The Warlock in Spite of Himself

The ghost's hand dropped. His shoulders sagged, his head bowed forward. "If," he mourned, "if any live in this dark day who may call themselves men in truth…"

Rod's eyes broke away from the ghost and wandered slowly about the great chamber. There was only blackness, close and thick. He blinked and shook his head, trying to rid himself of the feeling that the darkness was pressing against his eyeballs.

"My Lord Loguire," he began, stopped, and said again, "My Lord Loguire, I may be your lump of iron—I've been called things like that before, anyway. But if I am to break the councillors, I must know as much about them as I can. Therefore tell me: what work do they do within these halls?"

"Witchcraft," growled the ghost, "black witchcraft ! Though the manner of it I scarce could tell…"

"Well, tell me what you can," Rod prodded. "Anything you can spare will be gratefully appreciated."

"Thou speakest like the parish priest a-tithing," the ghost snorted. "Naetheless, I will tell thee what I can. Know, then, Man, that these twisted men have builded themselves a great altar here, of a shining metal, it is not steel, nor silver or gold, nor any metal that I wot of—here in the center of my hall, where once my courtiers danced!"

"Oh." Rod pursed his lips. "Uh, what worship do they make before this altar?"

"What worship?" The ghost's head lifted. "Why, I would warrant, 'tis a sacrifice of themselves; for they step within that evil artifice, and then are gone; then lo!

there they are again, and come forth whole! I can only think they must have given of their life's blood to the dark demon within that shining altar, for they come forth gaunt and shaken, Indeed," he mused, "why otherwise would they be shriveled, little men?"

An uneasy prickle began at the base of Rod's skull and worked its way down his neck to spread out across his shoulders. "I must see this artifice, my lord." He fumbled at his dagger. "Let us have some light!"

"Nay!" The shriek tore at Rod's eardrums. The ghost pulsed, shrinking and growing, its outline wavering, like a candle-flame.

"Would you destroy me, Man, and send me screaming to a darker realm than this?"

Rod massaged the back of his neck, trying to loosen the muscles that had cramped themselves together at the ghost's shriek. "Forgive me, Lord Loguire; I had forgotten, My torch will rest darkened; but you must, then, lead me to this strange altar, that I may see it with my hands."

"Would you worship there, then?" The hollow eyes deepened ominously.

"No, my lord; but I would know this thing, that I may Bring it down in the fullness of time."

The ghost was silent a moment; then it nodded gravely, and glided ahead. "Come."

Rod stumbled forward, hands outstretched, in the ghost's wake, till his palms came up against something hard and cold.

"Beware, Man," rumbled the ghost, "for here lie dark powers."

Hand over hand, Rod felt his way slowly along the metal, glinting softly in the ghost's faint luminescence. Then his right hand fell on nothingness. He groped, found it was a corner, wished the ghost gave off just a little more light, and groped until he had located the outline of a door, or rather a doorway, seven feet high by three wide.

"What lies within, my lord?" he whispered.

"It is a coffin," the ghost moaned; "a metal coffin without a lid, standing on end, and you have found its open side."

Rod wondered what would happen if he stepped into the cubicle; but for some strange reason, he lacked the experimental urge of the true scientist.

He groped across the doorway. A circle pressed into his palm, a circle protruding slightly from the face of the metal block.

Running his fingers over the area to the right of the doorway, he discovered a full array of circles, oblongs, and buttons. The area within their outlines was smoother and less cold than the metal around them— glass, he-decided, or plastic. He had found a control panel.

"MyLordLoguire," he called softly, "come here to me now, I beg of you, for I must have light."

The ghost drifted up beside him; and, by the light of its cold radiance, Rod made out a set of meters, a vernier dial, and a set of color-coded buttons.

The ghost's voice was gentle, almost sympathetic. "Why do you tremble, Man?"

"It's cold," Rod snapped. "Milord Loguire, I'm afraid I have to agree with your opinion of this monstrosity. I don't know what it is, but it ain't pretty."

The ghost rumbled agreement. "And that which is evil to look upon must be doubly so in its action."

"Well, I'm not so sure about that as a basic principle," Rod demurred, "but it might apply in this case. Milord, pay no heed to my mumblings in the next small while; I must, ah, recite an incantation against the malice of this, ah, engine."

He switched to the patois of the galactic deckhand while the ghost scowled in perplexity. "Fess, you there?"

"Yes, Rod."

"Have you been listening in?"

"Certainly, Rod."

"Um. Well, then, uh, this thing's a hunk of metal, rectangular, about, uh, twenty feet long by, say, ten high, and maybe ten wide. Got a little cubicle cut into the front, just about the size of a coffin."

"Appropriate," the robot murmured.

"No kibitzing on the job, please. It's white metal with a dull finish, and colder than hell, right now, anyway. Set of controls next to the cubicle—a long strip-meter with a scale and a slider."

"How is the scale calibrated, Rod?"

"Looks like logarithms, Fess. Arabic numerals. The zero's about three-quarters of the way from left end. Left side of the scale is marked to ten thousand. The right-hand side goes up to, uh, 2,385. Sound like anything you've heard of?"

There was a pause; then the robot answered, "Filed for analysis. Proceed with the description."

Rod ground his teeth; apparently the huge gizmo was as much of an unknown to Fess as it was to himself.

"There's adial with aknob in the middle of it, just to the right of the strip-meter. Reference point at the top, twelve o'clock, negative number to the left, positive to the right. At least, I assume they're numbers. The thing just to the right of the reference point looks something like a French curve, or maybe a paranoid sine wave. Then there's a shape like an upside-down pear. Then there's a pair of circles with a line lying across them.

The last one is a question mark lying on its side; then there's infinity in the six o'clock position. Left-hand side is the same way, only all the symbols are marked with a negative sign."

The robot hummed for a moment; Rod recognized the tune: "SempreLibera" fromLa Traviata . Fess was enjoying himself.

"Filed for analysis and reference, Rod. Proceed with description."

"You don't recognize 'em either, huh?"

"They are totally without precedence in the discipline of mathematics, Rod. But if there is any logic to their derivation, I will decipher them. Proceed."

"Well, there're seven buttons set flush with the surface, in a row just under the strip-meter, color-coded. Colors are—uh—hey, it's the spectrum!"

"So I feared," the robot murmured. "Use of the spectrum in color-coding would indicate arbitrary assignation of values. There is no anomaly in the color sequence?"

"Well, the paint's iridescent…"

"Not quite what I meant by anomaly. Well, it is filed. Proceed."

"Nothing. That's all."

"All? Only three controls?"

"That's all."

The robot was silent a moment.

"What do you make of it, Fess?"

"Well…"the robot's voice was hestitant. "The control system appears to be designed for the layman, Rod…"

"Why? Because it's so simple?"

"Precisely. Beyond that, there is insufficient data for—"

"Oh, make a guess, damn it! Make a wild guess!"

"Rod, guesswork is not within the capabilities of a cybernetic mechanism, involving as it does an exercise of the intuitive—"