John Rackham (3 page)

They
had emerged from the trees at the crest of
a
green and gentle slope. Before them a smooth
and venerable turf, decorated with flowering bushes here and there, drew the
eye naturally down to a small thatched cottage that nestled under the spreading
arms of a great ash. That tree, and the cottage, made a corner point for a
patchwork spread of fertile and cultivated strips, the whole marked off and
bounded by a bramble-bound stake fence. A bowshot beyond that fence ran the
river in a big embracing bend against a backcloth of dark chestnut trees. A
scarf of blue smoke trailed from the cottage chimney. Scarlet poppies danced in
the light breeze that ruffled the grassy edging to the plots of potatoes,
carrots and radishes, lettuce and cabbage, and the rippling green of the
oat-acre. For the very first time, Jack saw this scene as it must seem to
strange eyes, and realized that it had a quiet beauty.

"Yes!" he said, suddenly fierce.
"That is my home, what there is left of it. Had my father been here you
would have been greeted fittingly and offered comfort and cheer, but he was
killed in an accident but eight months gone, and we are fallen on hard
times."

"You
have my sympathy, Jack, but the scene looks fair to me. I know those who would
gladly give much for peace and tranquillity such as this. Still, one man's
jewel is another man's burden sometimes. You had better go on ahead and warn
your mother of my presence. I have no desire to cause distress to anyone."

"Will
you be able to follow, alone?" Jack eyed the little man. "You are in
pain, and not strong."

"
I’ ll
manage, at my own gait. I think I can gain one more
power-notch on this harness of mine. You run on."

So
Jack hitched his bow and quiver more securely and started off down the familiar
slope at a racing trot, passing Brownie halfway, spanning the strips of carrot
and cabbage in a flying leap that gained him the chipstone path that had cost
his father many patient hours of cutting and fitting. Along, around the corner
and along again to the porch and in the half-open door, and the click and
chuckle of the spinning wheel drew his eyes to the far corner beyond the
fireplace. Sunlight striking through the open shutter polished the pale gold of
her high-piled hair and painted the edges of her patient, careworn face. She
looked up now in gentle surprise at his coming.

"Why,
Jack!" she said. "What brings you home so soon? Is aught amiss?"
And the dismay in her eyes was very plain.

"Nothing to your distress, Mother, but
something exceeding strange, like nothing that ever was before. I will tell
you the rest of it later. For now it is enough that a stranger came to me in
the forest, a stranger in great distress and hurt, seeking aid. I believe he
is hurt in some way and needs rest and care, and food."

"We have little of that, as you well
know, but he may have what care and comfort we can give. Did he tell you a
name, and whence he comes? And how are you to bring him here?"

"His
name is Jasar and he is well enough able to walk, if feebly. He is coming now.
Perhaps it would be better if I went to his aid." Jack turned and went out
again, staying this time to the path, leaving his mother to follow as soon as
she had dusted the lint from her skirts. Jasar was more than halfway down the
slope, striding doggedly, as she came near enough to grip her son's arm.

"What
manner of man is this that you bring into our home, Jack? He is none of this
world, that's plain, nor is that infernal device that follows his step. Oh,
Jack
I
What have you brought on us now?"

Jack
snorted, thought of pointed words but swallowed them. It was in no way new to
hear his mother so free to blame all her misfortunes on the actions of anyone
to hand. That was only her way, and he knew it meant nothing, but it served
now to make
him
feel fiercely protective toward the brave little man who
came steadily on, though weaving and obviously near the end of his strength. He
disengaged her fingers firmly and ran, leaped the low fence again, and went up
the slope to meet his guest

"Lean on my arm,
Jasar. It is not very far now."

"It's
in my guts somewhere, Jack.
Churned up.
What with the
fall, and this cursed gravity of yours...."

"Can
you tell me what kind of brew or potion you'U need to mend you? I've said
,
my mother has the art of such things."

