The Warlock in Spite of Himself

His shrill, hysterical laughter echoed and slapped from the walls, beating into Rod's ears as he strode into the moldering, lightless depths of the Castle Loguire.

He turned a corner, and the laugh died away. The faint torchlight from the main hall died with it; here the darkness was complete.

Rod walked through it, chewing at the inside of his cheek. Obviously, the little man really expected him to die… which was strange, since he had tried to keep Rod from going in. Which meant he'd really wanted Rod to carry word of the rebellion back to Catharine. But why did he want to doublecross the rebels?

Unless it was a triple-cross, somehow…

Then, too, he obviously had something hidden back in these corridors, and might be afraid Rod would find it and somehow manage to come out alive.

However, he expected Rod to die, which meant automated defenses surrounding Durer's Big Secret…

Unless, of course…

Rod stopped, suddenly realizing he didn't know the way out. He had a hazy recollection of having turned several corners while he'd been pondering; but he couldn't remember which corners, or how many, or which way he'd turned.

He noticed that his voice shook just a trifle when he murmured "Fess."

"Yes, Rod," the calm voice behind his ear answered instantly. It was vastly reassuring.

"Fess, I'm in the haunted part of the castle."

"Haunted?"

"It has that reputation, yes."

There was a pause; then the robot said, "Rod, an analysis of your voice patterns indicates mild fear. Surely you do not believe in ghosts."

"No, I don't. But I just remembered, Fess—I didn't believe in elves, either. Or banshees. Or—"

"Elves," Fess replied evenly, "are a myth."

"Uh,Fess…"

"Yes, Rod?"

"I've seen quite a few elves since we landed."

" A fait accompli ," the robot admitted reluctantly, "which I am constrained to acknowledge. I have not as yet sufficient data to explain the seeming conflict with known principles."

"You're as bad as a Catholic," Rod growled. "But at least it doesn't give you fits any more?"

"No-o-o." The robot was thoughtful. "The initial datum caused an overload; but that datum has since been assimilated."

"As long as you're sure there's a rational explanation."

"Precisely."

"So you're capable of handling the practical matters?"

"Quite capable."

"Because you're sure you'll be able to fit it into the Laws of Science eventually."

"Very perceptive, Rod."

"Sounds like a Jesuit," Rod growled. "But the practical matter at hand is that I am scared. And for a very good reason. Fess…"

"Yes, Rod?"

"If elves can exist on this crazy planet, why not ghosts?"

There was another pause; then Fess admitted, "There is no evidence that would directly contradict the hypothesis."

A moan, so deep that Rod could hardly hear it, and so loud that he winced in pain, shook the walls of the hallway.

Rod gasped. "What was that ?"

"A complex wave-pattern of low frequency and high amplitude," Fess answered obligingly.

"Thank you, Dr. Slipcam. What caused it ?"

"There is as yet insufficient data for—"

The moan came again, and a wraith of mist with hollow black eyes and a black circle of mouth swooped straight at Rod's head, starting as a pinpoint far down the hall and towering over him a second later.

Rod screamed and plastered himself against the wall. Fear knotted his belly, fear slackened his limbs, fear jellied his brain and squeezed at his heart.

Another moan sounded, a half-step above the first; Rod jerked his head to his right. Another ghost loomed over him.

A third moan, and Rod's eyes slapped up; a third specter towered before him.

Three ghosts, towering high about him, ringing him in against the stone wall. Their mouths formed great, lightless O's, cold bony fingers reaching out for him.

Through the moiling panic of his brain fought a single thought: Fess didn't believe in ghosts .

"Ghosts!" Rod screamed. "Ghosts, Fess, ghosts!"

"Ghosts," droned the robot, "are immaterial, even if they did exist. They are manifestations of neither energy nor matter, incapable of causing damage to a material being."

"Tell them ! Tell them !" Rod shrieked.

The hand around his heart tightened. He gasped and coughed. Something was mashing his lungs, a steel band around his chest, tightening, tightening… Fear was a physical thing, a looming presence, armed and hating. Fear could paralyze, fear could kill…

"Rod, cover your ears."

Rod tried to obey the robot's order, and couldn't. "Fess!" he screamed. "Fess, I can't move !"

A loud, raucous buzz shook his skull, blotting out the moans. It modulated into monotone words: "C-O-V-E-R YOUR EARS."

And the fear was gone, vanished—or almost gone, at least; reduced to the cold, familiar lump in the pit of the belly. Rod could move again, as easily as he ever had. He put his fingers in his ears. The buzz stopped, and he could hear the ghosts again, their moans dulled and distant through his fingers. The fear rose into his throat again, but it was no longer paralyzing.

"Can you hear them, Rod?"

"Yeah, but it's not so bad now. What'd you do, Fess?"

"Nothing, Rod. Their moans have a harmonic frequency in the subsonic range, capable of inducing fear in members of your species."

"Oh."

"The fear-inducing tone is a beat frequency produced by the simultaneous emission of subsonic harmonics incorporated in the three moans."

"So it takes three of them to scare me?"

"Correct, Rod."

"And they're not really scaring me, just making me feel scared?"

"Again, correct."

"Well, that's a relief. For a minute there I was afraid I'd all of a sudden turned into a full-blown coward."

"All men fear, Rod."

"Yeah, but only a coward lets it stop him."

"That is a redundant statement, Rod."

"Oh, the hell with theory! Pardon me while I put it into practice."

Rod stepped away from the wall, forcing himself to move. He kept walking, right through the ghost in front of him. The moans suddenly ceased; then, with a howl of despair, the ghosts disappeared.

"They're gone," Rod croaked.

"Of course, Rod. Once you have demonstrated their inability to control you, they begin to fear you."

" Ye-e-es," Rod breathed. He set his feet wide apart, jammed his fists on his hips, flung his head back, and grinned. "Okay, spooks! Any doubts about who's boss?"

He stood, listening to the echoes of his voice die away among the empty corridors. A loud voice could be pretty impressive in here.

A mournful, sepulchral voice answered him out of thin air, moaning. "Leave us, mortal. Leave us to the peace of our graves. We harm no one here, in our cold, old halls."

"No one except the people who come in here," Rod snapped. "Them you kill, as you would have killed me, through weight of fear alone."

"Few," mourned the ghost. "Very, very few, mortal man. Only madmen, and fools."

"If you have killed one man here in your halls, you have killed one too many!' Rod rapped back.

"Would you not slay, Man, in defense of your home?"

Rod snorted. "What right have you to these halls?"

Suddenly the ghost was there, towering over him. "I once was Horatio, first Duke Loguire!" it thundered in anger. "I it was built this keep! Have I no right to a poor, cold quarter of its halls?"

Fear lanced Rod's belly; he took a step back, then set his teeth and stepped forward again. "You got a point there," he admitted. "And possession is nine-tenths of the law. But how many did you have to kill to gain possession?"

"None." The ghost sounded very unhappy about it. "All fled in fear."

Rod nodded, revising his estimate of the ghost. Apparently Horatio didn't kill if he could help it. Probably delighted when it became necessary, though…