He scrambled onto a small rock, and, from that eminence, swiftly discovered his quartz, which he duly retrieved.'A bigger rock,' said Drake. 'That's the thing.'
Yes. From a bigger rock he might see – well, running water, if he was lucky. Or maybe an old road which he could follow east through the wilderness,- in the general direction of Drangsturm.
Drake dared a perilous scramble to the top of the nearest house-sized rock. From there, high above thorn bushes and other rubbish, he had a much better view.
Was that a building he saw? Yes. Half a league distant lay a square tower of thrice tree-height, built from massive white, blue and ochre blocks. A spike rose from each of its rooftop corners. Drake studied it doubtfully.Could it be . . .?Surely not!
And yet . . . it did look remarkably like the legendary Wishing Tower known to every child of Stokos from fairy stories. And he was on Argan, was he not? Argan, the true homeland of all improbable things?
'Improbability is not impossibility,' said Drake to himself, and, abandoning his chunk of quartz, he set off for the tower with all possible speed, i.e. slowly – the ground being regular leg-breaking territory.
At first he was all enthusiasm, dreaming of the marvellous things he would wish for. Fresh vegetables! A real live cucumber! A piece of lettuce! Then – well, the larger things. The throne of Stokos. The fair Zanya Kliedervaust, she of the red skin and the high-lofted breasts. And more height, yes, at least five extra hands of height.
'That would make me near as tall as Sully Yot,' said Drake. He remembered his last encounter with Yot, in Androlmarphos, when the crazy wart:faced fellow had tried to stab him. What on earth had made him do a weird thing like that?
'I'd never have credited him with the nerve to gut a cat,' muttered Drake.
He paused, breathing heavily. This was hard work! The terrain was so rucked, hillocky and chopped about that a stone's throw of thirty paces meant a weary scramble of thrice that distance for the footsore traveller. The sun was heavy on his head. A bead of sweat rolled into his right eye. It stung, fiercely. Give up? No, never!
Drake struggled onward, shrinking as he went. Crushed by the sun.
'Man,' muttered Drake, 'and I was short enough to start with.'
Rock caught and amplified the heat. He smelt hot, pungent herbs. Their scent made him dizzy. How immense was the world! This desolate place, far beyond all voices, was teaching him how he really measured up against the universe.
A shadow flickered over the ground. Shadow of a winged creature. A monster? Alarmed, Drake glanced skywards. No, not a monster – a buzzard. It started to circle.
'Piss off, you whore-faced puttock!' said Drake. The buzzard, a professional pessimist, continued to circle. Drake realized its diligence might well be rewarded. If
he broke an ankle out here, he was finished. Momentarily, he regretted ever leaving the safety of the tunnels of Ling. Leg-breaking apart – what would he do if he met one of the Swarms?
T don't believe they exist,' said Drake. 'Who says they do? Wizards, that's all!'
Maybe Drangsturm was a great big con, yes. Maybe there was wealth beyond the flame trench, aye, gold, silver, stuff like that. Probably wizards kept people away from it by making up tales of monsters. Likely they roamed the terror-lands at will, picking up chunks of gold and similar riches.'Swarms?' saidDrake. 'Bah! Humbug!'
Much, much later, grazed by rock, stung by hornet, pricked by thorn and burnt by the sun into the bargain, he gained the doorway which pierced the lower level of the ancient square-built monument, and knew at once that this was not the fairy-tale tower he had hoped for.
Unlike the Wishing Tower, this one was not inhabited by a magic dwarf, a talking rabbit, a blue-nosed leprechaun and a friendly little elf. Peering into the gloom he saw, instead, four hideous totem poles of dull metal, closely resembling the Guardian Machines described by old teachings preserved by the metalworking guilds of Stokos.'Guardian Machines,' saidDrake.
He had been taught about them in his theory classes about three years previously. What had he learnt, exactly? That they were dangerous, yes .Still. . . these ones looked pretty dead.'You awake?' yelled Drake.
