Noticing this, Tessa suggested that everyone attempt to get some sleep, despite the possibility of intruding dream scenarios. In the morning, she said, perhaps we can confront Guardian.
Agreement came reluctantly from the group, and they all retired to their own sleeping quarters, wondering if there would be new manipulations awaiting them. Stoor remained sitting in his corner of the room, filling his pipe and thinking of what had been discussed. He was experienced enough in the dealings of men not to sulk or stew over the vote against his rash measures. He understood the frailty of humans and did not actually blame his friends. The decision was made; there was no point in considering could-have-beens. Instead, his mind kept reviewing the weird dreams and illusions that he and the others had been experiencing.
There was something familiar about them.
Just as when he first encountered the man called Zeus, and recalled the folktale using the same name, he again felt his racial memories being aroused. What was it about the illusions which made him feel this way?
Varian and he had discussed the fablelike quality of a majority of the experiences. The merchant seaman, having been exposed to a variety of cultures, had of course heard a multitude of legends and folktales. And sailors, by their nature, are a superstitious lot. Stoor had also encountered many a tale about a campfire at night, and both men had commented on the similarities of some of the old tales with their illusionary experiences in the Citadel.
It was possible that a connection existed between the two, but so far, neither man had been able to ferret it out. Perhaps it was as simple as Tessa’s original suggestion: that the Guardian was bored and was using the group as playthings to amuse itself. If that was true, then the possibilities became endlessly chilling, and Stoor chose not to think about such a thing.
And so he sat, puffing on his pipe, until fatigue, and perhaps a bit of despair, overcame him. Putting down his pipe, he fell asleep and found himself in a vast underground maze, where he was goaded into meandering its puzzlelike passages, battling an occasional creature and meeting a beautiful young woman, who bore a frightening resemblance to Tessa.
It was not very amusing.
Chapter Ten
The next morning marked the return of Kartaphilos.
The group was assembled in the dining hall, eating silently and sullenly. Everyone knew that there had been more illusions, but no one had yet mustered the courage to begin discussing individual experiences.
The thoughts which troubled Stoor during the past evening remained at the fore of his mind, and he was quietly considering them when the grandfatherly homolog entered the room.
“Good morning, my friends,” said the machine.
“Don’t be so damned presumptuous,” said Varian. “What do you want now? Upset with us ‘cause you can’t listen in on everything we say?” Stoor sneered at the Guardian’s image.
The homolog smiled gently. “Your solution to my monitoring systems does not surprise me. In fact, I was wondering when you would devise a strategy to ensure some privacy.”
“I’ll bet you were . . .” said Stoor. “Get out of here; you’re killin’ my appetite.”
“As you wish. However, I only stopped in to tell you that an old friend of yours returned quite recently. I thought you might like to know about it.”
“What old friend?” asked Stoor.
“You might remember my telling you that Kartaphilos, his mission finally at an end, was being recalled. . . . He has just now entered the Citadel.”
“I thought he said he didn’t know the location of this place,” said Varian. “How could he had have found his way back?”
The homolog shrugged. “Simple, really. I broadcast a . . . signal, a homing beacon, which was picked up by certain machinery in his body. It was then an elementary task to follow the beacon to its source, leading him back to this place.”
“Why did you call him back?” asked Tessa.
“I have no further need for his wandering the known world.”
“Why not?” asked Varian. “What does that mean?”
“It means that he’s found his suckers and they are us,” said Stoor.
The homolog smiled benevolently. “It is hardly anything like that, my friends.”
“What is it like, then?” asked Varian. “How long is this going to go on?”
The homolog shook his head. “I don’t know. . . . I wish I could tell you, but—”
“Perhaps I can tell you,” said a familiar voice.
Everyone looked up to see the hooded, stooped figure of Kartaphilos standing in the doorway. His wizened face was cracked by an impish smile.
“Greetings to you all,” he said and walked defiantly into the room, taking a place next to the robot of Guardian.
“Leave us immediately,” said the homolog. “You are interfering here.”
“Sorry, but it doesn’t work like that, remember. . . ? Kartaphilos glared at the homolog, whose smile had faded; it was replaced by a grim mask of determination.
“What are you talking about?” asked Varian, stepping forward and addressing both machines.
“Nothing—” said the homolog.
“Everything,” said Kartaphilos.
“What?”
“Get out of here!” the homolog stiffened. “That’s a priority-one command!”
“I am sorry, Guardian, but it has no effect, as you well know.”
“Explain your reasoning,” said the homolog.
“You are aware of the . . . incident I suffered with the Riken strike force all those many years ago? I was fortunate to have survived at all. The self-repairing circuits did not do their job as well as might have been predicted. I suffered from partial amnesia, do you not recall?”
“I am aware of it, yes.”
Kartaphilos smiled. “Amnesia was not the only malfunction, Guardian. Surely you must realize that by now.”
Varian looked at Stoor and the others. Something strange was taking place; there was tension in the air. You could feel it the way a sailor can sense a storm coming even on a calm sea.
“What’re you two talking about?” he asked the robots, but they ignored him
