Manly Wade Wellman - Novel 1940 (6 page)

"Gentlemen and fair ladies," I said, as
impressively as I could manage, "these stars look so small that nothing appears
less, yet there are a great many that are far larger than our own Earth. Think
then how trivial our own star would appear if—"

"Faith, Cousin," called out a voice I knew,
"you seek to belittle the world, and
Florence
,
and Lorenzo the Magnificent!"

It was Guaracco, absolutely overwhelming in green and
gold,
who
strode forward and paid fulsomely cordial
respects all around. "Forgive my young kinsman, Your Magnificence, if he
has been impertinent," he pleaded eloquently. Then, turning to
me :
"Will you step aside, Leo ? I have a message for
you, from Lisa."

At the mention of that name, a little murmur of laughing
congratulation went up, to the effect that I must have a sweetheart. Indeed, I
felt a quickening of my pulse as Guaracco and I walked a little away through
the garden, out of the range of the lamplight.

"What is the message from her?" I asked him.

"That was but an excuse to get you alone," he
growled. "I warn you, Leo, say no more of these matters of the stars."

"But why not?"
I
demanded, surprised.

"The stars in their courses are a specific knowledge
of sorcerers. I overheard your teaching just now—"

"I was teaching truth," I broke in, warm to
defend myself.

"I know it," he said. "I do not think this
little mote, our planet, is the center of all things. But the old belief is part
of my trade. I frighten or reward or guide men by horoscopes and prophecies—from
the stars. Do you not show me a liar, else I may smooth your way to
destruction."

I glared at him, but in my mind was more wonder than rage.
Once again he showed himself a sound scientist; once again he showed that he
hid his knowledge and fostered error for profit. Only some great evil wish
dictated such action. I need not be too ashamed, I feel, to say that he made me
afraid.

The
End of the Evening

GUARACCO did his best to be the lion of the occasion.
Not that he did not merit attention
; he could charm and
astound and inform. Lorenzo publicly and good-humoredly withdrew his previous
opinion that Guaracco was dull, and bade him talk on any subject he would.
Strange, philosophy-crammed conversation intrigued Lorenzo, as the jokes of a
jester or the gambols of jugglers might intrigue a
more
shallow
ruler.

And Guaracco obliged, with improvements upon my discussion
of war machines. To my multiple-fire device, he added a suggestion whereby the crossbows
of Lorenzo's guard might be improved—a simple, quick lever to draw and set the
string instead of the slower and more cumbersome moulinet or crank.

The company praised and approved the idea, and Guaracco
beamed. He liked it less when Botticelli suggested, and Lorenzo agreed, that I
make clearer his rough sketch of the lever action.

"I perceive"—Guaracco smiled satirically—"that
you also admire my kinsman's drawing. Has he told you of that other talent he
hopes to develop? Flying?"

"Flying?" repeated the beautiful Simonetta, her
eyes shining.

"Aye, that. With a machine called an
'airplane'." He used the Twentieth-Century English word, and I must have
started visibly. How did he know that name and invention? I did not remember telling
him about airplanes. But Simonetta was already laughing incredulously.

"Belike this young man seeks to soar with wings, and
reach those great worlds and suns he pretends to see in the sky," she
suggested merrily, a twinkle in her eyes.

"It sounds like sacrilege." Giuliano garnished
his sweetheart's apparent effort to embarrass me. "Flight is contrary to
man's proper nature."

I was a little angry.
"How
contrary?"
I demanded. "Is it more contrary or sacrilegious
than to ride comfortably and swiftly on the back of a
horse.
"

The abbot came to my support. "The young man says
sooth," he pronounced. "Holy writ sings of the righteous: 'They shall
mount up with wings as eagles,' and again, in the words of the Psalmist
himself: 'O, that I had wings like a dove!' Surely such flight would not be
ungodly, unless it
were
accomplished by the aid of black
magic."

"Well, Ser Leo?" Lorenzo prompted me. He leaned
back in his cushioned chair of state, crossing one long nobby leg over the
other. His companions grouped themselves gracefully, if sycophantically, around
him. All were waiting for my reply to the abbot's last suggestion.

"
Your
Magnificence, there is
no such thing as black magic," I said, "either in my devices, or
elsewhere."

Every eye widened, and Guaracco stiffened as though I had
prodded him with a dagger. I remembered that he had come close to frightening
me not an hour before, and determined to make some amends to my own
self-respect.

