by Dave Duncan
The veranda fronted on a garden of flowering shrubs and carefully scythed lawn, a surprise of green fertility in the khaki dryness of Olympus. Teams of servants must water it frequently to keep it so lush.
Scattered amid the woods were more of the tyikank's sprawling bungalows, clustered around the node. An irregular line of denser, dark-foliaged trees marked the course of the Cam. The natives’ village lay a mile or so downstream.
To the west, the jagged sword of the Matterhorn towered over everything, a stark silhouette. Opposite stood Mount Cook and Nanga Parbat and Kilimanjaro's perfect cone, a poem in itself. All three were flushing pink and salmon and peach in the sunset. The valley lay like a palm between them, the Matterhorn being the thumb and the other three raised fingers. Several minor summits might qualify as the pinkie. He had not learned all their names yet.
"They're two slightly different aspects of the same world,” Prof said, “two cards in the same pack, no two identical. Make two slices through, oh, say a Stilton cheese, and you won't get exactly the same pattern of maggot holes each time, what?"
Edward thought longingly of Stilton cheese. “The stars are the same."
"Ah! You noticed that? Small things are different, big things are the same. The beetles have eight legs. The sun looks exactly the same. The planets are very much the same, so far's I've been able to find out. The year's a little shorter, this world's axial tilt's a little less, days are about three minutes longer."
"How can you know that? You can't bring a watch over with you."
Rawlinson smiled knowingly. “But you can go back and forth. Sometimes you arrive at the same time of day, sometimes later or earlier. It works out to about three minutes’ lag per day."
Edward had walked into that one. Even so ... “Nextdoor has four moons. Moons are not exactly small."
"You're wrong!” Prof beamed excitedly. “Oh, they're big, but they may be caused by very small effects. A trumpet can't knock down a forest, can it?"
"No.” Edward could not see what a trumpet had to do with moons, but he knew he was about to find out.
"But suppose there's an avalanche poised to fall? Then the trumpet call might set off the avalanche! There goes your forest. Now, it's generally agreed that the Moon was knocked off the Earth by a giant meteor, you know. The Pacific Ocean is the scar remaining. A meteor hit is a very chancy business. If the meteor comes by even a second or two earlier or later, it will miss the Earth altogether. Both bodies are moving at tremendous speed, remember! So it struck Nextdoor slightly differently. The debris coalesced into four small moons instead of one large one. Even Trumb is quite small. It just looks big because it's very close.” Prof reached for his glass triumphantly. “Or perhaps there were several hits."
"How about the other worlds?"
"Other slices, remember? More variations. Gehenna has two moons, or so I've been told. Never been there.” Rawlinson took a long drink. He was just hitting his stride, glad of an audience. “Back to our flat friends. We agree that they can't see each other, because they're not in the same plane. These cards can't be perfect planes, can they? No such thing as a perfectly flat surface. But if they're face-to-face, then they must touch here and there, what?"
"The nodes!"
"Right you are! The flat cards touch at a few points. And where worlds touch, you have a node—a portal, a hole in reality."
"And the keys pull you through that hole!"
"Across. Or through, I suppose. Apparently."
"But how do they work?"
The enthusiasm faded slightly. “Good question. It's all mental, of course."
"It is?"
"Absolutely. Only people can cross over. You can't bring anything with you—no clothes, no money, nothing."
"Not even the fillings in my teeth."
Rawlinson raised his sandy eyebrows. “Do the cavities bother you?” He grinned, seemingly suddenly very juvenile.
"I picked up some mana, and they healed themselves.” Edward could also recall a scar on his forehead that had vanished and certain other scars on his chest that had persisted in trying to disappear when he had wanted them not to.
"That's what usually happens,” Prof said smugly. “But whatever makes crossing over possible is something only the human brain can achieve. The keys themselves don't do it, I'm sure. They're not magical incantations; they only work internally. You could teach a parrot the song, but it wouldn't work. Rhythm, words, dance—somehow they induce a particular vibration or something in the mind, a resonance. The music of the spheres, what? The mind soars in splendor, it roams, it drifts across the gap. Then it hauls the rest of you after it. I think that's why we feel so bloody awful afterward. The brain's in shock."
