“Tell me something else,” he said. “You know more than you are telling us. . . . I’m sure of it. But why?”
“I cannot explain that now, other than to say you are again correct. Kartaphilos was a wise judge of humans. I must compliment him.”
“He’s here?” asked Stoor.
“Not yet, but he has been . . . how would you say it? . . . recalled from active duty? Yes, he has been recalled. He will arrive eventually.”
“Wait a second!” said Stoor, pounding a fist upon the table. “Varian’s right. Somethin’ the Krell’s goin’ on here and I want to know what it is. Somethin’ stinks around here!
“The air is climatically controlled. There are no odors present which should be noisome to humans.”
“Shit, will you listen to him?” said Stoor, grinning in spite of his irritation.
“We were led to believe that the Guardian was servant of humankind,” said Varian. “. . . that we would be given the secrets of the First Age if we were ever to find this place.”
“And that the World would benefit from the knowledge that’s obviously contained here. . . .” said Tessa.
The homolog nodded slowly again. Its smile was still fixed inanely upon its face like a mask of brittle construction. “Those are definite possibilities which may derive from your discovery of the Citadel, that is correct. But before that can happen, there are certain . . . events . . . which must take place.”
“Events?” said Stoor in a voice that was slightly less than a bellow. “What kind of events?”
“You will understand them as they are taking place. That is all I can tell you now.”
Tessa stood up from her seat and faced the homolog. “Guardian, please tell me I’m wrong, but you speak as if . . . as if we’re prisoners here.”
There was another awkward moment of silence. The eyes of the group were all upon the homolog, which returned their stares with eyes of dark determination.
“You are not wrong,” it said finally.
Chapter Seven
Very soon after this, the illusions began.
At least, everyone hoped they were illusions. Otherwise, it was madness.
Varian had been walking alone through the third level of the Citadel. Here were the vast Works of the place: machine shops, foundries, mills, power plants, a matrix of factory operations which would have been able to recontour an entire country in the modern World. It was a miniature city of precision machinery—glinting steel, mirrored alloys, massive turbines, and lathes and die cutters. And all as silent as the grave. There was not a sound within the great emptiness of the Works. No man walked; no one touched the fine controls; the immense furnaces and converters lay cool and dead.
Because there were no people. One of Guardian’s unanswerable—or rather, unanswered—questions. It was the largest question in Varian’s mind: Where had they gone? Was it actually possible that the War had killed them off so totally? Were they kept prisoner in some hidden part of the Citadel? Was the Guardian a machine gone mad? If so, how would he, or any of the group, ever move against it?
They lacked the, power or, more important, the understanding to cope with Guardian on its own terms. Every instant he was being reminded of the advanced minds which conceived the place where he now walked. They would be fools to think they could match wits or plans with even the stepchildren of such a society.
He continued walking, his weapons belt hanging limply over his Citadel “uniform.” He, as all the others, had been allowed to carry their weapons with them; it was an apparent move on Guardian’s part to show that it had nothing to fear from them. Leaving the Works, he turned a corner and entered a large mall where there had once been throngs of people, meeting and interacting in an open forum. It was now a placid park, a slice of green, accented by trees the likes of which Varian had never known existed on Earth.
As he crossed expertly manicured lawns, he sensed movement from the corner of his eye. Wheeling rapidly on the balls of his feet and pulling out his sidearm in one quick motion—as old Furioso had taught him years ago—he leveled the weapon at three standing figures grouped gracefully under a copse of autumn-flecked trees.
Three beautiful women. Standing amidst the trees, looking very composed, as if they expected him.
“Good afternoon, sir,” said one of the women. “I am Hera.” She was the tallest of the three, with blue-green eyes and auburn hair of great length, depth, and sheen. Her face was angular, her smile enchanting. She was a beautiful woman. She wore a long, extremely sheer gown, through which he could see her body—muscled, yet lithe and well proportioned.
“I am Varian Hamer,” he said, lowering his weapon, yet not putting it away. “What are you doing here? . . . I mean, I thought I was alone here. . . .”
“That is no matter,” said Hera. “We are here only to ask you a small favor.” Hera indicated her two companions, who now stepped forward and demurely bowed their heads, dropping their gaze for a moment. “This is Athena, and this is Aphrodite.”
Varian bowed to the ladies, studying them quickly. Athena had hair as dark as a raven, and moody features: almond eyes of brown, well-tanned complexion, full, sensuous mouth, and an aquiline nose. Her cheekbones were high and prominent. She wore a diaphanous gown similar to Hera’s, through which her flowing hips and large-nippled breasts were very evident. Aphrodite, though no less stunning in appearance, was quite different: golden-blond hair, sky-blue eyes and long lashes, pert and tiny nose, a small, delicate mouth, gently curved like an archer’s bow. She too wore the revealing gown of the first two women and was no less physically endowed. In fact, Varian could not recall ever seeing
