Star Winds

The duke pointed into the corridor. “At the heart of the Aegis there lies a second stronghold, protected by an adamant maze of great intricacy and cunning. It is, almost, an aegis within an aegis—there is machinery by which its structure can be rearranged, so that even if an intruder knows his way through the person it protects can render this knowledge useless. If the maze shifted around him in mid-journey, in fact, he would be trapped.”

He tightened his robe about him. “I installed Amschel’s laboratory there, to save him from meddlesome curiosity-seekers. We will go to him now.”

“We can get through safely, I take it?” Rachad asked, staring down the corridor.

“Oh, indeed. One needs but to memorize a certain sequence of numbers, which I have done by means of a mnemonic system.” Again the duke smiled, sardonically this time. “Of course, if Master Amschel takes it into his head to alter the maze, we will be lost.”

They set forth, walking side by side. “What’s the reason for this inner fortress?” Rachad asked as they went “Is it in case the Aegis itself is breached?”

The duke shook his head. “No—such a possibility was never admitted by the alien beast who constructed the Aegis, which is specified to be invulnerable. Ostensibly he included it so as to offer a place of shelter should warfare break out within the Aegis.”

Rachad kept silence as the duke threaded his way through the maze, muttering to himself and hesitating only occasionally. The maze was, as he had said, extremely complicated. They moved not only through a labyrinth of corridors but also up and down winding ramps and steep staircases. Their route twisted and turned at such a rate that it was impossible to estimate the size of the maze in terms of space, and Rachad lost all sense of direction.

Always there seemed to be at least half a dozen possible directions to take. Once the duke stopped, and gestured to Rachad, pointing to a passage ahead of them.

“Walk down there,” he ordered.

Rachad attempted to obey, but came up against an invisible wall of what felt like glass.

The duke laughed softly. “You have just walked into a mirror.”

“But I am not reflected in it!” Rachad protested. “And neither are you!” Bewildered, he glanced behind him. “In fact it doesn’t reflect our surroundings at all.”

“True—it’s a trick mirror. The image is conveyed from elsewhere by means of lenses and visual conduits. Just one more means to confuse the wanderer in the maze. He never knows whether what he sees is real or not.”

Rachad thought of the viewscreen aboard the Bucentaur. They passed on, and presently came to what he took to be the maze’s indwelling secret, emerging into a small wood of stunted trees, the uneven floor being carpeted with moss. The overhead glow-globes were dim; the wood seemed to be cast in dusk.

Sitting in a hillock was a small, round-shouldered old man with silky hair which fell to his shoulders, and who turned at the sound of their footsteps. His age, Rachad guessed, was close to Gebeth’s, or he could have been even older. At first glance his face was monkey-like and melancholy, but this impression faded quickly. The brown eyes did, indeed, seem more introspective than was usual, but their steadfastness, and the general air of collectedness that surrounded him, dispelled any resemblance to a dodderer. One hand on his knee, he watched as the two visitors approached.

The duke bowed respectfully. “Master Amschel, I bring what was promised—the missing sections of the book. In addition, may I introduce its bearer, Master Rachad Caban, also an aspirant in the Great Work.”

Rachad felt Amschel inspecting him without visible change of expression. “Master Caban has named a price for his donation of the text,” the duke continued. “He wishes to join you in the preparation of the stone. I find,” he added, in a sterner tone which showed he expected no opposition, “the request to be a reasonable one.”

“Indeed,” the artifex replied in a mild voice. He reached out and accepted the tome. Opening its lead covers, he spent what seemed like a long time poring over the pages.

Then he looked up at Rachad. “And what stage have you reached in the preparation of the stone?”

Rachad faltered, and swallowed. “No stage at all,” he admitted timidly, intimidated by the alchemist’s air of self-assurance. “I am here on behalf of my own teacher, Master Gebeth of the planet Earth, who has spent a life-time striving for success.”

The brown eyes lingered on him.

“Are the chapters all they should be, Master Alchemist?” asked the duke eagerly.

“They appear to be authentic. The book is complete. We may resume work.”

“And how long before the stone is ours?”

Amschel rose to his feet. He barely reached up to Rachad’s shoulder.

“If we use the lightning method, the operation itself is almost instantaneous. But the preparation of the primus agens may take a good deal of time, as will the construction of the necessary apparatus.”