Barrington Bayley SF Gateway Omnibus: The Soul of the Robot, The Knights of the Limits, The Fall of Chronopolis

‘I feel that the situation is changing rapidly, Your Majesty. My new proposal will entail less expense. The buffers are satisfactory up to a point – but if the enemy should succeed in getting behind us, as it were, and attacking the year in which the buffers were erected, then they could be obviated and the archives would be rendered useless for their purpose.’

Philipium’s grey face lost its anger as, with eyes downcast, he considered the point. ‘So?’

‘The only really foolproof way of making the archives safe from orthogonal mutations is to locate them in the strat. This could not be done before, due to the communications problem – it’s necessary to have continuous computer contact with the records of the Imperial Register, so as to detect anomalies, and there was no way to do this. The technical problem has now been solved. We can float at anchor in the strat while connected by cable to the offices of the registrar.’

‘By cable?’

‘The technique is a new one known as graduated phasing, Your Majesty. The Achronal Archives should then be proof against any orthogonal changes.’

‘Very well, I approve. I will issue an authorisation.’

The secretary in the emperor’s retinue immediately made a note of the proceedings. Mayar bowed low and left.

Philipium retired to his private quarters, dismissed the retinue except for one personal servant, and sent for his favourite comforter. With a hoarse, deep-seated sigh he sank into a comfortable couch and accepted a dose of the medicine that quieted his shaking a little.

The comforter arrived. This was Philipium’s favourite relaxation. An atmosphere of peace and silence, the lights shaded to rest his aching eyes.

The comforter sat to one side of the emperor so as to be out of his line of vision. He opened the book he carried and in a gentle, soothing voice began to read.

‘There is the body, and there is the soul. The body belongs to orthogonal time. But the soul, being spiritual, is eternal; yet it does not persist beyond its appointed period in time …’

Elsewhere Narcis₁ and Narcis₂ disported on a couch that was more luxurious than their father’s and surrounded by orchids, while the atmosphere of the boudoir was pervaded by sweet perfumes.

They looked into each other’s eyes, smiling and sated. ‘One day soon something strange will happen,’ Narcis₂ said in a sad, dreamy voice. ‘Something very, very melancholy.’

‘What is that, dearest?’ Narcis₁ murmured.

‘He will come and steal you from me. Like a thief in the night. The third one.’

Briefly there dawned in Narcis₁’s eyes the realisation of what the other was talking about – the day, barely a year ahead, when by natural ageing they would reach the date when he had secretly appeared in his future self’s bedroom and seduced him. It was a paradox he had never really bothered to work out for himself.

‘Yes, I shall have a visitor,’ he said wonderingly. ‘He will enchant me and entice me away. Away into the past!’

‘Don’t talk like that! I shall be left all alone!’ Narcis₂ covered his face with his hands. ‘Oh, I hate him! I hate him!’

Narcis₁ gazed at him with teasing, imagining eyes.

THREE

The Seekers, the Pointers, the Pursuers, all were present. The Choosing could go ahead.

The ceremony was in the apartment of a rich member of the sect. One of the elegant rooms had been converted into a temple. The altar, containing a representation of the Impossible Shape (an abstract of warped planes, said to echo the form of Hulmu), was lit by shaded cressets.

All knelt, the ceremonial black cloths draped over their heads, save the vicar, who stood facing the assembly, wearing the Medallion of Projection, which showed a gold miniature of a holocast projector. On his head was a low flat-topped hat. Upon this hat he placed the black Book of Hulmu to allow the vibrations of its words to flow down into him.

The orisons began. ‘Lord of all the deep, perceive us and know that we thy servants act out our parts …’

The chanting grew louder. The vicar feverishly muttered an incantation, known only to sect members of his own rank, which acted on a hypnotically planted subconscious command. Almost immediately he went into a trance.

He spoke with the voice of Hulmu.

It was a harsh, twanging voice, quite unlike his own or that of any other human being.

‘Are my Seekers present?’

‘We are present, Lord!’ cried one section of the congregation.

‘Are my Pointers present?’

‘We are present, Lord!’ chanted another group.

‘Are my Pursuers present?’

The remainder of the gathering spoke up. ‘We are present, Lord!’

‘Then let my Pointers choose.’

Abruptly the glazed, empty look went out of the vicar’s eyes. He removed the black book from his head.

‘All right, let’s get on with it,’ he said conversationally in his normal tone.

The tension went out of the meeting. They removed their black headcloths. The gathering was suddenly informal.