Glory Road

  I eyed those one-liter canteens with disfavor. “Baby girl, I think we are cutting rations and water too fine.”

  She shook her head. “We won’t need more, truly.”

  “Lindbergh flew the Atlantic on just a peanut butter sandwich,” Rufo put in. “But I urged him to take more.”

  “How do you know we won’t need more?” I persisted. “Water especially.”

  “I’m filling mine with brandy,” Rufo said. “You divvy with me, I’ll divvy with you.”

  “Milord love, water is heavy. If we try to hang everything on us against any emergency, like the White Knight, we’ll be too weighted down to fight. I’m going to have to strain to usher through three people, weapons, and a minimum of clothing. Living bodies are easiest; I can borrow power from you both. Once-living materials are next; you’ve noticed, I think, that our clothing is wool, our bows of wood, and strings are of gut. Things never living are hardest, steel especially, yet we must have swords and, if we still had firearms, I would strain to the limit to get them through, for now we need them. However, milord Hero, I am simply informing you. You must decide—and I feel sure I can handle, oh, even half a hundredweight more of dead things if necessary. If you will select what your genius tells you.”

  “My genius has gone fishing. But, Star my love, there is a simple answer. Take everything.”

  “Milord?”

  “Jocko set us out with half a ton of food, looks like, and enough wine to float a loan, and a little water. Plus a wide variety of Nevia’s best tools for killing, stabbing, and mayhem. Even armor. And more things. In that foldbox is enough to survive a siege, without eating or drinking anything from Karth-Hokesh. The beauty of it is that it weighs only about fifteen pounds, packed—not the fifty pounds you said you could swing by straining. I’ll strap it on my own back and won’t notice it. It won’t slow me down; it may armor me against a swing at my back. Suits?”

  Star’s expression would have fitted a mother whose child has just caught onto the Stork hoax and is wondering how to tackle an awkward subject. “Milord husband, the mass is much too great. I doubt if any witch or warlock could move it unassisted.”

  “But folded up?”

  “It does not change it, milord; the mass is still there—still more dangerously there. Think of a powerful spring, wound very tight and small, thus storing much energy. It takes enormous power to put a foldbox through a transition in its compacted form, or it explodes.”

  I recalled a mud volcano that had drenched us and quit arguing. “All right. I’m wrong. But one question—If the mass is there always, why does it weigh so little when folded?”

  Star got the same troubled expression. “Your pardon, milord, but we do not share the language—the mathematical language—that would permit me to answer. As yet, I mean; I promise you chance to study if you wish. As a tag, think of it as a tame spacewarp. Or think of the mass being so extremely far away—in a new direction—from the sides of the foldbox that local gravitation hardly matters.”

  (I remembered a time when my grandmother had asked me to explain television to her—the guts, not the funny pictures. There are things which cannot be taught in ten easy lessons, nor popularized for the masses; they take years of skull sweat. This be treason in an age when ignorance has come into its own and one man’s opinion is as good as another’s. But there it is. As Star says, the world is what it is—and doesn’t forgive ignorance.)

  But I was still curious. “Star, is there any way to tell me why some things go through easier than others? Wood easier than iron, for example?”

  She looked rueful. “No, because I don’t know myself. Magic is not science, it is a collection of ways to do things—ways that work but often we don’t know why.”

  “Much like engineering. Design by theory, then beef it up anyhow.”

  “Yes, milord husband. A magician is a rule-of-thumb engineer.”

  “And,” put in Rufo, “a philosopher is a scientist with no thumbs. I’m a philosopher. Best of all professions.”

  Star ignored him and got out a sketch block, showed me what she knew of the great tower from which we must steal the Egg of Phoenix. This block appeared to be a big cube of Plexiglas; it looked like it, felt like it, and took thumbprints like it.

  But she had a long pointer which sank into it as if the block were air. With its tip she could sketch in three dimensions; it left a thin glowing line whenever she wanted it—a 3-dimensional blackboard.

