Читать книгу A Knyght Ther Was - Robert F. Young - Страница 6

I

Mallory, who among other things was a time-thief, re-materialized the time-space boat Yore in the eastern section of a secluded valley in ancient Britain and typed CASTLE, EARLY SIXTH-CENTURY on the lumillusion panel. Then he stepped over to the control-room telewindow and studied the three-dimensional screen. The hour was 8:00 p.m.; the season, summer; the Year 542 A.D.

Darkness was on hand, but there was a full moon rising and he could see trees not far away—oaks and beeches, mostly. Roving the eye of the camera, he saw more trees of the same species. The “castle of Yore” was safely ensconced in a forest. Satisfied, he turned away.

If his calculations were correct, the castle of Carbonek stood in the next valley to the south, and on a silver table in a chamber of the castle stood the object of his quest.

If his calculations were correct.

Mallory was not one to keep himself in suspense. Stepping into the supply room, he stripped down to his undergarments and proceeded to get into the custom-built suit of armor which he had purchased expressly for the operation. Fortunately, while duplication of early sixth-century design had been mandatory, there had been no need to duplicate early sixth-century materials, and sollerets, spurs, greaves, cuisses, breastplate, pauldrons, gorget, arm-coverings, gauntlets, helmet, and chain-mail vest had all been fashioned of light-weight alloys that lent ten times as much protection at ten times less poundage. The helmet was his particular pride and joy: in keeping with the period-piece after which it had been patterned, it looked like an upside-down metal wastepaper basket, but the one-way transparency of the special alloy that had gone into its construction gave him unrestricted vision, while two inbuilt audio-amplifiers performed a corresponding service for his hearing.

The outer surface of each piece had been burnished to a high degree, and he found himself a dazzling sight indeed when he looked into the supply-room mirror. This effect was enhanced no end when he buckled on his chrome-plated scabbard and red-hilted sword and hung his snow-white shield around his neck. His polished spear, when he stood it beside him, was almost anticlimactic. It shouldn’t have been. It was a good three and one-half inches in diameter at the base, and it was as tall as a young flagpole.

As he stood there looking at his reflection, the red cross in the center of the shield took on the hue of freshly-shed blood. The period-piece expert who had designed the shield had insisted on the illusion, saying that it made for greater authenticity, and Mallory hadn’t argued with him. He was glad now that he hadn’t. Raising the visor of his helmet, he winked at himself and said, “I hereby christen ye ‘Sir Galahad’.”

Next, he bethought himself of his steed. Armor clanking, he left the supply room and walked down the short passage to the rec-hall. The rec-hall occupied the entire forward section of the TSB and had been designed solely for the benefit of the time-tourists whom Mallory regularly conducted on past-tours as a cover-up for the illegal activities which he pursued in between trips. In the present instance, however, the hall went quite well with the Yore’s lumillusioned exterior, possessing, with its gallery-like mezzanine, its long snack table, and its imitation flagstone flooring, an early sixth-century aspect of its own—an aspect marred only slightly by the “anachronistic” telewindows inset at regular intervals along the walls.

Mallory’s steed stood in a stall-like enclosure that was formed by the tourist-bar and one of the walls, and it was a splendid “beast” indeed—as splendid a one as the twenty-second century robotics industry was capable of creating. Originally, Mallory had planned on bringing a real horse with him, but as this would have necessitated his having to learn how to ride, he had decided against it. The decision had been a wise one: “Easy Money” looked more like a horse than most real horses did, could travel twice as fast, and was as easy to ride and to maneuver as a golp jetney. It was light-brown in color with a white diamond on its forehead, it was equipped with a secret croup-compartment and an inbuilt saddle, and its fetlock-length trappings were made of genuine synthisilk threaded with gold. It wore no armor—it did not need to: weapons manufactured during the Age of Chivalry could no more penetrate its “hide” than a tooth pick could.

Come on, Easy Money, Mallory encephalopathed. You and I have a little job to do.

The rohorse emitted several realistic whinnies, backed out of its “stall,” trotted smartly over to his side, and nuzzled his right pauldron. Mallory mounted—not gracefully, it is true, but at least without the aid of the winch he would have needed if his armor had been manufactured in the sixth century—and inserted the red pommel of his spear in the stirrup socket. Then, activating the Yore’s lock, he rode across the imaginary drawbridge that spanned the mirage-moat, and set forth into the forest. As the “portcullis” closed behind him, symbolically bringing phase one of Operation Sangraal to a close, he thought of Jason Perfidion.

