The Warlock in Spite of Himself

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 likely 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.