Very much annoyed at his carelessness, he continued his investigation of the window.
It was simple enough; a wooden frame holding many small panes of glass, leaded together. Naturally, there was no latch on the outside, but he found the hinges on the right side, ordinary hinges, each with a pin holding two flanges together. If he could work the pins free, he could open the window. Unfortunately, he had no way of removing the pins; he hadn't thought to bring any small tools. He tried pulling one up with his fingers but with no success. He couldn't remove his gloves without letting go of the support line, and he couldn't get a good grip through the slick plastic; besides, it felt as if the pins had rusted in place.
Frustration swelled up in his chest; he found it impossible to believe that after risking his neck getting this far he was being daunted by a pair of rusty hinges. He drew his fist back, seriously considering simply smashing in the glass and forgetting any attempt at stealth.
He caught himself, stopped and unclenched his fist. He might yet resort to that, he told himself, but first he should consider every other possibility. There appeared to be no way to open the window with just his hand; the simple experiment of tugging at the wooden frame as best he could demonstrated that it was securely latched, and he was unable to work the hinges apart—at least, he was unable to do it in his current position. He could climb back up on the rooftop, remove his gloves, then climb back down and try again, but that idea did not appeal to him at all. He didn't care for climbing, and there was no assurance he could pull the hinge pins even with his gloves off.
If he had some tool, such as a screwdriver, he could get them apart, he was sure. Mentally he reviewed his supplies, what few he had.
He had a glider-chute, consisting of several meters of fine nylon, a lot of nylon cord, and spring-loaded expanding plastic ribs that gave the 'chute its shape. The ribs might possibly be of use, but that would mean climbing back onto the roof and ripping apart the 'chute.
He was wearing a helmet and oxygen mask; the mask hung loose around his neck. There was no help in those two items.
The submachine gun was slung across his shoulders; if he could get a meter or two away, and disregard the noise, he could blow the entire window apart.
Last, there were the flashlight and snark on his belt; remembering the snark, he suddenly felt foolish.
It was clipped on the right, for easy use by his right hand; that hand was still clutching his makeshift rope, however, so that he reached awkwardly across with his left and carefully unfastened the little weapon. Moving very slowly and deliberately—it would not do to drop the thing in the alley—he brought it across his body.
It wasn't safe to be too close to anything that the snark's beam hit; he edged back off the windowsill until he hung from his right hand, his toes on the edge of the sill to steady him. Carefully, he used his thumb to turn the control setting from SAFETY to MODERATE; the power dial lit a dull red, and the needle swung to the 90 percent charge mark. He pointed it at the window and pressed the trigger, holding his breath.
The casement vanished in a puff of gray dust, sparkling in the starlight; he heard a soft hissing as powdered glass sprinkled across the windowsill.
He turned the setting back to SAFETY, then carefully clipped the snark back onto his belt. Reaching forward, he thrust his hand through the opening the weapon had made.
It had not dissolved the entire window, but it had made a hole about a quarter meter across; within Slant discovered that even had he gotten the casement open he would not have been able to just climb inside, as there had indeed been shutters. The snark's beam had gone through these as well, removing their latch; he could easily push them aside and reach across to the casement latch.
Slowly and carefully, so as not to dislodge any loosened panes of glass in what was left of the window, he swung the casement open and slid into the room beyond.
Here he had virtually no light at all, not ever the starlight; closing what remained of the shutters behind him, he took the flashlight from his belt and shone it about.
The room was, fortunately, uninhabited; that meant that he didn't have to kill anyone just yet. Had it been occupied, of course, his rattling about outside the window would probably have been heard.
Two of the four Walls, ahead and to his left, were lined with books from floor to ceiling, a matter of slightly more than two meters; the Teyzhans apparently didn't bother with high ceilings everywhere as they had in the Council chamber. A third wall was papered with maps and charts and diagrams. The fourth wall, although lined with shelves, did not hold books but an amazing clutter of apparently random and bizarre objects, trinkets, and talismans, everything from mounted gems to stuffed birds to tableware. Among this display of arcana were several skulls of various kinds and innumerable flasks, jars, and vials.
The window he had entered by was in the wall of charts, as was a second window off to his left; there were two doors, one in each wall of books, directly across from him and at the left end of the room. The one at the end stood slightly ajar.
It was a good-sized room, perhaps four meters across and six meters long, and there was considerable furniture scattered about, including two heavy wooden tables of different heights, a desk, assorted chairs, and half a dozen stands or pedestals bearing strange instruments, one of which he recognized as a celestial globe. A reading stand was pushed into a corner, where the shelves of junk met bookshelves. Dozens of candles, from tall tapers to burned-out stubs, were scattered about, some in candlesticks or sconces, others just set upon whatever was handy.
Slant had encountered many similar rooms in fiction but never before in reality; he had no doubt whatsoever that he had stumbled upon a wizard's laboratory.