Edward squirmed. “Does it always work? I mean, from what you say, then sometimes the mind might go and the body not follow? Can that happen?"
"Yes, it can. Sometimes. You ready for a refill?"
"Not yet, thank you. Now explain mana to me."
"Wish I could. How much have you learned already?"
How much should he admit to knowing? His report was going to be completely truthful, of course, but there were certain episodes in his recent past that he ... did not intend to stress.
"I know that Colonel Creighton talked about charisma. I know it's something that only happens to strangers. He had no occult power on Earth, but as soon as he arrived back on Nextdoor he could throw thunderbolts."
"Because he hadn't been born here,” Rawlinson agreed. “Where you're born is what matters. If you ever father a son here, my lad, then he'll be a native. Take him back to Earth and he'd be a stranger there. I can't give you an explanation, but I'll give you another picture. Suppose we're all born with a sort of shield, a kind of mental armor. Suppose that it doesn't cross over with us—that fits the case, doesn't it? Without the shield, you can absorb mana. With a shield there, very little can get through."
"And what is mana?"
Rawlinson sighed like an old, old man. “I wish I knew!” he said wearily. “It comes from admiration. It comes from obedience. It comes from just plain old faith. We breathe it in and blow it out again as power. It works most easily on the mind, of course. You must have discovered the authority you have here! Give orders and the natives will jump to obey ‘em.
"At higher levels, mana can work on the body, as in faith healing or those yogi chappies who can sit around on an ice field in the altogether. In really high concentrations, it can influence the physical world. Then you're into miracles, Indian rope trick, teleportation, and all that.” He discovered his glass was empty. “Carrot!"
A servant hurried out from the house door. He was probably sixty or older, although still trim and alert. His close-cropped hair had once been a fiery red; now the embers were streaked with ash. He wore white trousers with knife-edge creases down the front, a white tunic buttoned to a high collar. Very smart. His shoes were a shiny black.
"Ah, there you are,” Prof said. “Sure you're not ready for another, old man?"
"Not just yet, thank you, sir."
The servant bowed slightly and withdrew.
The natives were always referred to as Carrots. Edward wondered if they had any idea what the word implied. He rather hoped they did not. They must have a name for themselves in their own language. Nextdoor's vegetation was completely unlike Earth's; it included some carrotlike vegetables, but they were not carrot colored.
Prof was off on his hobbyhorse again. “Strangers have the ability to absorb mana and redirect it as magic, but even natives can have it in some measure. ‘Charisma’ is as good a term as you'll find. Napoleon obviously had it. His soldiers worshipped him. He led them into the jaws of hell—they followed him and loved him for it. Caesar the same. Mohammed.” He eyed Edward with wry amusement. “You can think of others, I'm sure."
"But Napoleon could not work miracles!"
"Couldn't he? Some of his opponents thought he did. And he was only a native, not even a stranger. Where do you draw the lin
e? If a general or a statesman inspires his followers with a rousing speech, is that magic?"
Edward conceded the point. “No."
"Even if they are moved to superhuman efforts?"
"Probably not."
"Then how about faith healing? Mental telepathy? Foretelling the future? Where do you draw the line? When does the uncanny become the impossible?"
"When scientists can't measure it?"
"They can't measure love either. Don't you believe in love?"
Edward chuckled. Obviously this speech had been made many times before.
"You came through an untried portal, I hear.” Rawlinson rubbed his chin. “That's very interesting! Creighton took a hell of a risk there. Could have landed you anywhere on Nextdoor or on some other world altogether."
"He was relying on the prophecy. It said I would appear in Sussvale."
"I wouldn't have risked it. Still, all's well that ends well. And you arrived in the Sacrarium? That's useful to know. What key did you use?"
Edward tapped out a beat on the table with his fingers. “Affalino kaspik..."