"Of all human discourses," I elaborated warmly,
watching him, "the most foolish is that which affirms a belief in
necromancy." Guaracco glared, but I did not hesitate. "If this
necromancy, or black magic, did truly exist, he who controlled it would be lord
of all nations, and no human skill could resist him. Buried treasure and the jewels
of Earth's heart would
lie
manifest to him. No lock,
no fortress could remain shut against his will. He could travel the uttermost
parts of the Universe. But why do I go on adding instance to instance? What
could not be brought to pass by such a mechanician?"

AS I finished, there was a sigh, a mutter, and finally
Lorenzo struck his hands together in applause. "Well said, Ser Leo!"
he cried. "Do you not think so, Guaracco? Does this not prove that there
are no sorcerers?"

"It proves, at least, my innocence of the charge of
sorcery." Guaracco smiled, and bowed to give the reply strength.
"If I could do such things, would I be so humble and dependent
a servant of Your Magnificence?
Surely"—and his eyes found mine once
more—"nothing is impossible to a true necromancer."

"Nothing," I agreed, "except refuge from
death."

His smile vanished.

Lorenzo lolled more easily in his chair. "This
bethinks me," he remarked. "One matter has not been settled. Ser Leo
is a boy, a student of the arts, yet he conquers with ease my nonpareil swordsman.
That smacks of enchantment."

I spread my hands in one of the free Florentine gestures I
was beginning to use.

"I make bold to deny that it was aught but
skill."

"We must make trial." His Magnificence permitted
himself another faint grin. I must have shown an expression of worry, for
Giuliano burst out into confident laughter and sprang forward, hand on hilt.

"Let me do the trying," he cried, his gay,
handsome face thrusting at me in the white light of the lamps.

Simonetta's silvery chuckle applauded her cavalier. The
abbot also called for this unecclesiastical performance to take place without
delay.

Before I well knew what was happening, the chairs, benches
and other furniture had been thrust back, the lamps trimmed to give more light,
and I faced Giuliano in the center of the cleared space. Poliziano had run to fetch
something, and he came close to me.

"Here, young sir," he said, "defend
yourself
." And he thrust a hard object into my hand.

Giuliano had already drawn his sword and wadded his cloak
into a protection on his free arm. I transferred my own weapon to my left arm, and
at sight of it my heart sank. It was a mere cane of wood, hard and round and of
a sword's length, such as Florentine lads used for fencing practice. Giuliano,
on the other hand, fell on guard with a blade that was one of the finest and
sharpest I ever saw.

Plainly, I was to furnish sport for this gallant and his
friends, and all the advantages were denied me.

Because I must, I lifted the cudgel to cross his steel.
Lorenzo grunted. "Your cousin is sinister-handed, Guaracco," he
observed.
"Belike that is the secret of his skill."

"I fear not," said Giuliano, with unmalicious zest,
and he disengaged and thrust at me.

Apparently he meant business, for the point would have
nicked, wounded my breast had I not shortened my own arm and beat it aside.
Cheers went up from the ladies—then slid into dismayed screams. For, extending
my parry to its conclusion as a riposte, I smote Giuliano smartly on the inside
of the elbow, and he wheezed in pain and sprang back out of reach. Had I followed
and struck again, he might have been forced to drop the sword. But I realized
that I had to do with the second greatest man in
Florence
,
and only stood my ground.

Giuliano laughed again. "God's wounds, what a
tingler!" he praised me. "I'll ward it another time."

Forward he came again, right foot advanced, his cloaked
left arm brought well up. Again I awaited his thrust, parried it and drove it
out of line, then riposted as before. He, as good as his promise, interposed
the folds of the cloak, taking a muffled tap on his left forearm. But that hurt
him somewhat, and he retreated. This time I followed him, avoided an
engagement, and half struck at his head. But I stopped in time, fearing to
injure him and make dangerous enemies. Instead I diverted the course of the
stroke into a sweeping moulinet, passing over his weapon to my right and his
left, and terminated it in a resounding thwack on Giuliano's velvet-sleeved
sword arm.

ABSOLUTE silence fell, then a murmur of consternation from
the onlookers. For Giuliano's smile had vanished, and his eyes flashed fire. Plainly
the contest had ceased to be sport with him—my thumps had made him angry. He
snapped out a soft blasphemy, advanced quickly, and sped a slashing cut—not at
me, but at my stick. The edge of his steel, keen as a razor, shore through the
tough wood without effort, and I was left with a mere baton in my hand, a
truncated billet no more than fifteen inches long.

"No, no, Giuliano, spare
him !
"
called out Lorenzo, but too late to balk his brother's murderous stab at my
throat.

I managed to parry with the short length of wood remaining
to me, causing his point to shoot upward and over my left shoulder. At once I
stepped forward, well within his lunge. Before he could retreat or recover, my free
right hand caught the cross-guard of his weapon, and wrenched. His own right
arm, bruised twice in the previous engagements, had lost some of its strength,
and in a trice I tore the sword away from him.

