. Check that on one of the, ah, specimens, would you?”

  “I shall leave written directions to that effect, Rod—in your name, of course. So, then, you are positing someone removing a tribe of Neanderthals from ap-proximately 50,000 B.C. Terra, and transporting them here?”

  “Where else could they dig up Neanderthals?”

  “The theory of parallel evolution…”

  “Parallel lines don’t converge. Still, you never know; we’ll leave the possibil-ity open.”

  “But for the time being, we will assume they were taken from Terra. And whoever brought them here outfitted them with Viking ships, armor, and weap-onry. Presumably this unidentified party also taught them navigation. But why would they have attacked you?”

  Rod shrugged. “Presumably because the unidentified party told them to—but we’ll leave that one open for the moment.”

  “As we must also leave open the question of the unidentified party’s iden-tity.”

  “Well, that doesn’t have to be too open.” Rod frowned. “I mean, whoever it is has got to have a time machine—and we already know two organizations so equipped who’re involved in Gramarye.”

  “The futurian anarchists, and the futurian totalitarians. Yes.”

  “Right. And, with two candidates like that available, I don’t see any need to posit a third.”

  “Which of the two would you favor in this case?”

  “Oh, I’d say the anarchists probably masterminded it,” Rod reflected. “It strikes me as being their style.”

  “In what way?”

  Rod shrugged. “Why Viking gear? Presumably for the same reason the Vi-kings used it—to strike terror into the hearts of their victims. And striking terror like that serves the general purpose of making chaos out of whatever social order is available. Besides, they like to get somebody to front for them—the ‘power be-hind the throne,’ and all that.”

  “Or behind the pirates, in this case. Still, your point is well-taken, Rod. The totalitarians do tend toward more personal involvement. Also, they prefer care-ful, hidden preparation resulting in a revolution, not continual harassing that slowly disintegrates local authority. Yes, the anarchists are the logical perpetra-tors.”

  “And if that’s logical, it’s probably also wrong.” Rod leaned forward over the chart screen again. “Which reminds me—there’s a complete difference in vegeta-tion, depending on which side of the cliffs you’re on.”

  “Totally different, Rod. Grasses exclusively.”

  “What, not even a fungus amongus?”

  “Well, there are a few mosses and lichens.”

  “How come nothing more?”

  “The vegetation would seem to indicate a small area in which the tempera-ture is far below that of the surrounding forest. I conjecture that a cold breeze blows off the sea at that point, chilling the area around the bay. The cliff-wall prevents it from reaching the interior.”

  Rod looked up. “Hey! Would that indicate a cold current?”

  “In all probability, Rod.” The robot’s voice sounded a little patronizing.

  “That’s the current that would go past Gramarye.”

  “It would seem so,” Fess answered.

  Rod smiled sourly and tossed his shot glass into the recycler. “Well, enough loafing.” He stood up, strode over to the wall, and began to loosen the clamps that held Fess’s basketball brain. “What happens after that cold current hits the shoreline, Fess?”

  “It would probably be warmed by contact with the tropical mainland just south of the cliffs, Rod. Then it would be forced out to sea by the mass of the con-tinent.”

  Rod nodded. “From the mainland’s position and contour, that means the cur-rent would be sent northeast—back toward Gramarye.”

  “Quite possibly, Rod—but you should not hypothesize without sufficient data.”

  “All right.” Rod tucked the silver basketball under his arm. “Anything you say, Fess. Besides, it’s time for lunch.”

  “You know robots do not eat, Rod.”

  “That’s funny, I thought you might be in the mood for a few bytes…”

  The sentry at the door to the solar stepped in and announced, “The Lord High Warlock, Majesties.”

  Rod pushed past him and stopped, taking in the tall, saturnine man with the lantern jaw who stood facing Catharine and Tuan. His face was tanned and leathery. He wore a short brocaded coat, fur-trimmed, over doublet and hose, and clenched a round hat in his hands.

  Then Rod remembered his manners and turned to bow.

  “Your Majesties! I’ve been doing a little research.”

  “I trust our new source will aid it, Lord Warlock.” Catharine nodded toward the stranger. “May I present Master Hugh Meridian, captain of a merchant ship.”

  “Merchant ship?” Rod turned to the seaman, startled. “I didn’t know we had any.”

  “In truth, we do, milord.” The shipmaster gave him a frosty bow. “ ‘Tis quicker, and less costly, to ship goods along the coastline than to haul them over the highways.”

  “Of course; it would be. I should’ve thought of it. But how did you learn that we needed seafaring advice, Master Meridian?”