Since there was reason to believe that he was to investigate whatever the "wizards" used for magic, chancing upon the laboratory was an incredible stroke of luck. Right there he might find what he was looking for and be able to go his way without killing anybody or doing any further harm.
He needed more light; the flashlight wasn't suitable for anything beyond a casual glance around. A few candles would do nicely if he could find some way to light them.
The thing to do was to consider the question logically. How did the room's regular user light all these candles? If he used his so-called magic, that was no help; Slant therefore assumed, for the sake of argument, that magic was not put to such petty uses.
What, then? There was no fireplace from which a splint could be lit, nor anything he recognized as a firepot. Flint and steel, perhaps, or even matches; might well be lying around somewhere in the clutter. Matches were simple enough, just a little basic chemistry; with any luck these people used them. The thought of trying to light anything with flint and steel did not appeal to him at all; he'd tried it once or twice and knew how slow and tedious it was.
If there were matches, where would they be? They would be near the door, of course, where they could be found easily upon entering.
Sure enough, a careful search with the flashlight discovered a jar of blue-tipped splinters on the corner of a table near the door in the long wall. He soon had several candles burning brightly.
The candlelight gave the room a much warmer and homier feel; he no longer felt like a nervous burglar, sneaking about in the dark. He put away his flashlight and removed his helmet and oxygen mask, laying them on the nearest table.
Thus unencumbered, he decided that the best place to start was with the books. The problem was that there were so many of them. He ran his eye casually along the nearest shelf, reading the titles.
The Morality of Magic, Magic and Its Misuse, Professional Ethics—none of those sounded very helpful. He wanted an elementary general text on the subject. He skipped down a few shelves, and found The Book of Law: Volume Twelve, War and Conflict. That wasn't any better. He moved farther down the room and found Techniques of Weather and Storm Control. That still wasn't very basic, but it sounded interesting; he lifted the volume down from the shelf and open
ed it carefully.
He had half expected it to be old and dusty, in keeping with the traditional image of a wizard's book; instead it was fresh and clean, smelling of new leather and ink. The pages were neatly if unevenly cut, and not at all worn, showing not so much as a smudged thumbprint; the binding was still stiff. It was, he saw, printed, and not hand-lettered; the art of movable type had apparently not been lost. The planet continued to surprise him. Still, he should have realized that a library such as this would be extremely unlikely without the printing press.
There was a title page, printed in blood red; at the bottom of the page he found a warning that read, "This book is for the use of magicians of the fifth degree or above, and is dangerous to lesser magicians." He would have expected such a warning to be embellished with curses and dire threats, but perhaps that was unnecessary when the magic actually worked. The book might well really be dangerous to an amateur. He wondered whether these wizards actually could influence storms and weather; if so, the upper echelon might be capable of enforcing their decrees without resorting to threats.
It seemed unlikely; probably the book was a sham.
The print was quite large throughout, he saw; he theorized that the wizards tended toward poor vision, poor lighting, poor typemakers, or all three. In any case, it was no strain to read even in the dim candlelight. He turned to the first page and began scanning the text.
As he read his opinion of the planet's culture improved with every page; this book was, as far as he could see, an accurate, scientific description of atmospheric behavior. He found no mystic nonsense of spirits or magical forces; instead there was a straightforward explanation of air currents, evaporation, condensation, frontal patterns, air pressure …
Technology might be lacking in this culture, but their knowledge of at least one science surpassed his own. He wondered whether the book was a transcription of a surviving prewar work, or whether the information had somehow been rediscovered and accumulated since. Perhaps some had been transmitted orally.
So far, however, the book had little to do with anti-gravity, or staring at a gun and making one's skin crawl, or locating hidden people, or flying with no visible means of propulsion. He read on.
A soft sound interrupted him; he turned and saw that a large black cat had entered the room, presumably through the open door—he didn't think he could have failed to see it had it already been in the chamber. It studied him.
The two stared at each other for a moment; then Slant returned to his book, and the cat began washing itself.
A moment later there was another interruption as the computer regained contact
"Query: Relevance of text to present investigation."
Slant had been thoroughly absorbed in his book and took a moment before replying. "It's relevant, all right. This is an instruction manual for controlling the weather with whatever-it-is." He did not mention that so far the book had explained in great detail how weather worked and what various manipulations of the air would do without ever saying how these manipulations could be done.
"Query: Are more general texts available?"
"I haven't found any."
"Further investigation is advisable."
"Yeah, right, just a second." He closed the book and returned it to its place on the shelves, then considered where to look next. The other wall might have more general works; the area he had checked seemed to be highly specialized stuff. He crossed the room.
As he did so, the cat rose and leaped off the desk. When he lit a convenient candle and began studying titles, the animal brushed against his legs, purring.
"Quiet, cat," he whispered, as he skipped over Basic Anatomy, The Structure of the Human Body, and other such titles. The cat, in typical feline fashion, ignored his request and continued rubbing and purring.
"Query: Nature of small animal."