  This wasn’t magic; it was advanced technology—and it will beat the hell out of our methods of engineering drawing when we learn how, especially for complex assemblies such as aviation engines and UHF circuitry—even better than exploded isometric with transparent overlays. The block was about thirty inches on a side and the sketch inside could be looked at from any angle—even turned over and studied from underneath.

  The Mile-High Tower was not a spire but a massy block, somewhat like those stepped-back buildings in New York, but enormously larger.

  Its interior was a maze.

  “Milord champion,” Star said apologetically, “when we left Nice there was in our baggage a finished sketch of the Tower. Now I must work from memory. However, I had studied the sketch so very long that I believe I can get relations right even if proportions suffer. I feel sure of the true paths, the paths that lead to the Egg. It is possible that false paths and dead ends will not be as complete; I did not study them as hard.”

  “Can’t see that it matters,” I assured her. “If I know the true paths, any I don’t know are false ones. Which we won’t use. Except to hide in, in a pinch.”

  She drew the true paths in glowing red, false ones in green—and there was a lot more green than red. The critter who designed that tower had a twisty mind. What appeared to be the main entrance went in, up, branched and converged, passed close to the Chamber of the Egg—then went back down by a devious route and dumped you out, like P. T. Barnum’s “This Way to the Egress.”

  Other routes went inside and lost you in mazes that could not be solved by follow-the-left-wall. If you did, you’d starve. Even routes marked in red were very complex. Unless you knew where the Egg was guarded, you could enter correctly and still spend this year and next January in fruitless search.

  “Star, have you been in the Tower?”

  “No, milord. I have been in Karth-Hokesh. But far back in the Grotto Hills. I’ve seen the Tower only from great distance.”

  “Somebody must have been in it. Surely your—opponents—didn’t send you a map.”

  She said soberly, “Milord, sixty-three brave men have died getting the information I now offer you.”

  (So now we try for sixty-four!) I said, “Is there any way to study just the red paths?”

  “Certainly, milord.” She touched a control, green lines faded. The red paths started each from one of the three openings, one “door” and two “windows.”

  I pointed to the lowest level. “This is the only one of thirty or forty doors that leads to the Egg?”

  “That is true.”

  “Then just inside that door they’ll be waiting to clobber us.”

  “That would seem likely, milord.”

  “Hmmm…” I turned to Rufo. “Rufe, got any long, strong, lightweight line in that plunder?”

  “I’ve got some Jocko uses for hoisting. About like heavy fishing line, breaking strength around fifteen hundred pounds.”

  “Good boy!”

  “Figured you might want it. A thousand yards enough?”

  “Yes. Anything lighter than that?”

  “Some silk trout line.”

  In an hour we had made all preparations I could think of and that maze was as firmly in my head as the alphabet. “Star hon, we’re ready to roll. Want to whomp up your spell?”

  “No, milord.”

  “Why not? ’Twere best done quickly.”

  “Because I can’t, my darling. These Gates are not true gates; there is always a matter of timing. This one will be ready
to open, for a few minutes, about seven hours from now, then cannot be opened again for several weeks.”

  I had a sour thought. “If the buckos we are after know this, they’ll hit us as we come out.”

  “I hope not, milord champion. They should be watching for us to appear from the Grotto Hills, as they know we have a Gate somewhere in those hills—and indeed that is the Gate I planned to use. But this Gate, even if they know of it, is so badly located—for us—that I do not think they would expect us to dare it.”

  “You cheer me up more all the time. Have you thought of anything to tell me about what to expect? Tanks? Cavalry? Big green giants with hairy ears?”

  She looked troubled. “Anything I say would mislead you, milord. We can assume that their troops will be constructs rather than truly living creatures…which means they can be anything. Also, anything may be illusion. I told you about the gravity?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Forgive me. I’m tired and my mind isn’t sharp. The gravity varies, sometimes erratically. A level stretch will seem to be downhill, then quickly uphill. Other things…any of which may be illusion.”

