Charon (13 page)

 
Still, she stuck to the rest of her story. She was supposedly a genetic illegal, of what kind she hadn't been told, and she had been shipped here without a clue as to why. Shifting her to the right slot in life had cleared up one of my mysteries, but left her big one still unanswered.

 
* * *

 
On the afternoon of our fifth day, we got a taste of what was to come on Charon. Some minor tests had been performed without our knowing about them; they proved we were now fully "affiliated"—or seasoned—and ready to face the cold, cruel world. One of the tests, I discovered, involved the excellent soup we'd been served for lunch. Everybody had had some, everybody loved it; the only trouble was there hadn't been any soup.

 
At the end of the meal it came as a big shock when Garal stood up and announced, "We will need no service to clear this soup from the table." He waved his hand, and the soup—bowls, spoon, and tureen—suddenly and abruptly vanished. Even the spots where some had spilled a little on the tablecloth instantly vanished.

 
Although we'd all been warned to expect this, I'm afraid my jaw dropped as low as any other. The demonstration was incredible—unbelievable. That soup had been as real as my own right hand. And yet, we had all sat there, in reality eating absolutely nothing, and raving about it.

 
"Now, at last, you see what we mean," Garal said smugly. "But we need a few more examples just to give you an idea of the range." He pointed at a young, sandy-haired frontiersman.
"You.
Float up and over the table and hover there."

 
Immediately the startled man rose from his chair, still in a sitting position, floated over to about a meter above the dining table. He grew panicky and started flailing away at the air as we all gaped.

 
Mogar, the big brute with the single room who was sitting next to the man, reached over to the now empty chair and felt around. His IQ was obviously higher than I'd thought—it's exactly what I would have done. "Th—he's not in the chair!" the big man growled in amazement. To prove it, even to himself, he moved down one and sat in the chair.

 
"Stop thrashing about in the air!"
Garal snapped, but the hapless floating man didn't heed him. Finally Garal, in a disgusted tone, said, "All right then—get down from therel" He snapped his fingers. The man fell into the center of the table with a loud crash, almost knocking it over. Soup wasn't the only course we'd had, and he got up a little dizzily covered in leftovers.

 
We were all stunned.
Levitation?
"I thought you said the magic wasn't real," I remarked suspiciously. "If that wasn't real—what is?"

 
Garal smiled.
"Now
you're getting the true measure of Charon. What
is
real here? Did that man float up, then fall? Or did he climb up under the
impression
he was floating and then fall into the food? Do
you
know?"

 
"Do
you!"
somebody grumbled.

 
He smiled. "In this case, yes, I do. But I don't always know. You have to be a real master of this always to tell what's real and what's not—and usually, even then, there's somebody around at least as good as you who can fool you. The point is
,
you can't trust anybody or anything on Charon.
Never."
He snapped his fingers once again, and we all fell smack on our behinds. The chairs we had been sitting in had all abruptly vanished.

 
Garal laughed. "You see?
Real or illusion?
Because / will it even / see what you see, perceive it as you perceive it.
A perfect check on my own handiwork.
Had someone come in who'd never met any of us before while you were sitting eating your soup, that person would have seen you all sitting there eating soup. They would see what you saw, smell what you smelled, the works. Why?
Not because I willed the illusion, but because you believed it—and radiated it."

 
Zala picked herself up a little painfully and then helped me to my feet. We were all more than a little shaken.

 
"Enough of these children's games," our host proclaimed, "you now know exactly what you're in for. It's not really all that bad—nor is it all that easy. Spells and coun-terspells, mental control and discipline, those are the keys and they aren't easily learned—and even less easily tamed."

 
"Well how do we know what's real, then?" somebody asked.

 
He took the question seriously. "There is only one way to survive and prosper on Charon.
Only one.
You must act as if
everything
is real—even magic. You have to discard all your notions of the past and live as if you were part of a children's fairy tale. You're in a world where magic works. You're in a world where sorcery, not science, reigns, even though it knows and understands scientific principles. You're in a world where science, natural law, and even logic and common sense can be suspended at the whim of certain people. It doesn't matter if we're dealing with reality or illusion—it doesn't matter one bit. No matter what it is,
it is real to you,
and to everyone else. Look—see that pitcher of fruit juice on the table?"

 
We all looked at it, expecting it to vanish. It did not Instead, Garal concentrated, half shutting his eyes, and pointed to the pitcher.