"Just
rest will do it." Jasar laid a corded arm on Jack's palm and was able to
manage a chuckle. "I carry my own medicine kit.
In my
ship.
And I have food there too. I won't strain your slender resources
for that. But what I need most and first, is to drink, and then to lie down, to
get horizontal, to give my system a chance to right itself." He leaned
heavily on Jack to get himself over the fence and then put up his free hand in
what was obviously a salute.

"I ask your forebearance and
understanding, Widow Fairfax, for imposing myself on you in this cavalier manner.
I hope to be permitted to explain, in a short while. For now, I beg
you,
I need somewhere to lie down in safety."

Widow Fairfax forgot her suspicions enough to
lend an arm, and between them they got Jasar to the cot-bed in the inglenook
farthest away from her spinning wheel. That was Jack's bed, the other ingle was
her own as often as not. She retreated to it now, as if regretting what she had
done, but her son was more concerned with practical matters. He thumped a
goosefeather pillow, set it in place.

"You'll do better without your helmet,
Sir Jasar."

"No
doubt, but if I take it off I won't be able to talk to you or to understand
what you say in return. Still, for a brief while it can't hurt." He undid
the chin-strap, tugged off the helmet to reveal tight close-curled hair on a
rounded skull. He gave the helmet into Jack's hand—it was surprisingly
light—stretched himself out, head on the pillow, and was almost instantly
still, like
a
dead man, barely breathing. Jack crossed the
fireplace to where his mother sat.

"I
think," he said softly, "that Jasar knows full well how to mend his
own hurt
And
much more. I think he is some kind of
wizard. Not the goblins and creepies that nobody with any sense believes
anyway, but
a
real wizard. I saw with my own eyes how he
came down from the sky." In the best words he could find he recounted that
impossible moment, and what had followed, striving to overcome the doubt on her
face.

"If
it be true," she said at last, "what you have told me, and no dream
that you had under the oak, then maybe it had been better if you had slain him.
Let me not be thought cruel, but for sure he is not of this land. Whoever saw
one so dark, and so small I
And
if not of our land, then
is he enemy, what else?"

"But,"
Jack disagreed doggedly, "again and again he says he means no harm, that
he rights other enemies that we know nothing of."

"That
may well be, but what is of concern to us is this, my son. This is Dudley's
land, and we keep it. How will it sit with them when they leam we harbor
a
stranger of his aspect?"

"How can they learn, Mother? It is
a
long ten miles to Dudley, and when does any of the village come this
far, save to seek to poach the deer? And it is not the season for that. And
anyway, Earl Dudley is the one to fear, and he is overseas these past two
months." Jack took
a
step or two back and aside and peered
a
moment. "He rests still. It would be a kindly gesture, Mother,
should you prepare something to fresh him.
Broth of some
kind, with herbs?"

"That much I can do, and willingly."
She rose from the cot and went to stare,
shook her head. "By the stillness of

him
it
would not surprise me to know that he is already dead and past any aid
I
can give. Nevertheless . . ." She swung out the pot on its chains,
stirred the stock within, sniffed it, and went to paw through her cupboard
drawers. Jack sat himself at the end of the bench that served as their kitchen
table, where he could be close if the odd stranger awoke, and fell to studying
the curious helmet in his hands.

TWO

He had not yet overcome his astonishment at
the lightness of it. His fingers were used to leather, and this had the same
feel, but much more
suppleness,
and it yielded to his
pull like nothing he had ever handled before. Stretching stuff? Trying the
headband again thoughtfully, it suddenly dawned on him that this stretching
quality meant that it would fit almost anyone. The thought pleased him. It was
like question and answer. He looked inside now and was immediately baffled by a
spider's web complexity of wires of many colors, and cords and odd lumps and blocks.
Wizard's work, beyond doubt.
But the two cup-shaped
things, one on either side, they would surely fit over a man's ears? They felt
soft and resilient to the touch. Beneath them sprang the roots of the
chin-strap, in separate halves. He offered those ends together curiously. One
end was studded with fine
spikes,
the other had many
tiny holes. Obviously one matched the other, but how? He put them together.
There was a distinct click. And he couldn't part them again! For a panic moment
he struggled, then took breath and reasoned. Jasar had separated the parts
without effort. There had to be some kind of trick to it. He pressed, twisted,
experimented, and felt something yield to a finger-pressure
...
and the trick was done. With care now
he did it again.
So simple.

