 7 The fall of the sun was seemingly endless. It teetered out of the hole and seemed to hover, spitting great gouts of flame as it encountered the flogiston layer. Slowly, agonizingly, it picked up speed and began its downward rush. Unlike the sky, it seemed to obey the normal laws of inertia Hanson had known. It swelled bit by bit, raging as it drew nearer, and it seemed to be heading straight for the pyramid. The heat was already rising. It began to sear the skin long before the sun struck the normal atmosphere. Hanson could feel that he was being baked alive. The blood in his arteries seemed to bubble and boil, though that must have been an illusion. But he could see his skin rise in giant blisters and heal almost at once to blister again. He screamed in agony and heard a million screams around him. Then the other screams began to decrease in numbers and weaken in volume, and he knew that the slaves were dying. Through a slit between two fingers, he watched the ponderous descent. The light was enough to sear his retinas, but even they healed faster than the damage. He estimated the course of the sun, amazed to find that there was no panic in him, and doubly amazed that he could think at all over the torture that racked his body. Finally, convinced that the sun would strike miles to the south, he rolled across the scorching surface of the stone block and dropped to the north side of it. The shock of landing must have broken bones, but a moment later he could begin to breathe again. The heat was still intense, even behind the stone block, but it was bearable, at least for him. Pieces were breaking off the sun as it fell, and already striking the ground. One fell near, and its heat seared at him, giving him no place of shelter. Then the sun struck, sending up earth tremors that knocked him from his feet. He groped up and stared around the block. The sun had struck near the horizon, throwing up huge masses of material. Its hissing against the ground was a tumult in his ears, and superheated ash and debris began to fall. So far as he could see, there were no other survivors in the camp. Three million slaves had died. Those who had found some shelter behind the stonework had lived longer than the others, but that had only increased their suffering, and even his body must have come close to its limits if it could be killed at all. He was still in danger. If a salamander could destroy even such a body as his, then the fragments of the sun that were still roiling across the landscape would be fatal. The only hope he had was to get as far away from the place where the sun had struck as he could. He braced himself to leave even the partial shelter. There was a pile of water skins near the base of the block, held in the charred remains of an attendant's body. The water was boiling, but there was still some left. He poured several skins together and drank the stuff, forcing himself to endure the agony of its passage down his throat. Without it he'd be dehydrated before he could get a safe distance away. Then he ran. The desert was like molten iron under his bare feet, and the savage radiation on his back was worse than any overseer's whip. His mind threatened to blank out with each step, but he forced himself on. And slowly, as the distance increased, the sun's pyre sank further and further over the horizon. The heat should still have been enough to kill any normal body in fifteen minutes, but he could endure it. He stumbled on in a trot, guiding himself by the stars that shone in the broken sky toward a section of this world where there had been life and some measure of civilization before. After a few hours the tongues of flame no longer flared above the horizon, though the brilliant radiance continued, and Hanson found that his strong and nearly indestructible body still had limits. It could not go on without rest for ever. He was sobbing with fatigue at every step. He managed to dig a small hollow in the sand before dropping off to sleep. It was a sleep of total exhaustion, lacking even a sense of time. It might have been minutes or hours that he slept, and he had no way of knowing which. With the sun gone and the stars rocking into dizzy new configurations, there was no night or day, nor any way to guess the passage of time. He woke to a roaring wind that sent cutting blasts of sand driving against him. He staggered up and forced himself against it, away from the place where the sun had fallen. Even through the lashing sandstorm he could see the glow near the horizon. Now a pillar of something that looked like steam, but was probably vapor from molten and evaporated rocks, was rising upwards, like the mushroom clouds of his own days. It was spreading apparently just under the flogiston layer, reflecting back the glare. And the wind was caused by the great rising column of superheated gases over the sun. He staggered on, while the sand gave way slowly to patches of green. With the sun gone and the sky falling into complete shreds, this world was certainly doomed. He'd assumed that the sun of this world must be above the sky, but he'd been wrong. Like the other heavenly bodies, it had been embedded inside the shell. He had discovered that the sky material resisted any sudden stroke, but that other matter could be interpenetrated into it, as the stars were. He had even been able to pass his hand and arm completely through the sample. Apparently the sun had passed through the sky in a similar manner. Then why hadn't the shell melted? He had no real answer. The sun must have been moving fast enough so that no single spot became too hot, or else the flogiston layer somehow dissipated the heat. The cloud of glowing stuff from the rising air column was spreading out now, reflecting the light and heat back to the earth. There was a chance that most of one hemisphere might retain some measure of warmth then. At least there was still light enough for him to travel safely. By the time he was too tired to go on again, he had come to the beginnings of fertile land. He passed a village, but it had been looted, and he skirted around it rather than stare at the ghastly ghoul work of the looters. The world was ending, but civilizations seemed to have ended already. Beyond it he came to a rude house now abandoned. He staggered in gratefully. For a change he had one piece of good luck. His first attempted magic produced food. At the sound of the snapping fingers in his horse-voiced apricadabra, a dirty pot of hot and greasy stew came into existence. He had no