A Wizard in the Way

2

What does he mean, no recorded planet?” Alea asked.

“Just what you’re thinking.” Magnus grinned. “And so am I. Which of us thought it first?”

“Both at the same time.” Alea spoke sharply to hide the hope that she might be a more talented telepath than she knew. “There is such a thing as coincidence, you know.”

“Yes, and similar answers to the same question,” Magnus said. “But we both think it’s a lost colony, so let’s see if we’re right. Vision, Herkimer, please.”

The image that appeared was flat, an elongated rectangle in bright colors. “Rather primitive,” Herkimer explained. “The picture was originally displayed on a screen.”

“Yes, we understand that it was television, not holovision—but this was a colony, after all, and bound to lack a few of the refinements.” Magnus’s gaze was glued to the picture before them.

They saw a man with long black hair and beard, wearing a burgundy robe, standing in front of a scene showing people in leather jerkins and hose with hawks on their forearms and shoulders. He was saying, “…steady progress in terraforming and developing the land. The Dragon Clan has perfected the taming and training of the local wyverns. Watch, now, as the dragoneer sends the beast hunting.”

One of the leather-clad men swelled in the picture, and Alea saw that the reddish-brown creature on his wrist was no bird, but a sort of pterodactyl, though its head did look rather like that of a horse and its neck and backbone sprouted a row of triangular plates that stretched down its tail to an arrowpoint on the end. Now she realized why its handler wore leather—the claws were long, hooked, and sharp.

The man tossed his wrist and the wyvern leaped into the air, wings beating until it found an updraft. The picture stayed with it, following, making it larger and larger in the screen as it spiraled upward, riding the wind, then suddenly plummeted to earth. It rose again in an instant with a small animal in its claws—but grew smaller and smaller in the picture; its handler and his friends appeared at the edge and zoomed toward the middle, and the narrator swam back in front of them. He watched them, nodding, as the wyvern settled back onto its handler’s wrist. “The dragoneer tells us the secret to controlling the reptile is thinking with it, every step of the way. Whether by mind reading or by training, the little dragons are bringing home dinner for their handlers as well as themselves.”

He turned to smile at his viewers as the picture behind him dissolved into a scene of a broad wheat field. “Halfway across the continent, the Clan of the Mantis has succeeded in breeding insect predators that banished the crop feeders destroying their wheat.”

The wheat behind him expanded until a few huge heads of grain filled the screen. Alea found herself looking at a dozen beetles stripping the grain from the stalk astonishingly quickly, but a bigger beetle came crawling behind them to gobble them up like so many pieces of candy.

“Neatly and efficiently done,” the narrator said cheerfully. “In this case, big bugs have little bugs for biting.”

He went on, the picture changing behind him as he told all the latest tidbits with delight. The Khayyam Clan had perfected its geodesic tent; a few people stood near the structure to show that it was three times their height. The Polite Barbarian Clan had plotted the grasslands available to each of the cattle-herding clans during each season. The Appleseed Clan was sending couriers to all the other clans with seeds for their new insect resistant varieties of fruit.

Magnus sat, dazed by the variety of clans and the way in which they had split up the task of developing the planet. “Truly amazing,” he murmured.

“But how long has it been? Several hundred years at least.” Alea frowned. “And they’re still adapting themselves to their world?” Then she answered her own question. “No, of course not. These pictures are coming to us at the speed of light, radiating outward from the planet, and the oldest ones reach us first.”

Magnus gazed at her, feeling himself swell with pride, even though it was Herkimer who was her teacher, not himself. But she learned so quickly and reasoned out so much from it! Really, it was an honor to be her companion.

The narrator before them went on as the scene displayed a picture of a dozen saffron-robed people, the men bearded, the women without cosmetics and with simple hairstyles. Most had gray hair; all looked compassionate and concerned. The narrator told his viewers, “The gurus of all the clans tell us that their people are paying entirely too much attention to worldly things.” Behind him, the picture changed to a grid with the faces of men and women in small squares. Most of them were gray haired, too, but they fairly glowed with enthusiasm.

“The clan leaders held a teleconference to consider that issue,” the narrator told his viewers, “and replied that all the clans together were performing a massive study in ecology, though that may not have been what they intended. By developing their animals and crops, they’re gaining a greater sense of how all life-forms fit together and interact. The clan leaders claim this is another route toward achieving harmony with the Infinite—and the gurus agreed! I do have to say, though, that the Wise Ones didn’t seem too enthusiastic about it.”

Alea objected, “The people in each of those ‘clans’ don’t look anything like one another! How could they be related?”