*

Standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling, wall-to-wall fireplace in the big balconied room, Perfidion said, “Mallory, you’re wasting your time. Worse, you’re wasting mine.”

The room climaxed a vertical series of slightly less sumptuous chambers known collectively as the Perfidion Tower, and the Perfidion Tower stood with a score of balconied brothers on a blacktop island in the exact center of Kansas’ largest golp course. A short distance from the fraternal gathering stood yet another tower—the false tower into which Mallory had lumillusioned his TSB upon his arrival. On the Golp Terrace, as the blacktop island was called, everyone and everything conformed—or else.

The room itself was known to time-thieves as “Perfidion’s Lair.” And yet there was nothing about Jason Perfidion—nothing physical, that is—that suggested the predator. He was Mallory’s age—thirty-three—tall, dark of hair, and strikingly handsome. He looked like—and was—a highly successful businessman with a triplex on Get-Rich-Quick Street, and he gave the impression that he was as honest as the day was long. Just the same, the predator was there, and if you were alert enough you could sometimes glimpse it peering out through the smoky windowpanes of his eyes.

It wasn’t peering out now, though. It was sleeping. However, it was due to wake up any second. “Then you’re not interested in fencing the Holy Grail?” Mallory asked.

Annoyance intensified the slight swarthiness of Perfidion’s cheeks. “Mallory, you know as well as I do that the Grail never really existed, that it was nothing more than the mead-inspired daydream of a bunch of quixotic knights. So go and get your hair cut and forget about it.”

“But suppose it did exist,” Mallory insisted. “Suppose, tomorrow afternoon at this time, I were to come in here and set it down on this desk here? How much could you get for it?”

Perfidion laughed. “How much couldn’t I get for it! Why, without even stopping to think I can name you a dozen collectors who’d give their right arm for it.”

“I’m not interested in right arms,” Mallory said. “I’m interested in dollars. How many Kennedees could you get for it?”

“A megamillion—maybe more. More than enough, certainly, to permit you to retire from time-lifting and to take up residence on Get-Rich-Quick Street. But it doesn’t exist, and it never did, so get out of here, Mallory, and stop squandering my valuable time.”

Mallory withdrew a small stereophoto from his breast pocket and tossed it on the desk. “Have a look at that first—then I’ll go,” he said.

Perfidion picked up the photo. “An ordinary enough yellow bowl,” he began, and stopped. Suddenly he gasped, and jabbed one of the many buttons that patterned his desktop. Seconds later, a svelte blonde whom Mallory had never seen before stepped out of the lift tube. Like most general-purpose secretaries, she wore a maximum of makeup and a minimum of clothing, and moved in an aura of efficiency and sex. “Get me my photo-projector, Miss Tyler,” Perfidion said.

When she returned with it, he set it on his desk and inserted the stereophoto. Instantly, a huge cube materialized in the center of the room. Inside the cube there was a realistic image of a resplendent silver table, and upon the image of the table stood an equally realistic image of a resplendent golden bowl. Perfidion gasped again.

“Unusual workmanship, wouldn’t you say?” Mallory said.

Perfidion turned toward the blonde. “You may go, Miss Tyler.”

She was staring at the contents of the cube and apparently did not hear him. “I said,” he repeated, “that you may go, Miss Tyler.”

“Oh. Yes . . . yes sir.”

*

When the lift-tube door closed behind her, Perfidion turned to Mallory. For a fraction of a second the predator was visible behind the smoky windowpanes of his eyes; then, quickly, it ducked out of sight. “Where was this taken, Tom?”

“It’s a distance-shot,” Mallory said. “I took it through one of the windows of the church Joseph of Arimathea built in Glastonbury.”

“But how did you know—”

“That it was there? Because it had to be there. Some time ago, while escorting a group of tourists around ancient Britain, I happened to witness Joseph of Arimathea’s landing—and happened to catch a glimpse of what he brought with him. I used to think that the Grail was a pipe dream, too, but when I saw it with my own eyes, I knew that it couldn’t have been. However, I knew I’d need evidence to convince you, so I jumped back to a later place-time and got a shot of it.”