Then
he realized that an idea had been in his mind for some time, and was only now
presenting itself. Dare he try on this wizard's device? He stretched the
headband thoughtfully. It would be big enough, for all his shock of Straw-blond
hair. Jasar lay just as still as ever. What was there to fear? He nerved
himself, stretched the black stuff, offered it to his head, pulled, and it went
on easily, snugly, so neatly that he hardly felt the presence of it. The pads

were
soft to his ears. And nothing at all unusual happened, somewhat to his
disappointment.
Until he remembered that trick with the
strap under his chin.
It clicked into place just as before, and
instantly a strange, measured, quiet voice was reciting something in one ear,
repeating and yet not, with subtle differences each time. The sounds meant
nothing, but he guessed they were counting something. He listened to that a
while, then felt of the strap, touching the curious knobs. To another click the
"counting" sound stopped, replaced by an eerie ululating bleat, not
very pleasant. Learning rapidly he tried another knob, and froze in utter
astonishment at what came. From time to time he had heard strolling players,
and there were those in the village who could encourage a jig with reed-pipes
and a thumping drum. And he had heard the thready treble of choirboys in Castle
Dudley once or twice. But put them all together ten times over they could make
not a patch of the music that flooded his ears now. Jasar could deny with all
his breath, but this now really was magic!

But
whence came all this wonder? Could such wealth be created by a web of wire and
a few knots of braid? Even as he wondered, he had to sway his head, and then
his whole body, at the wonderful sounds. Then he stopped guiltily as he saw
Jasar's eyes were open and on him, eyes like swords. The little man sat up,
looking fierce and anxious.

"Be
careful how you play with that, Jack. I should have warned you. It is full of
tricks,
and dangers too. Undo it. Take it off.
Slow and steady!"

Jack released the chin-strap, and Jasar
sighed in relief, said something that made no kind of sense at all. Amazed,
Jack pulled the helmet clear, held it out to Jasar. "What did you say
then?" he demanded, and the little man grinned tightly, spoke again, and
once more it was nothing but an outlandish garble of noises. Then he slid the
helmet deftly over his head, snapped the strap into place, and grinned again.

"That's better. Understand me now,
eh?"

"I
hear what you say, yes. But I do not understand, at all."

"I can't say I blame you, at that. Ill
tell you, gladly, what actually happens, but don't ask me how it's done. That's
not my field. In the war that I fight there are many nations joined together in
a common cause against a common enemy. We all speak our own ways. Is that something
strange to you?"

"No,"
Jack admitted. "I have heard that Frenchmen talk in a way we do not. Earl
Dudley, and indeed all the barons and the Court, so I have heard, are able to
talk that speech, and understand it
Some
, indeed, can
understand the speechmaking of the infidel Saracen!"

"You're
no stranger to different languages, that's the point. And it's obvious, isn't
it, that you can't work very well with a man, if you can't understand what he
says, right? So our
...
scientists—wizards
to you, I imagine— managed to design a computing circuit, a kind of brain, that
analyzes the concept and vocal pattern frequencies of any speech, given a
sufficient sample, and converts one to the other." Jack must have looked
as blank as he felt, for the little man sighed, hunched his shoulders. "I
can't put it any simpler. It hears any humanoid speech and translates it into
mine, then converts my speech back into the other, which is transmitted from
here," and he touched the forehead part of the helmet. "No?
Never mind; that's what happens.
And I smell something
exceedingly good!" He swung his legs to the floor, stood, turned to look
where Widow Fairfax was stirring and sniffing. "Coronas and comets!"
he breathed. "I think this is one for the record log.
A
cooking pot, over an open fire!"