“They probably aren’t,” Gar replied, “or at least they weren’t, until their mothers and fathers married. I suspect they share interests, not genes. People concerned with herding cattle band together, people who want to grow oats band together, and those who want to raise maize gather together, too.”

“Well, that makes sense,” Alea. admitted. “After all, oats and maize grow best in different climates—and their farmers would have to live together.”

“Besides, village life that way would give them the feeling of belonging to an extended family,” Gar said thoughtfully, “and I suspect these colonists were very lonely before they formed a group.”

The narrator’s voice began to crackle and the picture broke up into a swirling mass of colored dots.

Alea frowned. “What’s happening? Oh! We’re going toward the planet faster than light.”

“Correct, Alea,” Herkimer’s voice said. “We have passed the range of the oldest television signal emitted from the planet. There are younger ones, of course. How many years should I let pass by us before I record one to display again?”

“Let pass?” Alea frowned. “How many are there?”

“An uninterrupted stream, broadcasting over a period of a hundred years or more.”

“Only one century?” Magnus’s eyes glittered. “There should be seven. Let’s see what happened.” He turned to Alea. “Every twenty-five years?”

“That should give us some idea of their progress,” Alea agreed—but she felt misgivings, felt out of her depth, so she asked, “Why so many?”

“I want a quick overview of the planet,” Gar explained. “But we gain it by moving closer to the planet,” Alea objected. “If we decide we want more detail, it will be too late to go back and find it.”

She expected him to argue and felt her blood quicken with the thought, but Magnus only nodded judiciously and said, “A good idea. Store all the signals, Herkimer, but show us only those that come in every quarter-century. Then if we wish to retrieve others, we can.”

Alea felt both pleased and chagrined: pleased that he took her thoughts seriously, chagrined that she had missed a chance for an argument. Magnus knew how to argue properly—taking her seriously and intending to win, but not too seriously and not minding if she proved to be right.

For the next hour, Herkimer showed them snippets of dramas, comedies, programs of singers and dancers, and shows in which ordinary people matched wits against a master of ceremonies—though they called him a guru—trying to answer obscure questions such as, “When was the I Ching written?”

Alea stared in blank incomprehension. “Is there any point to these pantomimes?”

“I’m sure the people who watched them thought so.” Magnus’s brow was creased in thought “What I find interesting is the people’s appearance, and the subjects that seem to interest them.”

“They all wear such primitive clothing!” said Alea. “Everyone does seem to wear a robe, unless they’re working,” Magnus agreed. “But their working gear isn’t all that different from your own people’s.”

Alea shrugged. “Didn’t you tell me that tunics and leggins are timeless?”

“Yes, until the leggins turn into trousers. Strange that there should be so many ghost stories, though.”

“Yes.” Alea smiled. “The ghosts seem to have more amusing remarks than the live people. And they do like stories about magic, don’t they?”

“Yes, but I wish we’d seen more of that documentary about wyverns. They seem to be very interesting beasts. I’m amazed that they managed to survive the introduction of the birds the colonists brought with them.”

“Why?” Alea turned to him with a frown. “With those beaks and claws, even an eagle would flee them.”

“Pterodactyls didn’t fare so well against birds on old Earth,” Magnus explained, “though that may have been due to the cold snap that killed off most of the dinosaurs.”

“Yes, dragons by any other name. I haven’t seen any sign them on these programs.”

“Something must have killed them off, then—the wyverns didn’t evolve in a vacuum.”

“Wait—what’s this?” Alea leaned forward, frowning.

The picture was rough, grainy, and flashed lines of static now and then—a gaunt woman in a rough tunic pointing to pictures on an easel, which abruptly filled the screen as she explained them. “Native plants have begun to grow again, now tha the Maize Clan has run out of weed-killers from Terra … th Grape Clan sends word that their new vines are only root stoc so that the hybrid vines brought from Terra are the last of the stronger grapes that we’ll see. Without new seeds and shoots from the home planet, they’re having to make do with the weaker strains that are offspring of the old vines, and the native weeds are choking many of them. People are stockpiling the old vintages. The Equestrian Clan reports that without imported sperm and ova, many foals are dying from local diseases, but the survivors are developing hybrid colts and fillies that are more hardy, though not as tall or graceful. The Aurochs Clan is sending in a similar report—their new cattle are smaller and stronger, though with much less meat but all the livestock clans are producing plenty of fertilizer. Unfortunately, it doesn’t seem to be bonding with the soil as well as the Terran fertilizers did, and the yield per acre is down considerably.”

