A small device which looked like a deeply concave dish rose up from the robot on a stalk and pointed at the blank wall, and as if by magic, a rectangular seam appeared in the sandstone, which then began shimmering a bright blue-green. The shimmering stopped, revealing a black rectangular opening a full three ems wide and almost five high. The little robot retracted its dish and stalk, began rolling forward into the wall, and was lost in the consuming darkness. Stoor hesitated for a moment, then thrust forward on the controls. The carrier followed its guide into the Citadel.
Once inside, they were on a smooth, featureless ramp of dull metal, which gradually sloped downward, the angle of descent barely perceptible. Varian looked back to see that their entrance was sealed and invisible. If they wanted to get out of this place, it would be impossible to go back the way they had come. But, of course, he thought, there must be more than one exit. There had to be.
Studying the area ahead, it was obvious that they were traveling down a large corridor, illuminated by an unseen source. There were no torches, gas lamps, or lanterns, yet there was an abundance of light, as if the walls themselves were the illumination. The walls of the corridor were also featureless, although Varian imagined that this too was an illusion after seeing how the outside entrance had operated. His mind flashed back to the face of the old man/robot who had grabbed his arm on board The Courtesan, and told him the story of the Guardian. Oddly, Varian trusted the robot—if one could actually place trust in a machine—and believed that the story of the Guardian was true.
No one spoke during the journey downward as if everyone preferred to keep their thoughts to themselves. Or perhaps, thought Varian, it was simply fear which kept anyone from talking.
They kept moving in a slightly declined position for what seemed like an hour. It was impossible to estimate how far into the depths of the Citadel they had traveled, but Varian had the impression that it was very far indeed. It was also impossible to estimate the size of the Citadel, although there was little doubt that the First Age structure was truly immense and probably contained treasures and technological wonders far beyond the wildest imaginings of even old Stoor.
Eventually, the little robot guided them into a large five-sided room, from which several large baylike doors exited from each wall panel. The room was empty of fixtures except for a highly detailed mosaic floor, using the pentagon-shaped figure as the basic motif. There were graphics on the walls in the form of letters, and words of a language which none of the group recognized but which was presumed to be Genonese. The words could have been routing signs, warnings, or other similar instructions; it was not certain.
“You will wait here until the Guardian contacts you,” said the small robot, abruptly turning and rolling off silently through one of the exits and quickly vanishing beyond a maze of turns and switchbacks in the maze of hallways.
Stoor jumped from the cab and approached the metallic surfaces of the walls. “Just look at this workmanship, will you?”
Raim joined him, holding his scope-rifle at his hip, ever vigilant to protect his master.
“The tilework is also beautiful,” said Tessa, climbing down from the cab with Varian. “Look at the patterns.”
“There’s no doubt about this, lad. First Age! Look! The men who control this place control the World!” Varian was about to speak when a voice was heard behind them.
“Welcome to the Citadel. I am Guardian.”
The voice was deep, masculine, full of resonance. The group wheeled about quickly to see a tall gray-haired man wearing what appeared to be a military uniform. It was a light tan color, with olive-green piping and trim. It fit the body in trim fashion, accented by brown boots and a matching weapons belt, even though the man was unarmed. His face was angular, clean-shaven, handsome. His eyes were large and brown, partially closed by heavy lids which gave him a patient, kindly appearance. His nose was sharp and hawkish, his mouth thin-lipped and forming a small grin. He had his right hand extended in the universal offering of friendship.
“Guardian?” said Stoor. “It’s supposed to be a machine.”
The gray-haired man smiled and stepped a few cens closer. “It is Guardian who speaks to you. What you see is only a mobile extension of myself. It is an artfully constructed robot. The physical presence of Guardian is all around you. My components are laced throughout the Citadel complex.”
“Then why the robot?” asked Stoor.
“You are Stoor?” asked Guardian.
“Yeah, that’s right. Now listen, aren’t you goin’ to answer my question?”
“Of course. The use of the humanlike robots, or homologs as they were once called, is a psychological technique. It was discovered long ago that members of the enclave were more disposed to deal with a machine which appeared to be human than a machine which appeared as a machine. It is more psychologically reassuring to speak with a homolog than a console of switches and LEDs. Don’t you agree?”
“Not havin’ ever done much of any of it, I couldn’t tell you,” Stoor said.
The homolog smiled. “I will meet the rest of your group, please. Simply raise your hands as your names are called. Raim. Tessa. And you are of course, then, Varian.”
“Yes, I am.” Varian reached and shook hands with the robot. There was no way to discern that the thing was not human. Its grip was firm, warm, decisive. “Tell me, please. Are we the first to have found you? The first since . . . the War?”
“The War? Oh yes,
