Star Winds

Chapter TWELVE

For the next month Rachad saw little of Amschel, who withdrew into his study with the new knowledge Rachad had brought him. Instead, he began a period of training in the laboratory, at first learning to tend the sublimatories and other furnaces, and later going on to the operations of distillation, congelation and projection—at which Amschel’s assistants were incomparably more learned than Gebeth, even though most of them were but borrowed liegemen of the duke’s.

Every day Amschel would issue fresh orders for the preparation of some strange-sounding substance or other. Even without such instructions there was plenty of work for the laboratory, for there were a number of long-standing operations to attend to—operations which, Rachad was assured, had been in progress for a number of years.

There was, for instance, an hermetically sealed crystal vessel which had been subjected to the gradually increasing heat of an athanor for over five years, and whose contents were inspected daily for the expected color changes. In a complicated pelican, a type of double-reflux alembic, a substance had undergone cohobation—repeatedly recycled distillation—for even longer. And there were other operations, less easy to understand, all pursuant to the alchemical theory that new properties would evolve in a material if a process were continued for long enough.

In this way he learned a great deal he had not known before of practical alchemy. He also had access to the library, where he found hundreds of books and manuscripts, ranging from very ancient tracts such as The Sophic Hydrolith and The Visions of Zosimos—as well, of course, as the Asch Mezareph—to somewhat later works, among them The Secret Art of Plasmas and The Etheric Chariot. Of their texts he could grasp little, but he found great pleasure in poring over their numinous illustrations, especially those which depicted the interior of a flask as a little world, sometimes complete with landscape, in which strange, beguiling acts were taking place.

But eventually Rachad’s interest waned, as had happened under Gebeth’s tutelage on Earth, and he began to think how he might carry out his secret mission.

Luckily his movements were not restricted. He had been taught the number code which enabled him to find his way through the maze, and he had the freedom of the Aegis. Flammarion had also given him a rough idea of its layout, and he had little trouble in reconnoitering the approaches both to the main gate and the smaller side entrance.

In addition Flammarion had taken care to explain how the main gate was opened. It soon became evident to Rachad, however, just how difficult this would be. Both entrances were guarded round the clock by companies of pikemen. He also learned, from conversations with others, that extra locks had been put on the mechanisms—locks too large to be operated by one man. And as if that was not enough, the locks were protected by timber encasements which first had to be broken open with axes.

It seemed that Flammarion’s scheme had foundered. Rachad returned in frustration to the laboratory, where he continued to wrestle with the problem.

Amschel was more to be seen in the laboratory after the first few weeks. He resumed what was apparently his practice of lecturing to his assistants—partly to make them better helpers but also, Rachad guessed, to impart genuine knowledge to those who were interested.

His talks were often rambling, sometimes fascinating, sometimes, to Rachad, dull. Sometimes, however, they were masterpieces of conciseness, especially when on the subject of technical operations. Amschel had a surprising knack of relating experimental processes to profoundly symbolic lore. In a way that offered a thrilling insight into the workings of the macrocosm, he spoke of the Worm Ouroborous, representing the creative powers of nature. He spoke also of “the Coiled Dragon,” or “the Sleeping Sulphur,” as it was alternatively called, which, he said, referred to the spiral of the galaxy which was coiled up like a spring. This spring was held in dynamic balance by secret forces of such power that should they be released they would destroy everything within the limits of visibility.

In another of his talks Amschel gave forth on the primitive philosophical ideas of ancient times. The ancients, it seemed, had been ignorant of the five elements and so had also failed to understand the principle of blending or “commingling.” They had hypothesized that matter was composed of “atoms,” microscopic particles which were supposed to be indivisible and indestructible, and which stuck crudely together in innumerable combinations.

“The theory is amusingly quaint,” Amschel remarked, “but unsound in the logical sense, and also it is hopelessly complicated. To account even at that time for all the qualities found in the world it was necessary to hypothesize more than a hundred different types of atom—and to reckon with all the substances known to present-day alchemy, no doubt another hundred would have to be added.

“The same spirit of naive speculation governed astronomical ideas. At that period in history humanity was still restricted to one world, and there was no clear knowledge of the macrocosm generally. Ridiculous though it may seem to us, it was presumed that the home planet—which some say was called Earth—was the center of the macrocosm and that the whole of the heavens revolved around it. The other planets of the home system moved across the sky in ways that did not fit easily with this idea, of course, and a complicated, rather unwieldy system of wheels within wheels had to be devised on their behalf. These ‘epicycles,’ as they were known, may remind us of the equally artificial doctrine of ‘indivisible atoms.’

“The philosophers who tried to explain nature on the basis of these speculations can have known little of the Hermetic art or of its goals. Even in that arid time, however, there were true alchemists, working in secret and possessing knowledge handed down since the time of Hermes Trismegistus.”

