The Warlock Wandering (34 page)

Yorick noticed his gaze. "A young officer did that. He led a mutiny, and they locked him in here'for sixty days before they took him out to kill him."

Rod darted a quick glance around the chamber. For a moment, he could imagine what it must have been like to 268

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269

be locked up in this small space for so long a time—day after day, never knowing when he'd be taken out to be slain, with nothing to do except rant at his fate and curse himself for a fool. He shook his head, turning away from the thought.

"What does the word say?"

"What would you say, if you were locked up in here for sixty days?"

Chomoi frowned up at Yorick. "How come you know so much about this place?"

But Yorick only shook his head, brows drawn so low they hid his eyes, and muttered something under his breath. A green panel glowed to life by the stairway.

"Loading time," Chomoi said softly.

As they came into the Atlanta interchange, a 3DT tank burst into color with a picture of a group. "These persons are criminals," a resonant voice informed them. "They endanger the state and, therefore, every citizen." Rod stared, appalled. "Wow! I never looked worse!"

"It's the harried, hunted look," Chomoi assured him,

"and they would catch me without makeup." Yorick nodded. "I look like a thug."

Gwen didn't say anything, but the expression on her face spoke volumes.

"If you see any or all of them," the voice went on, "report them immediately to the nearest Security Service officer."

"See the scoutship in the background?" Yorick pointed.

"This must be the picture that the little viper with the loud mouth had his flunky take."

Rod nodded. "Wonder what took 'em so long to get it on the network?"

"Who says it did?" Yorick countered. "We could be looking at the hundredth replay."

"Yeah, we could." Rod frowned. "Either way, we'd better get gone. Gwen, let's go. Chomoi... Chomoi?" But Chomoi was over against the wall, talking at a blank viewscreen. "Yeah, I just saw them!" She was speaking in a higher, more nasal voice than usual, and fairly danced with excitement. "I mean, I'm right here in Atlanta, human, and I... huh?... No, I don't know why you're not getting any picture. I don't have one of you either, y' know? Hey, what can I tell you? The way you guys keep up these public call booths... Oh, them? Yeah! I just got in on the tube from Florida! And back in Jacksonville, when I was getting on, they were getting off! ... No, of course not! How could I call you any sooner? There weren't any call booths on that capsule! Besides, I didn't see your blurb about them until I got off here in Atlanta... What? ... Oh, sure, sure!

Glad to help! I always wanted to be a good citizen.... Yeah, 'bye, now."

"That," Yorick said, leveling a forefinger, "is a damn good idea." He jumped for another call booth, put his palm over the vision pickup, and said, "Security Service. Reporting." But Rod was already at a booth of his own. "Huh? ... Well, yeah, I'm in Atlanta now—but, I mean, I didn't see your blurb about 'em until I was waiting for my tube in Puerto Rico, and my capsule came right after that, and well, hell, you couldn't expect me to... Well, yeah! I saw them, yeah! Sicily, just before I got on the capsule there! ... No, now, look, I know that was eight hours ago, but, yeah, I'm sure! ... Yeah, I mean, you couldn't miss those clothes anywhere! What happened to that guy's jacket—did he get scrambled eggs on it?"

Gwen had her hand over another vision pickup, and was staring at the microphone inlay. Suddenly she smiled, and said, "Emergency," and began talking in a fast, nasal voice.

"Hello? ... Yeah, them! ... No, no, the four in the tank!

The ones with the weird... Yeah, sure I'm sure... Oh!

Yeah, right here where I'm talking from ... Wfcere? Oh, I don't know. Someplace in Mexico... Whup! There comes my capsule!"

She disconnected and turned, to find Rod standing over her. "What did you do?"

270 Christopher Stasheff

She beamed up at him. "I traced the paths of the 'electrons' with my thoughts, and made each wait one second in an instrument a thousand miles away, then begin its course anew."

Rod stared. "You mean you figured out how to route that call through a terminal that far away in just a few seconds?"

"Nay—I've been learning of these things thou dost term

'electrons' sin that we were kidnapped."

"I noticed." Rod swallowed through a suddenly dry throat.

"Uh... where does Security think that call came from?"

"I believe 'tis called 'Acapulco.'"