His
hostess turned an apologetic smile on him. "I regret it is but thin fare,
sir." She sighed. "A few scraps of pork to a great deal of grain and
vegetables.
And seasoned by an herb or two.
But it
will warm you, and fill you, too, if you take bread with it. My own bake, even
if I say it myself.
But
...
I am remiss with my manners. I should ask if you are well
now?
"

"Very
well, I thank you, madam. It was nothing but a shock and upset in my insides,
which is all settled now. I am exceedingly grateful to you for your kindness in
letting me rest here. And, if you'll allow, I can add something to the fare you
are preparing. Would you come with me, Jack, help me carry?"

"Carry what?"
Jack demanded. "And from where?"

"Be
patient." Jasar made a little chuckle. "You're having a bad time
with so many marvels in one day, I know that, but hold on tight to just one
thing. There is no harm to you in any of it.
None at all.
Excuse us, Widow Fairfax; this will take only a little while. Keep that pot
hot."

He
led the way out of doors into the afternoon sunshine, found his way around the
cottage and back to where his ship hovered patiently by the fence, Jack following
uneasily.

"You want me to go in
that thing7'*

"After me.
Jack. As I said, there's nothing to
fear."

It
was easily said, but Jack's whole inside cringed at the prospect, the mere idea
of going into that silver-rod flying cage with its winking fires, and its
skin-prickling presence. Jasar strode up the gangway. Jack set his foot on it
fearfully, stared at the dark doorway ahead. It was an eight-sided patch just
like all the rest of thé device, and so small that he had to stoop and huddle
himself in order to get through. The air inside had a curious tang that
reminded him of the aftermath of a thunderbolt. But after a moment to adjust
to the dimmer, different light, he saw that the "ship" was very much
bigger inside than seemed possible from a distant view. The floor was of a
dark bouncy stuff that swallowed the sound of steps. To right and left he saw
recesses that reminded him strongly of the fireplace ingles, and he imagined
they served a similar purpose, for someone to sleep. But once his eyes
departed from that recognizable element they were assailed by wonder. On all
sides were boxes and blocks of metal in hard angular shapes and strangely
decorated with knobs and wheels. And all were alive with gentle clickings,
whirrings, and captive fires of green and red and white. Jasar ignored most of
them and went to one in a comer, prodding it, touching various knobs.

"This thing," he said, "is a
food synthesizer. It goes by various names in various cultures. I call it an
auto-chef. Here again, I can tell you what it does, but not exactly how. This
part"—he gestured to a series of characters in white fire against black—"is
the program. What it can do for you, depending on the capacity state. In your
terms, this is what it's got, and you tell it what you want, with this panel
here,
and it delivers the finished product here, in this
hopper. That's simple enough, isn't it?" He looked up at Jack's stare and
signed again. "Life's too short, lad. I wish I had time, but it just is
not possible to take you right into the details. Just accept it. Whatever I
say, you're going to think
it's
magic anyway. Now,
your mother spoke of pork, and I understand that to be the product of a
meat-yielding domestic beast. What do you do with meat, roast it,
boil
it, what?"

"We set it on a spit over the fire
mostly." Jack was pleased to have a question he could answer. "The
rest we cut up and stew."

"Roast, then.
All
right, and a few vegetable additions.
Set for three. And watch that
pointer there slip back to zero." Jack watched, vaguely comprehending
something of what was going on, but dumbfounded first by the mouthwatering
odors that came flooding, then the click and gentle mud of a frail silver-stuff
platter in the small enclosure. Jasar drew it out, handed it over, and it was
warm to the touch, filled with food from which more of the hunger-sharpening
smells came. "You take that," the litde man ordered, "and
I’ ll
bring two. Go on, we mustn't keep that stew
waiting!"