Amschel pointed to Rachad. “Young man, you tell me you come from a planet called Earth. Is this the same that is reputed to be the birthplace of mankind?”

Rachad gave the same answer that Zhorga had once given to Baron Matello: that had Earth truly been man’s original home, lack of ether silk would have kept him there.

Then, one day, Amschel took Rachad aside and began to speak to him privately.

“It is time,” he said, “to explain the Stone to you, and to show you the stage we have reached in our work.”

Still in his work smock, Rachad seated himself and listened attentively, but Amschel did not come immediately to the promised business. Instead, he launched into a discourse on how the five elements combined to produce everything that existed—all worlds, all life, all minerals; everything that was fluid, aerial or energetic, everything that imparted motion. He explained the relation of the elements to space, a subject scarcely touched upon before. There was no such thing, Amschel informed, as empty space; space was but one of the properties of matter—its extensibility—and space that appeared empty was better described as ether. Hence matter and space were identical and continuous, to the discredit of the ancient atomic theory, in which they were deemed to be separate entities.

There were, Amschel proceeded to say, a number of ways in which the elements could combine. First and most important there was “blending,” in which elements coalesced in various ratios, and the substances formed in this way were the true compounds. But there were also “mixes,” in which elements, or blends of elements, compiled and interpenetrated in laminations, platelets, rods and slivers, crystals, raveled tendrils, simple coagulations and so forth, all on the microscopic level. The diversity and complexity of structures so obtained was limitless, accounting for the endless range of properties to be found in the macrocosm. This, Amschel explained, was also the reason why arcane substances were often named after living organisms or manmade constructions, their inner structures sometimes being almost as elaborate.

“In this way the five elements give rise to the world of multitudinous phenomena,” Amschel said. “But they are not the end of the story, for they themselves were derived, countless ages ago at the beginning of existence, from prima materia, which alone can be called the primal substance. The elements are, so to speak, corruptions of it. Ether was the first derivation; then there followed, in quick succession, fire, air, water and earth. In the prima materia itself there is no differentiation. It is unconditioned, single and absolute, and in it all opposites merge as one. You may have heard it spoken of by other names—hyle, the primordial chaos, and so forth.”

“This I already understand to some degree,” Rachad said. “What bearing does it have on the Stone?”

“The Stone is made of the prima materia,” Amschel answered. “Or rather, the prima materia forms the basis of its substance. The first stage in the production of the Stone is to destroy the elements and reduce them to the primal state. As hylic matter, however, the subject could not be handled, perhaps not even seen—hyle is formless, appearing as a void according to some authorities, as an inchoate black mass according to others. It would soon decay into elements again, and so a second process is needed. This impresses form upon it, fixing its qualities—whereupon it becomes the Stone: the ultimate state of matter!”

“And can this Stone turn lead into gold?” Rachad asked innocently.

Amschel chuckled, his eyes twinkling. “Oh, that is the least of its powers! The possessor of the Stone can work marvels. He can rotate the elements. He can project his will into the macrocosm. By mingling parings of the Stone with elemental substances, he can prepare a whole new range of efficacious agents—for the Tincture is the perfect medicine, the cure for all bodily ills, and the means to prolong life. If desired, the agents known as the white lion and the red can transmute base metals into silver and gold.”

While Rachad pondered this, Amschel rose to his feet. “These operations I have described—reduction to prima materia, and then fashioning this into the Stone—are difficult in the extreme. Let me show you how I have attempted to achieve them.”

He led the way to a section of the vaults Rachad had not visited previously. He lifted the latch of a massive door, made not of adamant but of timber, and pushed it open.

The space within was dominated by cucurbits and retorts of unfamiliar shapes and sizes. Most striking were those that were spherical. These were enormous, the largest of them a monstrous piece of glassware ten feet in diameter. Many of the vessels contained complicated structures of metal, finely wrought into sheets and wires, and their sealed delivery spouts—some cucurbits had as many as half a dozen—were connected not to glass pipes but to infusoratory cables which snaked across the floor.

Two white-smocked assistants bowed as the master alchemist entered. Rachad quickly realized that this was a special laboratory devoted to the use of infusoration. The smell of galvanism was in the air, plus an unmistakable sense of tension which was added to by angry buzzing noises leaking from the metal conductors.

His eye was caught by a bulbous, fairly small cucurbit that seemed to be inwardly alive. It flashed, writhed and bubbled with frenzied light which washed against its walls in waves.

“The mercuric compound within this vessel has experienced a continuous discharge of infusoration for the past three years,” Amschel supplied, noticing his interest. “Shortly I will end the experiment and see what change has come about.”

“Where are the actual infusorators?” Rachad asked. “I see none.”

