Christopher Stasheff - King Kobold Revived

“Surely, Rod. We recorded these pictures two years ago during our first approach 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 during 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 illogical 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 robotic 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 machine, 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 neanderthals 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 approximately 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 possibility 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 weaponry. 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 identity.”

“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 Vikings 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 behind 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 careful, hidden preparation resulting in a revolution, not continual harassing that slowly disintegrates local authority. Yes, the anarchists are the logical perpetrators.”

“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 vegetation, 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 temperature 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 continent.”

Rod nodded. “From the mainland’s position and contour, that means the current 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.