"Oh, yes, that one,” Prof said, watching the Carrot replace his empty glass with a full one. “Don't try that rascal here at Olympus, my boy! It'll flip you to Gehenna. Nasty spot! Affalino was a sound choice, though. It does seem to connect Europe to the Vales pretty often. It works the other way sometimes. There's a portal in Mapvale it opens to somewhere in the Balkans. Near Trieste, I think. And others."
The servant stepped backward a couple of paces and bowed before turning away.
Almost like being back in Africa ... not quite. The natives of the Vales were whites, and in this valley they were all redheads. It happened that way quite often. Blue eyes here, brown eyes there. In one valley the women would all be flat-chested, in the next breasts would be heavy as melons and lush as ripe peaches. The larger vales had varied populations of several “European” types; the little side glens, when they were habitable at all, each cut their sons and daughters from a single cloth. Olympians had hair as red as any Gael. They also had green eyes and skin like sand beaches, freckles on freckles on freckles.
Edward had a houseboy of his own now. Dommi was about the same age as he, but shorter and wider. And freckles! Every time he blinked, Edward expected to see freckles flake off his eyelids. He was a tough little mule. He wore nothing but a loincloth, even first thing in the morning when the valley was decidedly nippy. The soles of his feet were as thick as steaks and hard as iron; he could run along a gravel path like a gazelle. He was as much a white man as Edward—even whiter, really—but he was a native and Edward was a stranger. So he was the servant and Edward the tyika.
After roughing it for so long, formal evening wear felt very odd. Three days had not begun to blunt the strangeness of Olympus. Nor had they taught the newcomer all the intricacies of accepted social behavior. Even speaking English again was alien to him now.
The natives spoke a version of Randorian, which was pretty much a dialect of Thargian. They would have their own names for the Cam River and Kilimanjaro and the Matterhorn. They probably did not call the tyika settlement Olympus. Edward wondered what they did call it.
The strangers spoke English among themselves. They sprinkled it with Thargian words—or even Joalian—but by and large their English would have been understood on Regent Street. Yet they always referred to themselves as tyikank. Odd, that. Why not use the English equivalent, “masters"?
They had a childish fondness for nicknames. Rawlinson was known as Prof, and he seemed to cultivate a dry, academic style. Edward was still “Exeter” to the men, “Mr. Exeter” to the women. Once his status and duties became established, he would probably pick up some informal title of his own. He already suspected it would be “Tinker.” His identity as the Liberator was officially a secret, for if the Chamber ever learned where he was, then even Olympus itself might not be safe for him.
"You know mana exists, Exeter!” Prof lowered his voice and leaned closer. “They say you've actually met two of the Pentatheon?"
Edward nodded and emptied his glass. He had not yet learned the levers and switches in Olympus; he did not know who was supposed to know what. The Filoby Testament strongly hinted that there were traitors here, in the very heart of the Service. For all he knew, Rawlinson could be one of them.
"Well, you must know that they can work miracles! They draw their power from their worshippers’ adoration and sacrifices."
Edward had been expecting questions about his own experience with mana, so Rawlinson evidently knew less than he thought he did. As for his “explanations,” they were slick enough, but they left an aftertaste of bam-boozlement. The words did not really mean anything.
"Mostly on nodes? How does that fit your picture, Prof? I can see the nodes being portals, but why do they increase the flow of mana?"
"Temperature."
"Temperature?"
"Not real temperature, but something like temperature. After all, if another world is especially close just there, then there could be a leakage of something across the gap. You must have sensed that feeling of awe we call ‘virtuality'? Imagine the nodes as being in some way hot and the rest of the world as cooler. Now suppose the shield effect is dependent on this ‘temperature.’ Sensitive to heat, or whatever the force is. That would explain why the stranger absorbs the mana best on a node and why his worshippers’ sacrifices are more potent there."
More mumbo jumbo, and yet it did have a sort of logic to it.
"What's the limit?” Edward asked. “Telepathy and prophecy—how far does it go?” He knew it could kill.
"A long way. Healing, certainly. And prophecy, as you well know. Legends tell of earthquakes and thunderbolts. Earthly myths do the same. It goes all the way to magic. Miracle, if you prefer.” Rawlinson flashed his boyish smile and laughed. He was starting to display the results of the gin. “I have no science to give you, old chap! All I can do is draw pictures."
