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

‘You seem to think we are living in Tansiann, with the taxes of half the planet to draw on,’ grumbled Zhorm. ‘Already I have expended much on the extension to the present powerhouse.’

This claim was hardly true; the extensions consisted merely of fuel bunkers built by robot labour. Only the materials had involved any expense. Jasperodus made no comment, however. The King seemed to be distracted today, so he decided to drop the whole matter for the time being.

‘Your Majesty perhaps has more important questions on his mind,’ he ventured.

‘Indeed I have. Those bandits out in the West Forest are becoming an intolerable pest. Matters are reaching serious proportions.’

Zhorm poured goblets of wine, absent-mindedly offered Jasperodus one, then downed it himself after a hasty curse. It was disconcerting to have this machine about the palace, he thought. Jasperodus was more intelligent than any other robot Zhorm had ever seen and he kept thinking of him as human.

Jasperodus’ eagerness for change was not unreservedly welcome either. If given free rein the clever robot would embroil Zhorm in grandiose schemes far beyond his means. As it was he was having to divert most of his resources into his small army because of these confounded bandit raids … Idly he mused on what other appointment Jasperodus could be given in his retinue. Why not make him court jester? He had already shown he had wit. Zhorm smiled, imagining Jasperodus bedecked in fool’s garb, prancing about and forced to invent inane jokes for the general amusement.

Jasperodus was at a loss to explain the King’s sudden laughter.

But no matter. He was remembering a recent conversation he had held with Major Cree Inwing, an officer in the Gordonian Guard, Zhorm’s little-practised army.

Jasperodus had been working on his blueprints using a table in the lobby (he had no room of his own to work in), when he had witnessed an exchange between this officer and Prince Okhramora, the King’s half-brother, whom Jasperodus had encountered on the evening of his first induction into Zhorm’s household: he was the fat man who had tried to belabour him with an iron rod. Inordinately fond of food, drink and lechery, he was often to be seen bustling about the palace on errands of doubtful propriety.

On this occasion, however, his business was indignantly moral. He was upbraiding Major Inwing for the Guards’ failure to bring the bandit bands to book. With him he had a farmer from an outlying district, a sad-faced fellow who only the day before had been attacked, his farm despoiled and his brother and eldest son killed. Such raids were occurring nearly every other day now, and were penetrating deeper into the small kingdom.

‘If this goes on these thugs will be coming right here into Okrum!’ Prince Okhramora declared angrily.

Major Inwing, a normally self-confident young man with wheat-coloured hair and a brisk moustache, stood to attention, his face pink with embarrassment. ‘Everything is being done that possibly could be done, Highness. The Guards can’t be everywhere at once.’

‘What a pathetic reply!’ stormed the Prince. ‘I’m taking this unfortunate subject to the King himself, and I’ll have you drummed out of the service, you see if I don’t! It was one of your companies that should have defended this man’s family, but where were you?’

And Prince Okhramora swept away, the dejected farmer in train. Jasperodus had noticed that he was zealous in seeing that incompetent officers were stripped of their rank; their replacements were usually friends of his or relatives on his mother’s side. This time Jasperodus was certain he would get nowhere, however; Major Inwing was so popular with his men that the King would never agree to cashier him or even to demote him.

He sidled up to the discomfited officer. ‘What is the problem with these raiders, Major?’ he enquired politely. ‘Could they not be tracked to their lairs and destroyed?’

‘That’s something we’ve tried to do a score of times,’ Inwing retorted in exasperation, ‘but the West Forest stretches for hundreds of miles and it’s practically impossible to sniff them out – one might as well go hunting the antelope,’ he added, adducing the ancient mythical beast. ‘Ours is not the only kingdom to be harried by these gangs and no one else has managed to flush them out either.’

‘Surely something is known about them,’ Jasperodus persisted. ‘How many groups of these men are there?’

‘Several. But the largest and fiercest of them is led by a man called Craish, that much we do know. A clever devil he is too, by all accounts.’

And Jasperodus remembered the railway track, the journey through the forest, and the natural amphitheatre.

But he said nothing of this to Inwing. More was to be gained by speaking to King Zhorm himself …