Rod turned away, just barely managing to restrain a gibber. "You, uh, seem to have developed a feel for the local dialect."

Gwen shrugged impatiently. " Tis naught, for one who reads minds."

Fortunately, right then. Rod bumped into Yorick, who was trying to shoo them all into a tightly-knit group again.

"All right, all right! That's enough with the phone calls, already! Let's get under cover, before somebody tracks the origins of these little bulletins of ours, and adds two and two together, and comes up with three! We need a hidingplace, don't we?"

"Right!" Rod looked about him, thinking fast. He pointed a finger. "There!"

Yorick turned, looked, and grinned. "The very place. Come on, folks, let's go." And he shooed them all toward a shop front replete with flashing letters, garish holos, and animated enticers. They sauntered into a huge mouth with incarnadined lips below a mustache that read, "GAMES

ARCADE."

Where the upper teeth should have been was a sign that read,

"NO CALCULATORS OR

THE WARLOCK WANDERING 271

They louse up our games."

As they stepped in, they were assaulted with a primal cacophony of whistles, squeaks, booms, shrieks, screeches, chimes, explosions, cackles, zooms, and rings. Gwen pressed her hands over her ears. "Aiee! Wherefore must they needs have such a deal of noise? And wherefore is there so much haze?"

The hall was filled with smoke, and dimly-lit by spotlights focused on each separate gaming machine.

"It's supposed to help their concentration," Rod called into her ear. "They won't be distracted by the other machines around them, because they can't see them clearly." Gwen only shook her head, exasperated.

As they plowed on through the arcade, they were assailed by gunfire from a variety of periods: the booming of muskets, the sharp cracks of squirrel rifles, the continuous racket of repeating rifles, the rattle of machine guns, the sizzle of blasters. Names of famous battles flashed past them as they slogged doggedly ahead. Finally, gasping and panting, they reached an island of comparative quiet, where there were only a few rings of people sitting on the floor, chatting and laughing, and a man talking to a machine.

"Praise Heaven," Gwen gasped. "I feel as though I have just run the gaunt of the worst of Man's history." Beside them, a calm voice asked, "What is the acceleration of a falling body on the planet Terra?"

"Thirty-two feet per second!" the player cried, and the machine chimed agreeably. A counter on its panel registered the number "20." "Excellent," the machine murmured. "What was the first English novel?"

"Richardson's Pamela!"

The machine chimed again. "Excellent. Why,did Alexander's empire fail?" Rod looked up at the name of the game. It read,

"Universe-Class Trivia."

272 Christopher Stasheff THE WARLOCK WANDERING 273

"Invalid." One of the people in the nearest ring held up a hand. "He can't be using a two-handed sword in preRoman Britain." One of the other people frowned. "Why not?"

"Because it wasn't invented until the 1200s."

"So what did the British use?"

"Axes."

The young man shook his head with deliberation. "He's my character, and he's using a broadsword."

"No way-o, Wolfbay-o. This game sticks to historical accuracy. That's Rule Three."

"Says who?"

"I do—and you know Rule One."

The young man sighed and said, "Okay. 'Wolfbay unlimbered his twenty-pound war-ax...'"

"Hold it." The first man held up a hand again.

"Okay, 0-kay! A two-pound ax!"

Gwen bent down and murmured something to one of the other players. The player answered her, and Gwen straightened, nodding, but still mystified.

"What was that all about?" Rod asked.

"I wished to know the source of the smaller man's au-thority." Gwen shrugged. "She told me 'tis because he is the... my lord, what is a 'diem'?"

"'Diem'?" Rod frowned. "I think it was a Latin word that meant 'day,' dear."

"Lost!" Beside them, Yorick gave a machine a slap.

"Doggone it, this is too much! Three straight losses—in three moves each!"

A neatly-dressed man was at his elbow in a second. "I'm Alkin Lam, the manager. Do you have a problem with our games, citizen?"

"I sure do." Yorick nodded toward the machine. "You know how this thing gives you three tries on each game?

Well, I never got past the first hurdle once! I think the joystick's broken!"

The manager stepped in front of the machine and slipped a credit card into the slot. "Let me see..." He began to play.

"This is one hell of a welcome to Terra," Yorick snorted.