She looked up at the camera, drawn and haggard. “Fortunately we have enough food stocks for the next five years, and the Alchemist Clan reports great success in developing philters that remove the toxins from native plants.” She turned to pull a picture of strange, broad-leaned plants off the easel, revealing a picture of a misty humanoid form floating between two thatched roofs. “The Ghost Clan has confirmed yesterday’s report of a new haunting in the Amity Valley. They haven’t, however, confirmed Goren Hafvie’s claim that the spirit is the ghost of his ancestor, Guru Plenvie.”

“They can’t believe ghosts are real!” Alea exclaimed.

“It’s a belief that never seems to die out, even in technologically advanced societies.” Magnus carefully didn’t remind her that she herself had believed in ghosts only two years before.

“In the northeast, the druids of the Quarry Clan have expelled a group of thirteen men and women for trying to intimidate the rest of their village by threats of spreading a disease called murrain among their cattle,” the narrator went on. The picture on the easel slid away to expose a scene of four cows and a bull lying on their sides, swollen as though inflated. “Unfortunately, an epidemic did spread through the village’s livestock. The druids examined the bodies and concluded that the cause really was magic. They expelled the sorcerers with a warning to establish their own village and stay away from any others.” The narrator filled the screen again, the picture suddenly small behind her. “Since Terra has cut us off and is no longer sending cattle embryos, spreading such a disease has become a serious crime.”

The picture broke into colored dots, the voice was drowned in a rush of static, and Alea stared, feeling numbed. “So that’s what happened to the colony planets when Terra cut them off?”

“To all of them, yes.” Magnus nodded. “Some were more self-sufficient than others, but in most, the PEST regime’s retrenchment meant famine and plague—and war, as the people fought over what food stocks remained.” His face was gaunt, haunted. “I hope we won’t have to watch such a bloodbath here.”

“It seems we will.” Alea braced herself as the picture reformed in front of them, showing two men in half-armor and high boots, halberds in hand, pushing two raggedly dressed men into a small mud but lit only by a tiny fire in the center.

“You can’t leave us here, Corporal!” one of the ragged men whined. “We’ll starve, that’s what!”

“Do what you please,” one of the soldiers grunted. “Anybody who steals from the soldiers’ mess deserves what he gets!”

“You can say that again.” The other man sniffed with disdain. “Lumpy porridge and stale hardtack—no wonder they call it a mess!”

The other soldier swung a punch at him; the man adroitly ducked. “You liked it well enough to try to steal a bowlful when you were supposed to be peeling potatoes,” the guard growled.

“You can just wait here until the company magus has time for you!”

“The company magus!” The first man shuddered. “You hear that, Charlie? He’ll give us lockjaw so bad we can’t even sip!”

“The punishment will fit the crime,” the soldier threatened. “You don’t mean he’s going to throw us into fits for punishment!” Charlie bleated.

“I could think of someplace better to throw you,” the guard growled. “Shut up, now, and wait your turn.”

“A tern wouldn’t be half-bad roasted,” Charlie mused. “The wings are kind of bony, though.”

“I thought they made a jingling noise,” the first rag man said, and turned to the guard. “Can we wing for service?” Alea stared, unbelieving. “They’re joking!”

“If you can call those jokes,” Magnus groaned. “I don’t think we have to worry about seeing a war—they’re still making comedy programs.”

“Pretty poor program,” Alea said, “with only a mud but for a scene.”

“Pretty poor comedy,” Magnus replied.

“I’ll show you service!” The guard yanked a length of rope from his waist. “Pozzo, go get a bowl of mush.”

The other guard grinned and went out the door.

The first guard tied the rope through the bonds on Charlie’s wrists, then passed it through a ring set in the wall and tied the other end to George’s wrists. The other guard came back in with a steaming bowl of porridge and set it just a little too far away for the two thieves to reach. Both soldiers went out, grinning and laughing, and for the next ten minutes, Alea and Magnus watched the two men’s antics as they tried to reach the bowl of porridge. First they both lunged at it and were brought up short, their hands jerking up higher behind their backs. Alea winced with the thought of their pain, but the two men seemed far more distressed at not being able to reach the bowl. Then Charlie stood up and held his wrists right next to the ring on the wall while George hobbled forward on his knees, leaning as far as he could—but the bowl was still out of reach. Chagrined, he stood up and retreated, letting Charlie try, and Charlie did manage to step through his bound wrists, bringing them in front of him—but that kept him even farther from the bowl, so he stepped back through, but was no better able to reach the bowl than George had been. Then the two tried to untie each other’s wrists with their teeth, giving them scope for many ribald comments. At last George sat down and reached with his feet, trying to pull the bowl toward him. Charlie realized what he was doing and stepped through his wrists again, then held them next to the iron ring, and George squirmed forward, wrapping his feet around the bowl and pulling it in, but just as he was about to sink his face into the mush, the guard came in to untie them, informing them that the magician was ready for them. The two men stumbled out of the but with howls of dismay. A disembodied voice told Alea and Magnus, “See what happens to Charlie and George next week, when…” before his voice was drowned in static and the picture turned into another sea of colored dots.