Widow
Fairfax gaped at the bounty they laid on her kitchen table,
then
shook her head in regret. "Your gifts overshadow my poor offerings, Sir
Jasar. Even the dishes are vastly more precious than anything I can show."

"Disposable foil, madam.
Use and throw away.
But never mind them for now; eat what they carry. And I will sample some of
that stew, if I may, first." She had ladled out three helpings into sturdy
wooden bowls. Jack gaped to see Jasar take a strange tool from the underside of
the platter and use one end of it to spoon some of the hot stuff to his lips.
There was one of those tools to each dish. One end was a small bowl, the other
end had prongs, and one tine of the prongs was edged. Jack had that sudden
pleasure again, of a question answered. Cut with the edge, spear with the
prongs, and eat. Use the other end to scoop up the gravy and juices.
Wonderful.
He watched Jasar now, tasting and rolling the hot
stew about the inside of his mouth.

"It
is very good, madam. The flavor is fine. I hope my gift is as much to your
taste. We are matched, I think, in offerings. Let's not waste time. Eat while
it's hot, and if you can forgive talking while we eat, I will try to explain a
little of what brings me here. And then, if I may, I will bring you a flagon of
wine."

"It is too much." Widow Fairfax
sat, protestingly, discovered the curious tool and had wit enough to see how
it should be used. "All this must be of great value, and we are but humble
people."

"Not at all.
You gave the best you had, and who can do
more than that? What I bring is nothing.
Synthesized food,
foil platters, a plastic feeder or two
...
nothing to compare with real stew from earth-grown sources."

"Yours
is not grown7" She interrupted a mouthful to ask.

"It came from a box, Mother. I saw it
done, but I know not how."

"And
you think
it's
magic,"—Jasar chuckled—"but
you're learning not to say so. You've a good head on you, lad. Reassure me
first, madam; is the meat to your liking?"

"It
is sweeter and
more tender
than anything I have ever
tasted. Does my son speak truly, that it is not grown from the soil?"

"Quite true."
Jasar chewed thoughtfully for a moment or two, then, "You know
about pigs. A pig is an animal. It eats things, many things, as you know better
than I do. And it grows and becomes fat. But think carefully. Not all that it
eats becomes pig. Some is wasted, excreted, right? Now, tell me; how does the
pig do it? How does fodder become fat meat and muscle and bone? Can you tell me
that7
"

"Nay!"
Jack protested. "No man can know that.
It is just the nature of things to eat and grow."

"Quite so.
For you.
But my people don't think like that.
They ask a lot of questions. They like to know how things happen, and why. And
after much studying and watching, and trying out, they have discovered just
which parts of grass and leaves and other things actually do take part in
making meat.
And how it is done.
And they have made
machines that do it. My people are very clever at making machines for doing
things. They have a saying
...
once
you know exactly how a thing is done, you can make a machine to do it. My food
machine is one of those things. It has a store of all the basic parts. Madam,
you have a machine over there." He aimed with his eating tool. "You
begin with raw wool, I think, and you finish with fine thread. Then what do you
do with it?"

"I
knit," she said, frowning. "In the long evenings of winter sometimes
I weave, or crochet.
To make garments for Jack and
myself."

"Exactly.
Now can you imagine a machine into which I
could put just raw wool, which would then spin it, weave it into cloth, shape
and join it, and then produce a garment, all by itself?"

She pondered a while thoughtfully,
then
nodded. "Yes, I can see that it would be possible,
but it would be a very clever machine to do all that."

"Excellent!"
Jasar praised. "I can see where your son gets his sharp brain. Believe me,
it is possible. And the food machine is just such a thing, perhaps a little
more clever
. It has a store in which it keeps all the
necessary things, just as you have cupboards of spices and salt and so on. And
it has all kinds of knowledge on how to make many kinds of food and drink. That
is a very simplified explanation"—he made a gesture of excuse—"but
that is all I can give. It's all I know. It's enough for me that the machine
works and I can use it."