"Here I am, just in from the outlying planets—you know, Wolmar, Otranto—and I met a guy in a bar who recommended this particular arcade, so I came in here to get a taste of Terran high life, and what happens? The machine beats me out!"

Rod was frantically making shushing motions.

The manager stilled, gazing at the screen. Then he looked up at Yorick with a polite smile. "You may have a point about this machine, sir. I'll certainly arrange a refund; your acquaintance's recommendation is exactly what I'm always hoping to hear. Would you like to step into the back room to try the really advanced games?"

"Fine." Yorick grinned. "Just take me to them." Personally, Rod hadn't thought Yorick had exactly been piling up a sky-high score, even on the kiddie level. But the manager slipped a "MALFUNCTIONING" sign out of his coverall, hung it on the machine, and turned away. Yorick turned with him.

Chomoi and Rod looked at each other in mingled panic and disbelief.

"We have trusted him thus far," Gwen reminded them.

"Wherefore should we think him mistaken now?"

"A point," Rod sighed, "and I must admit we don't see any squadron of armsmen charging down on us. Come on." They turned and followed Yorick and Lam.

"With the advanced games, I really must warn you," Lam was saying, "that the stakes are advanced, too."

"Oh, sure, I know these machines are really just lowlevel gambling." Yorick shrugged. "After all, the government has to have an income, doesn't it?" —

"It certainly does," Lam said grimly, "sixty percent of all gambling profits."

Yorick nodded. "But you can make a living off the forty percent that's left over?"

274 Christopher Stasheff THE WARLOCK WANDERING 275

"A good living." Lam opened the door to the back room.

"But I don't have any assistants—only two night managers. You're just in from Otranto, and you stepped into a games arcade?"

"What can I tell you?" Yorick shrugged as he stepped through the door. "We got tired of the Gothic motif." Rod stepped aside for the ladies, then followed them in, feeling as though he were walking into a trap. Lam closed the door behind him.

Gwen was staring around at the walls. "So many books!" Chomoi gawked. "Why? Why not just keep them on cube?"

"Books are more convenient in a great number of ways." Lam walked around in front of them, gesturing to an easy chair and a table with a lamp. "But the main reason is atmosphere. You can hide away from the world in here—

and about twenty percent of our customers do." Rod was still looking around. "I don't see anything but books. Where's the gambling?"

"The gamble is whether or not we get caught," the manager answered-He moved past them, beckoning. They followed, past six people sitting around a circular table. The oldest was saying, "All right, Gerry, but you're assuming that nice, fair political system Plato's proposing, is representing the whole population."

Gerry frowned. "But that's what he said, isn't it?"

"Yeah," another student answered, "but that's not what the real city was like, the one he was modeling this 'Republic' of his after." Gerry frowned. "How?"

"There were a lot of slaves in the population," answered a third student, "and they weren't represented." Lam escorted them into a six-by-six cubicle with transparent walls, a small table, and a single chair. He closed the door behind them and explained, "This is a study carrel—soundproof, so the student won't be distracted by the discussion groups."

"Those are volunteers out there?" Rod asked. Lam nodded. "They got bored with the games. Sorry to have to put you through this." He pulled a small rectangle out of his pocket and passed it over Rod's body, head to toe, about six inches in front of him. "Turn around, please." Resentment smoldered, but Rod complied. After all, he was the one asking for help.

"Okay. Thanks." Lam turned to Gwen. "If you don't mind, Miz?"

An angry refusal leaped to Rod's lips, but Gwen threw him a quick, imploring, determined glance, and he swallowed the words. Lam scanned Gwen front and back, then Chomoi and Yorick. Finally, he nodded and slipped the rectangle back in his pocket. "All right, no bugs."

Gwen frowned.

"Listening devices," Chomoi explained. "Surveillance." Gwen's lips formed an 0.

"You ought to recognize the setup by now. Major," Yorick said, with a steady gaze.

Rod met that gaze, frowning. Then his eyes widened, and he spun to the manager. "Good grief! You're a Cholly Barman graduate!"

The manager nodded. "And our great and glorious masters of the Proletarian Eclectic State of Terra have decreed that no one is to learn more than basic reading, writing, and arithmetic. Oh, a very small number of very talented students will be allowed to go on through high school, and maybe even college—any society has to have at least a few people to keep the machinery running, and collect the taxes—