 
Slowly the yellow liquid inside seemed to churn, to bubble, to run through with many colors, while smoking and hissing. It was an ugly brew now, and all the more so because we had all drank from that pitcher earlier.

 
Garal opened his eyes and looked at us seriously. "Now, that pitcher contained one hundred percent
nui
juice and nothing else. I have just changed the contents into a deadly poison—or have I? You all
see
and
smell
the stuff, don't you?"

 
We all just murmured assent or nodded. "All right, then. Stand back a bit." He walked up, carefully lifted the pitcher, and spilled a small drop on the edge of the table. It hissed and bubbled and began eating through the tablecloth and into the finish. Then he replaced the pitcher on the table.

 
"Now,
did
I just change that into a deadly acid, or is that still a pitcher of fruit juice?"

 
"It's still fruit juice," somebody said, and reached for it "No! Don't touch it!" Garal almost yelled; the man hesitated. "Don't you understand? It doesn't matter what it really is! It doesn't matter a bit! You all perceive it as acid—and so for you it
is
acid. If you got some on you it would burn a hole in you. Why? Because you'd subconsciously tell the Wardens in your own body that it was acid, and your cells and molecules would react accordingly.
We
believe
it's
acid, and so our Wardens tell those in the tablecloth and top that it's acid, and they, having no sensory apparatus of their own, believe it too, and react accordingly. Don't you see? Whether it is illusion or not, this is not simple hypnosis." He waved an arm at the room as a whole. "See all this? It's not dead.
It's alive!
The rocks and trees outside are alive. The table, walls, clothing,
everything
is alive.
Alive with Wardens.
And so are you and so am I.

 
"Wardens don't think, but they hear what you are thinking and they act accordingly. They broadcast that to all the other
Wardens,
and those Wardens act accordingly. That is acid because your senses tell your brain it is acid—that's hypnosis. But your brain tells the
Wardens,
and the others that it is acid—and that's not hypnosis. That
is
acid."

 
Tiliar entered from the rear accompanied by a distinguished-looking man, in his forties perhaps, wearing a long black robe adorned with golden and silver threads. He was gray-haired, an unusual sight in one so young, and had a ruddy complexion, as if he'd spen a lot of his time in a hard outdoor climate. Not
this
climate, though—he certainly was dry enough.

 
Garal stepped back and bowed slightly in deference to the newcomer. Both he and Tiliar treated the man with respect, the respect of subordinates to the boss.

 
He stopped and looked around at us, then at the acid still sputtering in the pitcher, and smiled. With no sign of concentration or effort at all, he mumbled a word and pointed to the pitcher, which immediately ceased bubbling and quickly began to transform itself back into fruit juice. Once
its
normal, healthy yellow color was restored, he walked over to it, picked it up, materialized a glass from somewhere, and poured juice into the glass. He then drank about half and looked satisfied, then put the glass back down on the table.

 
"My name is Korman," he introduced himself, his voice a mellow and pleasant baritone with an air of extreme confidence in its tone. "I'm what the locals would call the sore—the town sorcerer. I'm also one of those who sit in the Synod, so I'm here as the official representative of the government of Charon and Her Worship, the Queen Aeola, Lord of the Diamond. Welcome."

 
That
was a new one. So she was queen now? Could goddess be far behind—or would that be too much even for the Synod?

 
"My assistants here will be setting up an interview table in the rear while we chat,"
he
continued, "and I hope I can answer some of your questions." He paused a moment "Oh, how inconsiderate of me!" He snapped his fingers and the chairs reappeared. In addition to ours, an almost thronelike wooden monster appeared at the head of the table. He sat in it.

 
We all eyed the chairs with some suspicion, which gave Korman some amusement.

 
"Oh, come, come," he admonished us, "please have a seat—or has nothing Garal told you sunk in as yet? Face it,
you
don't know if the chairs were always there and only seemed to vanish, or whether there never were any chairs. And does it make any difference? These chairs are solid and comfortable. They will support you. You can go completely mad here trying to decide if things like that are real. Accept what your senses tell you. Sit down, please!"

 
With a shrug, I sat down, and slowly, the others followed suit. Korman was right of course, it made no practical difference whatsoever whether or not the chairs were real. However, I had a pretty good idea they were—Garal just didn't look like the type to exert himself to actually carry the things out, and they had been real the previous four days.