“But why a shot, Tom? Why didn’t you lift it then and there?”

“You concede that it is the Grail then?”

“Of course it’s the Grail—there’s not the slightest question about it. Why didn’t you lift it?”

“Well, for one thing, I wanted to make sure that lifting it would be worth my while, and for another, Glastonbury wasn’t the logical place-time from which to lift it, because, assuming that the rest of the legend is also true, it was seen after that place-time. No time-thief ever bucked destiny yet and came out the winner, Jason; I play my percentages.”

“I know you do, Tom. You’re one of the best time-lift men in the business, and the Past Police would be the first to admit it. . . . I daresay you’ve already pinpointed the key place-time?”

Mallory grinned, showing his white teeth. “I certainly have, but if you think I’m going to divulge it, you’re sadly mistaken, Jason. And stop looking at my hair—it won’t tell you anything beyond the fact that I’ve been using Hair-haste. Shoulder-length hair was the rage in more eras than one.”

Perfidion smiled warmly, and clapped Mallory on the back. “I’m not trying to ferret out your secret, Tom. I know better than that. Lifting is your line, fencing mine. You bring me the Grail, I’ll sell it, take my cut, and everything will be fine. You know me, Tom.”

“I sure do,” Mallory said, taking the stereophoto out of the projector and returning it to his breast pocket.

Perfidion snapped his fingers. “A happy thought just occurred to me! I’ve got a golp date with Rowley of Puriproducts, so why don’t you join us, Tom? You play a pretty good game, as I recall.”

Mollified, Mallory said, “I’ll have to borrow a set of your jetsticks.”

“I’ll get them for you on the way down. Come on, Tom.”

Mallory accompanied him across the room. “Keep mum about this to Rowley now,” Perfidion said confidentially. “He’s a potential customer, but we don’t want to let the cat out of the bag yet, do we? Or should I say ‘the Grail’.” He took time out to grin at his little joke, then, “By the way, Tom, I take it you’re all set as regards costume, equipment and the like.”

“I’ve got the sweetest little suit of armor you ever laid eyes on,” Mallory said.

“Fine—no need for me to offer any advice in that respect then.” Perfidion opened the lift door. “After you, Tom.”

They plummeted down the tube together.

*

It had been a good game of golp—from Mallory’s standpoint, anyway. He had trounced Rowley roundly, and he would have inflicted similar ignominy upon Perfidion had not the latter been called away in the middle of the game and been unable to return till it was nearly over. Oh well, Mallory thought, encephalo-guiding his rohorse through the ancient forest, there’ll be other chances. Aloud, he said, “Step lively now, Easy Money, and let’s get this caper over with so we can return to civilization and start feeling what it’s like to be rich.”

In response to the encephalo-waves that had accompanied his words, Easy Money increased its pace, the infra-red rays of its eye units illumining its way. In places, light from the rising moon seeped through the foliage, but otherwise darkness was the rule. The air was cool and damp—the sea was not far distant—and the sound of frogs and insects was omnipresent and now and then there was the rustling sound of some small and fleeing forest creature.

Presently the ground began to rise, and not long afterward the trees thinned out temporarily and rohorse and rider emerged on the moonlit crest of the ridge that separated the two valleys. In the distance Mallory made out the moon-gilt towers and turrets of a large castle, and knew it to be Carbonek beyond a doubt. He sighed with relief. He was all set now—provided his masquerade went over. Conversely, if it didn’t go over he was finished: his sword and his spear were his only weapons, and his shield and his armor, his only protection. True, each article was superior in quality and durability to its corresponding article in the Age of Chivalry, but otherwise none of them was anything more than what it seemed. Mallory might be a time-thief; but within the framework of his profession he believed in playing fair.

In response to his encephalopathed directions, Easy Money picked its way down the slope of the ridge and re-entered the forest. Not long afterward it stepped onto what was euphemistically referred to in that day and age as a “highway” but which in reality was little more than a wide, hoof-trampled lane. As Mallory’s entire plan of action was based on boldness, he spurned the shadows of the bordering oaks and beeches and encephalopathed the rohorse to keep to the center of the lane. He met no one, however, despite the earliness of the hour, nor had he really expected to. It was highly improbable that any freemen would be abroad after dark, and as for the knight-errants who happened to be in the neighborhood, it was highly improbable that any of them would be abroad after dark either.