"It's a cat, a household pet; it's harmless. Don't worry about it."
"Query: Is small animal designated 'cat' a familiar?"
Slant stopped scanning titles. "A what?"
"A familiar."
"I don't know. Why do you ask? What's a familiar?"
"Term is from reference material category 'Folklore,' describing a small animal kept by witch or wizard. Natives of this planet have used term 'wizard' apparently in application to themselves. Familiars were said to carry messages. If this small animal is a familiar it may pose a detection risk."
"I wouldn't worry about it; that's just a myth. It's just an ordinary cat. Why are you concerned about folklore, anyway? I thought you knew that stuff was inoperative." He looked down at the cat, which looked up to meet his gaze, and for an instant wondered whether the computer might be right. That was nonsense; these so-called wizards were just scientists, he was sure, using some new gimmick they had discovered.
"Standard procedure calls for checking available data on all new terminology. Term 'wizard' is listed in reference material category 'Folklore.' "
"Oh. That makes sense, I guess. Look, I'm not sure, but I think that these people use the term 'wizard' to refer to persons participating in development and use of whatever it is we're after, and possibly to scientists in general. I don't think they're really wizards."
"Opinion noted."
That seemed to end the discussion; the cat went on trying to coax him into petting it, and he went on reading titles: On Raising Palaces, The Conjuration of Shelter, Protection by Magic. That last might be worth checking out, he thought, if he found nothing better.
The next shelf and the two that followed were in a different language, one that Slant didn't recognize; below that he found an assortment of languages, a few volumes on magical interpretation, and a collection of dictionaries. He moved on to the next section, which showed promise, as there were texts on levitation and flying, which he was sure must be fairly basic skills for a wizard; he was choosing a text to study when the cat, which had been gently pawing at his leg, suddenly tensed, driving its claws through his thin pressure suit and into the flesh beneath.
He stifled a yell and looked down just as the computer informed him, "Minor gravitational anomaly occurring in immediate vicinity of cyborg unit. Investigate immediately." "Hah?" He looked wildly about, then back at the cat. There was no one else in the room, nor any sign of anything out of the ordinary—except that the cat was motionless, its claws still digging into him, its eyes wide and staring, its tail puffed up like a bottle brush and the hairs on its back raised.
"Damn, it is a familiar," he thought. "I have to get out of here."
He reached down to pry the cat away, but before his hand touched it it freed itself and ran off, yowling, through the open door.
"Immediate departure is advisable," the computer agreed. He started toward the window he had entered through, but then paused, as he remembered the long drop to the street. Could he go up to the roof? That would leave him stranded and provide little protection, since the wizards could fly and he could not. He looked instead at the two doors and in desperation asked, "Please advise."
"Departure from building not recommended; enemy would presumably expect such a course of action, and investigation is not complete. Eluding pursuit is facilitated by unexpected action."
"Right, I stay in the building; it's big enough that I should be able to hide. Which door do I try?"
"Standard pursuit assumes quarry will follow path of least resistance; therefore it is advisable to follow path of greater difficulty, avoiding open doors, clear corridors, and so forth."
There were times, Slant thought, when the computer could be helpful; that advice seemed very sensible. He tried the latch on the closed door and found it unlocked.
Beyond the door was a small, unlit chamber; he crossed that and found another door. This one led into a corridor, which was wonderfully empty. He started to turn right, but the computer stopped him. "Human psychology tends to prefer turning right; therefore evasive tactics include preference for turning left."
He turned left, moved a fe
w feet down the darkened passage, and picked a door at random. It was locked. He moved farther and found a staircase. There was a light at the bottom, and he heard footsteps somewhere below; that was out of the question. He backed up and tried another door.
It opened easily, and he stepped through into the room beyond. Like everywhere else he had seen since entering the palace, it was dark; he took the flashlight from his belt, closed the door carefully behind him, then turned on the light and looked about.
He was in a lavish bedchamber, the walls covered with embroidered hangings, the marble floor piled thick with rugs, furs, and pillows. A chest of drawers topped with five mirrors at different angles was against one wall; an upholstered divan was opposite it. Two doors in the far wall apparently led into other rooms in the suite. In the center, of course, there was the bed, a great canopied thing, its white velvet curtains drawn.
He saw no sign of occupants. There was a key in the door he had just closed, which he turned, locking it; that would delay anyone's attempting to come in after him. Thus protected, he relaxed slightly. A conditioned reflex thrust him forward, though, and he found himself checking the other two doors. One led into a magnificent marble-and-fur bathroom, with a huge sunken tub and other fixtures that made it plain this culture had indoor plumbing. He began to wonder whether they had in fact lost anything beside electricity and space flight; it was obviously not the stone-age society he had first thought it to be. There was no other entrance to the bathroom, so that was safe. He turned to the other door, but his hand never reached the latch; he was distracted by a head peering out through the bed-curtains at him.
Chapter Six
The Cyborg and the Sorcerers Page 6