"They fit the facts,” Edward agreed politely. He was becoming a little fizzy, too, and a long evening loomed ahead. He did believe in miracles. He had worked one himself.
Rawlinson peered around angrily at the door. “Where in the world has my wife got to, do you suppose? Carrot!"
Edward had a few more questions about keys—who had invented them and who ever dared test a new one—but his host suddenly changed the subject.
"Oh, by the way?"
"Yes?"
"The others'll be here shortly.... You hired a houseboy, I understand."
"Jumbo's cook recommended him. A grandson or nephew or something, I expect."
Rawlinson coughed. “Yes. Well, my wife was going by your place this afternoon and saw him. She suggested I drop you a quiet hint."
"I'd appreciate any help you can give me,” Edward said, having trouble not adding, “sir,” to every sentence. He felt as if he were back at Fallow and had been called into the Head's office. Consciously or unconsciously, Rawlinson was radiating mana at him now.
The manservant glided in, to wait expectantly near the tyika's chair.
Rawlinson did not seem to notice him. “Well, it's just this, old man. We don't encourage the Carrots to run around like savages, you know. That's all very well down in their own wallow, but up here we try to teach them more civilized ways."
Back in the baking heat of the afternoon, young Dommi had scrubbed every floor in the bungalow and most of the walls as well. He'd been working like a horse and sweating like a pig. Shiny shoes and white uniform?
"I'll have a word with him."
"And do see he cuts his hair, old man. Shipshape and Bristol fashion, what?"
Dommi's hair hung down his back like a flag of burnished copper. He was very proud of it.
"It seems clean enough,” Edward protested.
Rawlinson pulled a disapproving face. “They look much better with it short. More civilized. You mustn't let them get away with a thing, or you'll never get any work out of them at all. Bone lazy
, the lot of them."
Edward had suggested Dommi take the evening off and go courting his beloved Ayetha. The youngster had been shocked. The tyika's house was not yet completely cleaned up. There were still many dishes to unpack and wash. There were the tyika's clothes to iron, and food to be fetched and prepared, and the garden must be dug over. His father would be horrified if he took time off while there was work waiting to be done.
Dommi was pathetically anxious to please.
"So far he had shown no signs of laziness at all! He works like a ... He works very hard."
"Just you wait!” Rawlinson said. “As soon as he's saved up a few shillings he'll buy himself a wife and that'll be the last you'll see of any work out of him.” He frowned up at the waiting Carrot. “What's the Entyika doing, d'you know?"
"She is supervising the cooks, Tyika."
Rawlinson grunted angrily. “Remind her we have a guest here, will you?” He waved the man away. “Bone lazy,” he repeated, “the whole lot of ‘em."
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8
"INCREDIBLE!” STRINGER MUTTERED. HE COUGHED, STUBBING OUT a cigarette. His bulging eyes were red from the bite of the smoke that filled the little office.
Smedley's mind was spinning. Incredible did not do justice! And yet no one who knew Exeter would ever doubt his word. He spoke always with a quiet deliberation that compelled belief. Lying would be beneath him, even if his life depended on it. He had always been like that.
"These magical places?” the surgeon demanded. “There was one in Flanders?"
"Must have been,” Exeter agreed hoarsely. “There may have been a church there before the war or a cemetery."
"And another in the hospital in Greyfriars?"
"Er, no, sir."
"So someone rescued you and took you elsewhere?"
Exeter set his jaw. After a moment he said, “No names, no pack drill, sir."
Stringer let his annoyance show. Then he glanced at his watch. “By Jove! I must be gone. Dining with some bigwigs tonight! Well, it's a fascinating tale! Wish I had time to hear more of it.” His arrogant gaze settled a frown on Smedley, as if he did not belong there. “This meeting has gone on too long anyway. I think you should wriggle out unobtrusively now, Captain. Don't want anyone prefiguring your association with the escaped prisoner, do we?"