  “We sent word quickly to the fisherfolk at Loguire’s estates, and those in Ro-manov. Each claimed they did know there were currents sweeping past the shore, farther out than they generally sailed,” Tuan answered. “Yet all claimed further that they knew naught more.”

  “Of course; they couldn’t know where the currents went.” Rod frowned. “They never go out farther than they can come back, all in one day. But they did know about you, Captain?”

  The captain nodded. “Ever and anon, the lords hire out their fisherfolk to be my crews, milord. They know of me, aye.”

  “And you know where the currents go.” Rod started to look for a chair, then remembered it was bad form to sit in Their Majesties’ presence. Brom could; but Brom was special. “At least you know where they go, around the Isle of Gramarye.”

  “I do, milord—though it might be better to say I know where the currents do not go.”

  “Really? There’re currents all around the island?”

  “Not quite; the western coast is bare of them.”

  “Odd.” Rod frowned. “Can you show me on a map?”

  “Map?” Captain Meridian looked lost for a second; then he fumbled a small book out of his belt-pouch. “Aye, I can show where I ha’ writ about it in my rud-der; yet is’t not easier to hear it?”

  “No, no! I want you to show me, on…” Rod let his voice trail off, remember-ing that medieval people didn’t have maps as he knew them; the idea of graph-ing out the outlines of a coast was foreign to them. Maps had had to wait for the Renaissance, with its concept of continuous, uniform space. Rod turned to the door, stuck his head out, and advised the sentry, “Parchment and pen, soldier—and quickly.” He turned back into the room. “We’ll have one in a minute, Majes-ties. Master Meridian, imagine yourself being a bird, flying over the Isle of Gramarye, looking down on its coasts.”

  Meridian smiled. “ ‘Tis a pleasant enough conceit, Milord Warlock—but I cannot see that it serves any purpose.”

  “Ah, but it does!” Rod held up a forefinger. “I’ll draw you a picture of the coasts as the bird would see them.”

  The door opened, and a round-eyed page popped in with parchment, pen, and ink.

  “Thank you, lad!” Rod seized the tools and marched to the solar’s table. He rolled out the parchment and began sketching. “This is the western coast, Cap-tain Meridian.” He drew a long jagged curving line, then pointed back toward its top. “There’s the Duchy of Savoy, and here’s Hapsburg.” He turned the bottom of the line into a point, and began to draw a lateral line, full of jags and gouges. Captain Meridian followed his hand, frowning, trying to relate this ink-scrawl to the realities of rocks, tides, currents, and distant hills seen through the mist. Fi-nally, his face lit and his finger stabbed down at the southernmost curve. “Yon-der is Cape Souci!
Many’s the time I’ve had to shorten sail to keep the south-westerly gale from rolling my ship over as we rounded that headland!”

  “Southwesterly?” Rod looked up. “Does the current come past there?”

  Captain Meridian nodded eagerly. “Aye, aye! ‘Tis that very place. Westerly of that, milord, I know naught of the current; indeed, I know naught at all, for never have I had any occasion to sail there. But north of that, there is no current; the whole westerly shore hath naught but tides and local stirrings.”

  Rod nodded. “That’s where the current comes to Gramarye, then. This is the southern shore, Master Meridian.” He drew a long curve; then his pen wandered north. Meridian watched spellbound as the outline of the island took shape be-fore him.

  “ ‘Tis witchcraft,” he sighed when Rod was done, and pointed at the map. “Yonder is the Bay of Roland, and hither lies the coast of Romanov. This is the mouth of the River Fleuve, and yon peninsula is Tristesse Point.” He looked up at Rod. “Thou art indeed the Lord High Warlock! By what magic canst thou tell the shape of this coastline so well?”

  “Oh, I know some people who do a lot of flying,” Rod shrugged. “Anything I’ve missed?”

  “Not of the coast itself.” Meridian turned back to the map and pointed. “But you must draw the Grand Skerry here, midway down the west coast—and Ge-burn Rock here”—his finger jabbed at the map just off the coast of Romanov—“and… but, another time.” He waved the thought away. “There are a host of such things that are not on your map, but that any seafarer would need to know of.”

  “Such as currents?” Rod dipped the pen in the ink and handed it to him, feather first. “Would you show me where they lie, Master Meridian?”

  The captain’s eyes widened. Slowly, he took the pen and began to sketch. Rod watched flowing, sweeping lines grow from the pen-point, coming from Heaven knew where at Cape Souci, flowing along the southern coast, sweeping around the eastern coast and the Baronetcy of Ruddigore, around the Duchy of Bourbon and along the northern coast, past Romanov, past Hapsburg—and out into the unknown again.

  Meridian set the pen back into the inkwell with a sigh. “Better I cannot do, Lord Warlock.” He looked up at Rod. “I know no more.”