At once I dropped my severed stick, fell back and whipped
the captured hilt into my left hand.

"By your leave, my lord," I panted, "I will
continue the matter with this more suitable equipment."

But then Lorenzo, Poliziano and Guaracco had sprung
forward and between us. The sorcerer caught me in his arms and wrestled me
farther back, his red beard rasping my ear as he hissed out a warning to take
care. Lorenzo the Magnificent was lecturing Giuliano in the manner of big brothers
in every land and generation. And Giuliano recovered his lost temper.

"Hark you, Ser Leo, I did amiss," he called out
to me, laughing. "I had no lust to hurt you at the beginning. I meant only
fun. And then—" He broke off, still grinning, and rubbed his injured arm.
"I forgot myself. It is not many who can teach me either swordplay or
manners but, by Saint Michael of the Sword! You have done both."

It was handsomely said, and I gladly gave him back his
weapon, assuring him that I bore no ill-will. At that, he embraced me in the
impulsive Latin manner, swearing that he would stand my friend forever. The
company subsided to chairs again, happy that no harm had befallen either of us.

"We wander from the path of our earlier
discourse," reminded Abbot Mariotto tactfully. "Ser Leo was speaking
of a flying machine. Where is it, my son?"

"It is not yet constructed, Holy Father," I
replied.

As with so many other things, the principle of flying a
heavier-than-air machine was caught only vaguely in the back of my head. I
could visualize roughly the form, a thin body with a rudder for tail and
outspread wings.
And something to stir the air.

"Belike you would strap wings to your arms,"
suggested Giuliano.

"Impossible," spoke up Poliziano. "Are not
men's arms too weak for flight? Would there not need great muscles, at least as
strong as those of the legs?"

I had an inspiration, and an answer. "The muscles of
our legs are many times stronger than needful to support the weight of our
bodies," I told him.

Lorenzo, eager as always for new philosophic diversion,
challenged me to prove it. I asked him to get me a long, tough plank, and
servants were sent scurrying after it. While I waited, I chose a strong,
straight chair, and sat upon it. A cushion I took and
laid
upon my knees. When the plank arrived, I balanced it upon this cushion.

"Now, come, all of you," I invited, "and
rest yourselves upon this plank."

LORENZO did so at once, and then his brother. The others
followed laughingly, not excepting the abbot and Madonna Simonetta—ten in all, supported
upon my knees. Only Guaracco stood aloof.

"Your long shank support many hundredweight, my stout
Cousin," he said, "but what does this prove?"

"It proves his argument, and the fallacy of
mine," handsomely replied Poliziano for me, as he rose from his seat at
one end of the plank. "His legs have
tenfold strength
,
and his arms may be strong in proportion, enough to flap wings and waft upward
his entire weight."

"Then let me see it done," pronounced Lorenzo,
with a grand finality that made my heart sink. "I am ambitious, Ser Leo,
to watch you 'mount up with wings as eagles.' And I do not forget the other
arrangement, by which you will make solid shot to explode."

This last labor, which I had been glad to slight in
conversation, now seemed actually the easier.

But Simonetta and the other ladies professed
themselves
weary of cold science, be it ever so important in
a masculine world, and demanded music.

Poliziano, whose voice was as sweet as his appearance was
ungainly, immediately snatched up a silver lute and picked out a lively tune.
The song he rendered was saucy and merry, and not a little shocking; but the
holy abbot led the loud applause.

"More! More!" cried Simonetta.

Poliziano, bowing low to her, sang to a more measured and
dignified tune, an offering that had all the earmarks of impromptu
versification, inasmuch as it mentioned the beauty of Simonetta, the
magnificence of Lorenzo, the churchly dignity of Abbot Mariotto and, finally,
the enigmatic quality of my own discourse.

"And will not Ser Leo sing?" asked one of the
ladies when Poliziano had made an end. "His conversation and talents are
so varied—war, science, debate, flying like a bird—"

"Let us hear your voice, young sir," Lorenzo
commanded me.

Thus urged, I took Poliziano's lute, altering the pitch
and harmony of its four strings until I could strum upon it in a hit-or-miss
fashion, evoking chords to accompany myself. The song which I managed to
improvise and sing to Poliziano's tune was on the subject of stars, so edifying
to my new friends and so distasteful to Guaracco.

Since Lorenzo and the others commended it highly, it may
not be amiss to set it down here.

You think I am a spark—I am a star.

You think that I am small, but I am great.

You think me dim, but I am only far,

Far out in space, beyond your love and
hate.

You think me feeble—but I am a sun,

Whose rule is resolute, whose face endures,