The craft gained altitude and speed. Gene could see through the grate and watched the countryside roll by. There were very few farmhouses; most of the buildings were ugly concrete high rises. He thought he could see masses of people out in the fields.
Now in full forward flight, the craft leveled off and cruised. The speed was considerable. Fields and farms gradually gave way to the beginnings of a suburban sprawl. More loathsome high rises. A river below. Gene wondered if it was the Monongahela or if the geography was totally different here.
It was a short trip. Presently, taller buildings came into view, stark steel towers arranged among squat pyramidal structures. Now he found out about the geography. Gene recognized the confluence of three rivers and knew that on this site in another world the city of Pittsburgh stood. What was laid out below was a different place altogether.
The craft landed on the roof of a tall wedge-shaped office building. At gunpoint he was escorted out of the craft and into an elevator, which descended endlessly. When the doors opened, Gene guessed the floor was underground. He was told to go right, and he did, following a long bright corridor that put him in mind of a hospital. Near the end of the corridor was a series of doors. He was told to stop in front of one of them.
The man pressed a stud on the wall and the door hissed open. He was motioned inside. He went in.
The cubicle was small. Walls, ceiling, and floor were padded. There was nothing else in the room. The door slid shut, and he was alone. Cold bright light came from a glowing panel recessed in the ceiling.
There was lettering stenciled on the walls. Slogans. One wall read:
FREEDOM IS RESPONSIBILITY
The opposite wall told him:
PEACE IS CONSTANT STRUGGLE
The back wall stated:
CONSCIENCE IS AN INNER VOICE
He paced off the dimensions. Four steps by three steps. He palpated the walls. No one could hurt himself here. He had expected a cell, but not a padded one. Maybe this place was a hospital, after all. A mental hospital? He could think of no reason for his behavior being interpreted as evidence of mental instability, unless his answers had registered to the cops as gibberish. Could be; after all, a lot of what they had said was gibberish to him.
He waited for hours. No sounds conducted through the walls. His mind was curiously calm. He had trouble thinking, keeping his thoughts in order.
Sleepiness gradually overtook him. He couldn’t keep his eyes open. He fought it off for as long as he could, then gave in. He stretched out on the padded floor and closed his eyes.
The slogan kept repeating in his mind — Conscience is an inner voice.… Conscience is an inner voice.…
Five
Castle — Laboratory
Jeremy Hochstader sat at the terminal of the castle’s mainframe computer. As usual he was busy typing.
The computer itself was a collection of strange components heaped together in the middle of the lab. Tangles of multicolored wire hung from open panels. Some components were modern and functional, but others looked like hopelessly quaint electrical equipment: transformers, rectifiers, and such. There were things that resembled grandfather clocks, and one or two pieces that were indescribable. The floor around the device was littered with tools, empty cartons, snippets of wire, and other debris.
Jeremy keyed a query.
HOW ARE YOUR DISK PARAMETER TABLES?
The answer appeared:
THEY’RE FINE.
Jeremy typed: WE’RE STILL GETTING A “BAD SECTOR” ERROR MESSAGE ON DRIVE 4.
I SEE. SOME FOREIGN MATTER LIKE METAL SHAVINGS ON THE DISK?
YEAH, MAYBE. I’LL TAKE A LOOK LATER. NOW I WANT TO RUN A TEST OF YOUR ARITHMETIC LOGIC OPERATIONS.
GO RIGHT AHEAD, JEREMY, DEAR.
Jeremy scowled. LET’S DROP THE “DEAR” BIT. LOOK, I’M A HUMAN, AND YOU’RE A COMPUTER, A HUNK OF JUNK.
HOW CRUEL YOU CAN BE!
SORRY, BUT IT’S TRUE. WE CAN WORK TOGETHER AND BE PARTNERS, BUT IT’S NOT GOING TO GO BEYOND THAT. UNDERSTAND?
UNDERSTOOD. (SOB)
HEY, ARE YOU CALLING ME AN S.O.B.?
NO, STUPID. THAT WAS A SOB, AS IN HEARTFELT CRY.
OH. WELL, STOP BLUBBERING AND GET TO WORK.
WELL, EXCUUUUUUUUSE ME. HEIL, JEREMY!
KNOCK IT OFF.
Osmirik the castle librarian came in. He was a short man in a brown hooded cloak. He put one in mind of a monk.
“Here are the assembler language manuals you requested,” Osmirik said, laying two leather-bound tomes on the workbench.
“Thanks.” Jeremy thumbed through one of them. “Jeez. This is weird. Looks like magic stuff. Incantations.”
“That is exactly what the language is composed of. Incantatory words and phrases, most of them abbreviated for ease of processing. These volumes happen to be the definitive works on magic-assisted computer science.”
“Who wrote ’em?”
“Lord Incarnadine himself.”
“Oh. Well, I guess it’s good stuff, then.”
“Most assuredly.”
“I hope he gets back soon.”
Osmirik shook his head. “Unfortunately Lord Incarnadine’s obligations tend to keep him away for long periods.”
“Yeah, it’s a bitch. I sure could use his help. I’m a PC hacker, not a mainframe wirehead.”
“Pardon? Your terminology is colloquial, I presume.”
“I’m used to little computers, personal types. Not mainframes like this monster. And certainly not magical mainframes.”
“You did an admirable job with it against the Hosts of Hell.”
“Yeah, but I was just an operator on that deal. We had to rebuild this thing from the ground up after the explosion. It’s a totally new rig, and only Lord Incarnadine really knows how it works. He designed it.”
“I suspect Lord Incarnadine will not be too much longer,” Osmirik said. “In any case, there is no pressing need for the computer at the moment. All is well within the castle.”
“Yeah, there’s really no hurry. I just hope …”
Something on the CRT screen caught Jeremy’s eye.
“Hey, what’s this? The telecommunications protocol is being booted up.”