He grinned. To read Le Morte d’Arthur, you’d think that the chivalry boys had been in business twenty-four hours a day, slaying ogres, rescuing fair damosels, and searching for the Sangraal; but not if you read between the lines. Mallory had read “Arthur” only cursorily, but he had had a hunch all along that in the majority of cases the quest for the Sangraal had served as an out, and that the knights of the Table Round had spent more time wenching and wassailing than they had conducting their so-called dedicated search, and the hunch had played an important role in the shaping of his strategy.

The highway turned this way and that, never pursuing a straight course unless such a logical procedure was unavoidable. Once, he thought he heard hoofbeats up ahead, but he met no one, and not long afterward he saw the pale pile of Carbonek looming above the trees to his left, and encephalo-guided Easy Money into the lane that led to the entrance. There was no moat, but the portcullis was an imposing one. Flanking it on either side was a huge stone lion, and framing it were flaming torches in regularly-spaced niches. Warders in hauberk and helmet looked down from the lofty wall, their halberds gleaming in the dancing torchlight. Mallory swallowed: the moment of truth had arrived.

He halted Easy Money and canted his white shield so that the red cross in its center would be visible from above. Then he marshalled his smattering of Old English. “I hight Sir Galahad of the Table Round,” he called out in as bold a voice as he could muster. “I would rest my eyes upon the Sangraal.”

*

Instantly, confusion reigned upon the wall as the warders vied with one another for the privilege of operating the cumbersome windlass that raised and lowered the portcullis, and presently, to the accompaniment of a chorus of creaks and groans and scrapings, the ponderous iron grating began to rise. Mallory forced himself to wait until it had risen to a height befitting a knight of Sir Galahad’s caliber, then he rode through the gateway and into the courtyard, congratulating himself on the effectiveness of his impersonation.

“Ye will come unto the chamber of the Sangraal sixty paces down the corridor to thy left eftsoon ye enter the chief fortress, sir knight,” one of the warders called down. “An ye had arrived a little while afore, ye had encountered Sir Launcelot du Lake, the which did come unto the fortress and enter in, wherefrom he came out anon and departed.”

Mallory would have wiped his forehead if his forehead had been accessible and if his hands had not been encased in metal gloves. Fooling the warders was one thing, but passing himself off as Sir Galahad to the man who was Sir Galahad’s father would have been quite another. He had learned from the pages of his near-namesake’s “Arthur” that Sir Launcelot had visited Carbonek before Sir Galahad had, but the pages had not revealed whether the time-lapse had involved minutes, hours, or years, and for that matter, Mallory wasn’t altogether certain whether the second visit they described had been the real Sir Galahad’s, which meant failure, or a romanticized version of his own, which meant success. His near-namesake was murky at best, and reading him you were never sure where anybody was, or when any given event was taking place.

The courtyard was empty, and after crossing it, Mallory dismounted, encephalopathed Easy Money to stay put, and climbed the series of stone steps that led to the castle proper. Entering the building unchallenged, he found himself at the junction of three corridors. The main one stretched straight ahead and debouched into a large hall. The other two led off at right angles, one to the left and one to the right. Boisterous laughter emanated from the hall, and he could see knights and other nobles sitting at a long banquet table. Scattered among them were gentlewomen in rich silks, and hovering behind them were servants bearing large demijohns. He grinned. Just as he had figured—King Pelles was throwing a whingding.

Quickly, Mallory turned down the left-hand corridor and started along it, counting his footsteps. Rushes rustled beneath his feet, and the flickering light of wall-torches gave him a series of grotesque shadows. He saw no one: all the servants were in the banquet hall, pouring wine and mead. He laughed aloud.

Forty-eight paces sufficed to see him to the chamber door. It was a perfectly ordinary door. Opening it, he thought at first that the room beyond was ordinary, too. Then he saw the burning candles arranged along the walls, and beneath them, standing in the center of the floor, the table of silver. The table of the Sangraal. . . .

There was no Sangraal on the table, however. There was no Sangraal in the room, for that matter. There was a girl, though. She was huddled forlornly in a corner, and she was crying.