  Rufo said, “Boss, if it moves, shoot it. If it speaks, cut its throat. That spoils most illusions. You don’t need a program; there’ll be just us—and all the others. So when in doubt, kill it. No sweat.”

  I grinned at him. “No sweat. Okay, well worry when we get there. So let’s quit talking.”

  “Yes, milord husband,” Star seconded. “We had best get several hours’ sleep.”

  Something in her voice had changed. I looked at her and she was subtly different, too. She seemed smaller, softer, more feminine and compliant than the Amazon who had fired arrows into a beast a hundred times her weight less than two hours before.

  “A good idea,” I said slowly and looked around. While Star had been sketching the mazes of the Tower, Rufo had repacked what we couldn’t take and—I now noticed—put one sleeping pad on one side of the cave and the other two side by side as far from the first as possible.

  I silently questioned her by glancing at Rufo and shrugging an implied, “What now?”

  Her answering glance said neither yes nor no. Instead she called out, “Rufo, go to bed and give that leg a chance. Don’t lie on it. Either belly down or face the wall.”

  For the first time Rufo showed his disapproval of what we had done. He answered abruptly, not what Star said but what she may have implied: “You couldn’t hire me to look!”

  Star said to me in a voice so low I barely heard it, “Forgive him, milord husband. He is an old man, he has his quirks. Once he is in bed I will take down the lights.”

  I whispered, “Star my beloved, it still isn’t my idea of how to run a honeymoon.”

  She searched my eyes. “This is your will, milord love?”

  “Yes. The recipe calls for a jug of wine and a loaf of bread. Not a word about a chaperon. I’m sorry.”

  She put a slender hand against my chest, looked up at me. “I am glad, milord.”

  “You are?” I didn’t see why she had to say so.

  “Yes. We both need sleep. Against the morrow. That your strong sword arm may grant us many morrows.”

  I felt better and smiled down at her. “Okay, my princess. But I doubt if I’ll sleep.”

  “Ah, but you will!”

  “Want to bet?”

  “Hear me out, milord darling. Tomorrow…after you have won…we go quickly to my home. No more waitings, no more troubles. I would that you knew the language of my home, so that you will not feel a stranger. I want it to be your home, at once. So? Will milord husband dispose himself for bed? Lie back and let me give him a language lesson? You will sleep, you know that you will.”

  “Well…it’s a fine idea. But you need sleep even more than I do.”

  “Your pardon, milord, but not so. Four hours’ sleep puts spring in my step and a song on my lips.”

  “Well…”

  Five minutes later I was stretched out, staring into the most beautiful eyes in any world and listening to her beloved voice speak softly in a language strange to me…

  FOURTEEN

  Rufo was shaking my shoulder. “Breakfast, Boss!” He shoved a sandwich into my hand and a pot of beer into the other. “That’s enough to fight on and lunch is packed. I’ve laid out fresh clothes and your weapons and I’ll dress you as soon as you finish. But snap it up. We’re on in a few minutes.” He was already dressed and belted.

  I yawned and took a bite of sandwich (anchovies, ham and mayonnaise, with something that wasn’t quite tomato and lettuce)—and looked around. The place beside me was empty but Star seemed to have just gotten up; she was not dressed. She was on her knees in the center of the room, drawing some large design on the floor.

  “Morning, chatterbox,” I said. “Pentacle?”

  “Mmm—” she answered, not looking up.

  I went over and watched her work. Whatever it was, it was not based on a five-cornered star. It had three major centers, was very intricate, had notations here and there—I recognized neither language nor script—and the only sense I could abstract from it was what appeared to be a hypercube seen face on. “Had breakfast, hon?”

  “I fast this morning.”

  “You’re skinny now. Is that a tesseract?”

  “Stop it!”

  Then she pushed back her hair, looked up, and smiled ruefully. “I’m sorry, darling. The witch is a bitch, that’s certain. But please don’t look over my shoulder. I’m having to do this by memory; I lost my books in the marsh—and it’s difficult. And no questions now, please, please. You might shake my confidence—and I must be utterly confident.”