“They are very bulky, and are kept in adjoining chambers,” Amschel said. With a wave of his hand he indicated all the apparatus by which they were surrounded. “To understand what I have been doing here, you must recall the ages-old belief that the Great Work can be accomplished if only sufficient heat can be generated. To try to develop an unnaturally high temperature is one reason why alchemists heat the subject for long periods in an hermetically sealed crystal egg. For many years I, too, concentrated on trying to obtain more and more heat by means of fire. I worked with a man who believed he had found the answer in a heavy metal called the second lead—though the ancients named it after one of their gods, Uranus. This metal hides great quantities of fire in itself, which can be concentrated and extracted if it is refined in a certain way.”

Amschel’s voice fell. “The experiment was disastrous. The temperatures obtained were enormous, but the fire of the second lead is no ordinary fire. It proved so penetrating and dangerous that it overcame the metal itself and came bubbling out of the pit we had prepared for it. I was the only survivor, and even I have suffered ever since from a weakness of the blood.”

He paused before continuing. “Eventually I concluded that fire alone will never be sufficient. I decided to switch my attention to etheric heat, using infusoration to create tenuous, rarefied forms of air and fire known as plasmas. To make a plasma, the vessel is first emptied of atmospheric air, and the subject to be transformed is then injected and infusoration is applied in immense quantities. Temperatures so obtained can rival those in the center of a star.

“That, at least, is the bare principle. In practice, life-times could be spent researching plasmas. Note one of our first efforts.”

Amschel directed Rachad’s attention to possibly the weirdest device in the laboratory: a large glass tube in the form of a six-foot ring, collared at intervals with thick coils of wire. “Meet our Ouroborous—our attempt to construct the Great Worm in physical form.”

Amschel pulled down a lever. The air crackled and snapped. A hazy ribbon of light sprang into being throughout the length of the circular tube, pulsing along the center of the channel. Brighter and brighter it grew, and for a second seemed stable. But suddenly it writhed, jerked, and abruptly vanished, leaving black scorch marks on the inside of the glass.

“Try as we might, we could never get it to maintain itself,” Amschel said. “Not for nothing is the Worm described as the Impossible Stability.”

The alchemist moved to the great cucurbit that occupied the center of the chamber: globular, ten feet in diameter, plates and coils arrayed within its walls. “Later, however, we were more successful,” he said. “I have been able to confirm that infusoration, if intense enough, can produce such torsions and tensions as to bring matter close to the threshold to prima materia, though we have not, as yet, produced complete breakdown. We will demonstrate.”

He gestured to his assistants, issuing clipped orders. The helpers dragged heavy cables across the floor, clipping them into big junction boxes.

Finally everyone stood back as power was applied through five different delivery spouts. The very air Rachad breathed seemed to sizzle; sparks flew from the junction boxes. He became aware of a hum that seemed to set his eardrums shaking just below the level of audibility.

Inside the cucurbit, the metal plates glowed fiercely. A spot of light appeared in the center of the globe, expanding, writhing, then coalescing into definite form.

Rachad gaped at what he saw. Hovering in the globe was the shape of a man, draped in a purple robe, staring toward them through the thick glass.

As quickly as it had come, the vision vanished, to be succeeded by an inhuman, brass-colored figure mounted on a horse-like beast that apparently was galloping onward. Then it, too, was replaced—by a gorgeous flowering orchid as tall as a man.

Faster and faster the phantoms came: people, animals, plants. Amschel, aware of Rachad’s bewilderment, leaned close to him.

“These creatures are not mere apparitions: they are real, though transient. The field of stress causes them to stream spontaneously out of the threshold to prima materia.”

Suddenly there was a deafening bang. One of the cables had parted at a solder joint, spitting out a shower of sparks. In the cucurbit, the visions died.

“But this is magic!” Rachad exclaimed.

“Not magic, but art. Thus was the world created; thus did all things proceed from the One. Hyle contains all forms in potential.”

Amschel moved across the chamber and opened one of his ubiquitous sample cases. Returning, he showed Rachad a number of small objects he held in the palm of his hand: honey-colored pills about half an inch in diameter.

“Although the creatures that stream from the threshold are momentary only, there is a way to trap and fix the life-denoting virtue within the field. These seeds, if placed in water in which certain mineral salts are dissolved, will bring living forms to fruition.”

“Homunculi,” Rachad breathed.

“Yes, homunculi. The minor goal of the alchemist’s art.”

“It still seems like magic to me,” Rachad said.

“But think: is not nature’s work also alchemy? Every planet is a cucurbit, in which chemicals are mixed. Every sun is an athanor, which heats planets; and so life arises. By compressing the work of eons into a small span of time, the hermetic art is achieved.”

“But the Philosopher’s Stone doesn’t occur naturally at all.”

“No,” Amschel said. “The Stone is solely the work of man.”