The totem poles sat in sullen silence. Maybe they weren't Guardian Machines at all. Maybe they were art. Drake had heard about art – bits of odd-shaped stuff set up in special rooms for people to gawk at. It was said to be real big in Veda, the city of the sages.
Drake stepped through the doorway. Dead leaves crunched underfoot. Inside, it was cool and shady. But dry. He wished he had water.
Four steep stairways spiralling up into the shadows. Some barely perceptible activity going on at his feet – yes, a tribe of red ants were practising genocide on some of their black-skinned cousins. And overhead . . . looking up, Drake saw a spider the size of a dog, which sat in a ceiling-spanning bat-catching web and glowered at him. Hastily he armed himself with a hefty stick in case the spider got any unfortunate ideas.
Then, since he had the stick in his hands, he hit himself on both shins, which hurt, but would help teach him that he was too old to believe in fairy tales.What now?Retreat or explore.
So thinking, Drake made for the nearest stairway. He was almost there when one of the metal totem poles, which was indeed a Guardian Machine, ground into life with an enormous racket of gears. Spitting blue sparks, it advanced. Drake went haring up the winding stairs – and slammed into an invisible wall, almost knocking himself out.'Break!' screamed Drake.
He hammered the invisible barrier, butted it, stuck it with his stick, kicked it – all to no effect. Downstairs the Guardian Machine was hissing and roaring.'Give, you ganch!' yelled Drake.
But it wouldn't. It yielded inwards slightly, but that was all. He scratched it, finding its surface cold and slippery. Beyond lay a skeleton, and the stairs leading upwards.No escape!
Which, by the sound of it, was still at the bottom of the stairs, grinding, hissing and tearing. As he listened, the sounds lessened. Then died. Cautiously, he crept downstairs until he could see the metal monster at the foot of the stairs. Obviously, it was unable to climb. But it scarcely looked short of patience. He suspected it could happily wait until ants carried away the dust of his bones – as they would indeed unless he could escape.
There was room to squeeze past the machine.If he was quick-
Drake dared one step downwards. The machine roared and spat at him. Lightning slammed into his gut, knocking him backwards. He could not breathe! Paralysed, he lay with arms out flung, mouth gaping. Then managed to gasp a thimble-sized breath of air.
As the machine roared and whined, gathering strength for another homicide attempt, Drake very slowly and very painfully rolled over and began to crawl back up the spiral staircase. The machine shot at him as soon as it could -which was just a fraction too late.
Back at the invisible wall, Drake rested, collecting his wits. There was no way Out down the stairs, that was for sure. There were no windows, but light was definitely coming down from the top of the stairs.
He studied the skeleton. Somehow, someone had got beyond the invisible wall. And had died there.
Drake reviewed the Inner Principles of the Old Science which he had learnt as part of his apprenticeship studies. He recited the Beginning:
'Cause has effect; effect has control; control requires search; search elucidates cause.'Then he recalled the first Rule of Investigation:'Desribe what you see, for perception controls process.'
Drake had never put much stock in theory. In fact, he had always hated it – particularly since, being totally illiterate, he had had to memorize the whole 23,427 words of it. Being dubious about the validity of the Power Theory of Knowledge, he still resented the waste of all those bright sunny afternoons which could have been spent in healthy amuse-mentslikestreet-fighting.orinthepracticeofreligion – but the Scientific Approach now seemed to be his only hope.So he began an Investigation.He described: 'Low light. . . cool. . . was warmer outside . . . stairs . . . going up . . . cracks . . . some brown stuff. . . stain? . . . bones beyond invisible . . . no, not like air . . . bit blurred . . . push . . . yields . . . slippery . . . cold … no shadow . . . fits to wall… no visible seam . . . wall same block-pattern as stairs . . . except . . . yes . . . plate of white metal set in wall … no rust . . . pattern of five raised circles set on metal plate . . . raised circles are . . . are moveable . . .'
As Drake fingered the raised circles set in the metal plate, something changed. What? He stood absolutely