Alea sat, numbed and amazed. “They’re making fun of it! They’re actually making fun of war! Or of army life, at least.” “It can’t be so bad a fight as all that,” Magnus said. “Either a very small war, or a very short one.”

“Perhaps,” Alea said, “but there must have been some kind of war, or there wouldn’t be soldiers arresting them!”

“And famine,” Magnus agreed, “or they wouldn’t be trying to steal a bowl of porridge—and punished for it. But if they could laugh at it so quickly, it must have been short.”

“Now, wait,” Alea protested. “This was twenty-five years after that last news program, wasn’t it?”

“No,” Herkimer said. “Only ten years. I thought you might find it interesting.”

“We certainly did,” Alea said, still feeling numb. “What else were these people watching?”

Herkimer showed them snippets of very crudely made dramas and comedies; the subject matter alternated between war and famine on the one hand, and magic and astrology on the other. Pagan gods frequently meddled with the people, confusing the issues tremendously—and sometimes resolving them. “What kind of civilization is this,” Magnus asked, “where war mixes with magic and mysticism?”

Alea smiled thinly. “It sounds like my own people.”

“Let us hope their war is past!” Magnus said fervently. “How many years have we skipped through, Herkimer?”

“A hundred seventy-eight, Magnus. The quality of the signal has been deteriorating steadily. I am having to process it more and more elaborately in order to present a coherent picture.”

“Thanks for your efforts,” Magnus said. “Let’s see the next program.”

The screen appeared again, showing a worn and haggard woman sitting at a desk in a harsh and glaring light with stark shadows. On the desk stood an easel holding pictures. As she finished one story she pulled the picture from the easel, revealing another. The camera moved closer to fill the screen with the easel picture, wobbling as it went, then moved back out to include the woman again.

“Remember, these pictures are several weeks old,” she told her audience. “They’ve been sent to us by post riders, since our ancestors’ gadgets won’t send pictures by wire anymore. To be blunt, they don’t work.”

Magnus darted a dismayed glance at Alea; she met it with consternation of her own.

The woman started talking again, drawing their gazes back to her. “Plague has broken out in Oldmarket City, Ebor City, Holborn City, and Exbury Big Town. Their people are fleeing into the countryside. They may carry plague germs with them. Avoid strangers. It will prove impossible to keep them out of your towns—there are just too many of them—so I recommend evacuation. Take your valuables and your treasured mementos and go live in the forest—city people like me are afraid of the woods and the wild animals. Let them have your towns; keep your lives.”

“I wouldn’t take her advice for a second!” Alea said. “I would think she was just trying to frighten me away so somebody could steal my house!”

“Then the villagers probably thought that, too,” Magnus said, troubled. “I wonder how badly they fought over a handful of cottages?”

“The other cities have no disease yet,” the woman told them, “but farmers are afraid to bring them grain and other foodstuffs, so prices have skyrocketed and bread riots have broken out here and there. Gurus and magicians have managed to quiet them. Still, if you are a farmer watching this broadcast, please take your extra harvest to the city nearest you; you’ll receive at least ten times the usual price.”

“Who does she think she’s fooling?” Alea demanded. “If the farmers know about germs, they know that people from one city visit other cities every day. They may get a high price, but they’ll bring home plague as well as money!”

“I’m afraid the farmers did realize that,” Magnus said sadly. “I wonder how long it took before the city people came out to the countryside as a mob, to take whatever food they could find?”

Alea shuddered. “Then the plague probably swept the whole continent!”

“Here in Lutabor, the power plant has stopped working,” the woman said. “We’re only able to stay on the air because we have our own generator, but we don’t know how much longer our fuel will last, and the methane plants have stopped operating. The weather’s getting colder, so people are moving out to the countryside where they can at least keep themselves warm by burning fallen trees.”

“And steal farmers’ houses,” Alea whispered, staring in dismay.

“The fighting must have been desperate,” Magnus agreed. “It’s the end of a world!” Alea breathed.

“And the beginning of a new one.” Magnus frowned. “Assuming they didn’t all die out. I wonder what we’ll find there.”

“We’ll have to end this broadcast now,” the woman said. “We’ll talk to you again tomorrow if we can. Remember, please, if you live in any of the small towns around Lutabor—our refugees have no disease, but they do have money for buying food, so there’s no need to be afraid of any of us. That’s all we can manage today. We wish you well, and I hope I’ll be able to talk to you again.”

“Was she?” Alea asked as static replaced the picture.