The Warlock in Spite of Himself

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.

Rod would have liked to say that it was a strong face, but it tended to soften remarkably when/if a girl smiled at it. Dogs and children had the same effect, with a great deal more frequency.

He was a man with a Dream (There had been a Dream Girl once, but she was now one with his callow youth.)—Dream of one unified Galactic government (democratic, of course). Interstellar communications were still too slow for a true democratic federation; the DDT was actually a loose confederation of worlds, more of a debating society and service organization than anything else.

But adequate communication methods would come along some day, Rod was sure of that, and when they did, the stars would be ready. He would see to that.

"Well, let's be about our business, Fess. No telling when someone might wander by and spot us." Rod swung up and into the air lock, through and into the cabin again. He went to the plate in the wall, released the catches. Inside was a control panel; above this was a white metal sphere with a dull finish, about the size of a basketball. A massive cable grew out of the top of the sphere and connected to the wall of the shop.

Rod unscrewed the connection, released the friction clamp that held the sphere in place, and carefully lifted it out.

"Easy," Fess's voice said from the earphone implanted in the bone behind Rod's right ear. "I'm fragile, you know."

"A little confidence, please," Rod muttered. The microphone in his jawbone carried his words to Fess. "I haven't dropped you yet, have I?"

"Yet," echoed the robot.

Rod cradled the robot "brain" in the crook of one arm, leaving one arm free to negotiate the air lock. Outside again, he pressed a stud in the side of the ship. A large door lifted from the side of the pseudo-asteroid. Inside, a great black horse hung from shock webbing, head between its forelegs, eyes closed.

Rod pressed a button; a crane extended from the cargo space. The horse swung out on the crane, was lowered till its hooves touched the ground. Rod twisted the saddlehorn, and a panel in the horse's side slid open.

Rod placed the brain inside the panel, tightened the clamp and the connections, then twisted the saddlehorn back; the panel slid shut. Slowly the horse raised its head, wiggled its ears, blinked twice, gave a tentative whinny.

"All as it should be," said the voice behind Rod's ear. The horse champed at the bit. "If you'll let me out of this cat's cradle, I'll check the motor circuits."

Rod grinned and freed the webbing. The horse reared up, pawing the air, then sprang into a gallop. Rod watched the robot run, taking a good look at his surroundings in the process.

The asteroid-ship had landed in the center of a meadow, shaggy with summer grass, ringed by oak, hickory, maple, and ash. It was night, but the meadow was flooded with the light of three moons.

The robot cantered back toward Rod, reared to a halt before him. Forehooves thudded on the ground; the great indigo eyes turned to look at Rod, the ears pricked forward.

"I'm fit," Fess reported.

Rod grinned again. "No sight like a running horse."

"What, none?"

"Well, almost none. C'mon, let's get the ship buried."

Rod pressed studs on the side of the ship; the cargo hatch closed, the air lock sealed itself. The ship began to revolve, slowly at first, then faster and faster as it sank into the ground. Soon there was only a crater surrounded by a ring-wall of loam, and the roof of the asteroid curving three feet below.

Rod pulled a camp shovel from Fess's saddlebags, unfolded it, and bent to his task. The horse joined in, flashing out with its heels at the ring-wall. In ten minutes the wall had been reduced to six inch height; there was a large mound of earth in the center, twenty feet across and two feet high.

"Stand back." Rod drew his dagger, twisted the hilt 180 degrees, pointed the haft at the earth-mound. A red light lanced out; the loam glowed cherry red, melted, and flowed.

Rod fanned the beam in a slow arc over the whole of the filled-in crater till the soil had melted down a foot below ground level. He shoveled the rest of the ring-wall into the hole, making a slight mound, but the next rain would take care of that.

"Well, that's it." Rod wiped his brow.

"Not quite."

Rod hunched his shoulders; there was a sinking feeling in his belly.

"You have still to assume clothing appropriate to this society and period, Rod."

Rod squeezed his eyes shut.

"I took the precaution of packing a doublet in my lefthand saddlebag while you were testing the grass, Rod."

"Look," Rod argued, "my uniform will do well enough, won't it?"

"Skintight trousers and military boots will pass, yes. But a pilot's jacket could not possibly be mistaken for a doublet. Need I say more?"

"No, I suppose not." Rod sighed. He went to the saddlebag. "The success of the mission comes first, above and before any considerations of personal comfort, dignity, or—hey!" He stared at something long and slender, hanging from the saddle.

"Hey what, Rod?"

Rod took the strange object from the saddle—it had a handle on one end, he noticed, and it rattled—and held it up where Fess could see it.

"What is this ?"

"An Elizabethan rapier, Rod. An antique sidearm, a sort of long knife, designed for both cutting and thrusting."

"Sidearm." Rod eyed the robot as if doubting his sanity. "I'm supposed to wear it?"

"Certainly, Rod. At least, if you're planning to adopt one of your usual covers."

Rod gave a sign appropriate to a Christian martyr and pulled the doublet from the saddlebag. He wriggled into it and belted the rapier to his right side.

"No, no, Rod! Belt it to your left side. You have to cross-draw it."

"The things I go through for the sake of democracy…" Rod belted the rapier to his left hip. "Fess, has it ever occurred to you that I might be a fanatic?"

"Certainly, Rod. A classic case of sublimation."

"I asked for an opinion, not an analysis," the man growled. He looked down at his costume. "Hey! Not bad, not bad at all!" He threw his shoulders back, lifted his chin, and strutted. The gold and scarlet doublet fairly glowed in the moonlight. "How do you like it, Fess?"