  I made a leg. “Your pardon, milady.”

  “Don’t be formal with me, darling. Love me anyhow and give me a quick kiss—then let me be.”

  So I leaned over and gave her a high-caloric kiss, with mayonnaise, and let her be. I dressed while I finished the sandwich and beer, then sought out a natural alcove just short of the wards in the passage, one which had been designated the men’s room. When I came back Rufo was waiting with my sword belt “Boss, you’d be late for your own hanging.”

  “I hope so.”

  A few minutes later we were standing on that diagram, Star on pitcher’s mound with Rufo and myself at first and third bases. He and I were much hung about, myself with two canteens and Star’s sword belt (on its last notch) as well as my own, Rufo with Star’s bow slung and with two quivers, plus her medic’s kit and lunch. We each had longbow strung and tucked under left arm; we each had drawn sword. Star’s tights were under my belt behind in an untidy tail, her jacket was crumpled under Rufo’s belt, while her buskins and hat were crammed into pockets—etc. We looked like a rummage sale.

  But this did leave Rufo’s left hand and mine free. We faced outward with swords at ready, reached behind us and Star clasped us each firmly by hand. She stood in the exact center, feet apart and planted solidly and was wearing that required professionally of witches when engaged in heavy work, i.e., not even a bobby pin. She looked magnificent, hair shaggy, eyes shining, and face flushed, and I was sorry to turn my back.

  “Ready, my gallants?” she demanded, excitement in her voice.

  “Ready,” I confirmed.

  “Ave, Imperatrix, nos morituri te—”

  “Stop that, Rufo! Silence!” She began to chant in a language unknown to me. The back of my neck prickled.

  She stopped, squeezed our hands much harder, and shouted, “Now!”

  Sudden as a slammed door, I find I’m a Booth Tarkington hero in a Mickey Spillane situation.

  I don’t have time to moan. Here is this thing in front of me, about to chop me down, so I run my blade through his guts and yank it free while he makes up his mind which way to fall; then I dose his buddy the same way. Another one is squatting and trying to get a shot at my legs past the legs of his squad mates. I’m as busy as a one-armed beaver with paperhangers and hardly notice a yank at my belt
as Star recovers her sword.

  Then I do notice as she kills the hostile who wants to shoot me. Star is everywhere at once, naked as a frog and twice as lively. There was a dropped-elevator sensation at transition, and suddenly reduced gravitation could have been bothersome had we time to indulge it.

  Star makes use of it. After stabbing the laddie who tries to shoot me, she sails over my head and the head of a new nuisance, poking him in the neck as she passes and he isn’t a nuisance any longer.

  I think she helps Rufo, but I can’t stop to look. I hear his grunts behind me and that tells me that he is still handing out more than he’s catching.

  Suddenly he yells, “Down!” and something hits the back of my knees and I go down—land properly limp and am about to roll to my feet when I realize Rufo is the cause. He is belly down by me and shooting what has to be a gun at a moving target out across the plain, himself behind the dead body of one of our playmates.

  Star is down, too, but not fighting. Something has poked a hole through her right arm between elbow and shoulder.

  Nothing else seemed to be alive around me, but there were targets four to five hundred feet away and opening rapidly. I saw one fall, heard Zzzzt, smelled burning flesh near me. One of those guns was lying across a body to my left; I grabbed it and tried to figure it out. There was a shoulder brace and a tube which should be a barrel; nothing else looked familiar.

  “Like this, my Hero.” Star squirmed to me, dragging her wounded arm and leaving a trail of blood. “Race it like a rifle and sight it so. There is a stud under your left thumb. Press it. That’s all—no windage, no elevation.”

  And no recoil, as I found when I tracked one of the running figures with the sights and pressed the stud. There was a spurt of smoke and down he went. “Death ray,” or Laser beam, or whatever—line it up, press the stud, and anyone on the far end quit the party with a hole burned in him.

  I got a couple more, working right to left, and by then Rufo had done me out of targets. Nothing moved, so far as I could see, anywhere.