cutlery, but his hands served well enough. When it was gone he felt better. He wiped his hands on the breach-cloud. Whatever the material in the cloth it had stood the sun's heat almost as well as he had. Then he paused, as his hand found a lump under the cloth. He drew out the Apprentice Magician's book. The poor devil had never achieved his twenty lifetimes, and this was probably all that was left of him. Hanson stared at it, reading the title in some surprise. Applied Semantics. He propped himself up and began to scan it, wondering what it had to do with magic. He had had a course of semantics in college, and could see no relationship. But he soon found that there were differences. This book began with the axiomatic statement that the symbol is the thing. From that it developed in great detail the fact that any part of a whole bearing similarity to the whole was also the whole. That each seven was the class of all sevens, and other details of the science of magical similarity followed quite logically from the single axiom. Hanson was surprised to find that there was a highly developed logic to it. Once he accepted the axiom, and he was no longer prepared to doubt it here, he could follow the book far better than he had been able to follow his own course in semantics. Apparently this was supposed to be a difficult subject, from the constant efforts of the writer to make his point clear. But after learning to deal with electron holes and transistors, this was elementary study for Hanson. The second half of the book dealt with the use of the true name. That, of course, was the perfect symbol, and hence the true whole. There was the simple ritual of giving a secret name. Apparently any man who discovered a principle or device could use a name for it, just as parents could give one to their children. And there were the laws for using the name. Unfortunately, just when Hanson was beginning to make some sense of it, the book ended. Obviously there was a lot more to be covered in later courses. He tossed the book aside, shivering as he realized that his secret name was common knowledge. The wonder was that he could exist at all. And while there was supposed to be a ritual for relinquishing one name and taking another, that was one of the higher mysteries not given. In the morning he stopped to magic up some more food and the clothing he would need if he ever found the trace of civilized people again. The food was edible, though he'd never particularly liked cereal. He seemed to be getting the hang of abracadabraing up what was in his mind, but the clothing was a problem. Everything he got turned out to be the right size, but he couldn't see himself in hobbock and grieves nor in a filmy nightgown. Finally he managed something that was adequate, if the brilliant floral sports shirt could be said to go with Levi pants and a morning frock. But he felt somewhat better in it. He finally left the frock behind, however. It was still too hot for that. He walked on briskly, watching for signs of life and speculating on the principles of applied semantics, name, magic, and similarity. He could begin to understand how an Einstein might read through one of the advanced books here and make leaps in theory beyond what the Sathari had developed. They'd had it too easy. Magic that worked tended to overcome the drive for the discipline needed to get the most out of it. Any good theoretician from Hanson's world could probably make fools of these people. Maybe that was why the Sathari had gone scrounging back through other worlds to find men who had the necessary drive to get things done when the going was tough. Twice he passed abandoned villages, but there was nothing there for him. He was coming toward forested ground now, something like the country in which the sons of the egg had found refuge. The thought of that made him go slower. But for a long time there was no further sign of life. The woods thinned out to grasslands, and he went on for hours more before he spotted a cluster of lights ahead. As he drew nearer he saw that the lights seemed to be fluorescence. They were coming from corrugated iron sheds that looked like aircraft hangers strung together. There was a woven wire fence around the structures, and a sign that said simply, Project 85. In the half light from the sky he could see a well-kept lawn, and there were a few groups of men standing about idly. Most wore white coveralls, though two were dressed in simple business suits. Hanson moved forward purposefully, acting as if he had urgent business. If he stopped there would be questions, he suspected. He wanted to find answers, not to answer idle questions. There was no one at the desk in the little reception alcove, but he heard the sound of voices through a side door leading out. He went through it to find a larger yard with more men idling. There should be someone here who knew more of what was going on in this world than he did now. His choice in the long run seemed to lie between Bork and the Sitheri, unless he could find some way of hiding himself from both sides. At the moment he was relatively free for the first time since they had brought him here, and he wanted to make sure that he could make the most use of the fact. Nobody asked anything. He slowed, drifting along the perimeter of the group of men, and still nobody paid him any attention. Finally he dropped onto the ground near a group of half a dozen men who looked more alert than the rest. They seemed to be reminiscing over old times. Two-thirty-eight an hour with overtime and double time for the swing shift. We really had it made, then, and every Saturday never fail the general would come out from Murak and tell us we were the heroes of the home front with overtime pay while we listened to him. Yeah, but what if he wanted to quit? Suppose you didn't like your shift-boss or somebody. You go down and get your time and they hand you your draft notice. Me, I liked it better in forty-six. Not so much pay, but— Hanson pricked up his ears. The conversation told him more than he needed to know. He stood up and peered through the windows of the shed. There, unattended under banks of lights, stood half-finished aircraft shapes. He wouldn't get much information here, it seemed. These were obviously reanimates—men who'd been pulled from his own world and set to work. They could do their duties and their memories were complete, but they were lacking some essential thing that had gone out of them before they were brought here. Unless you could find one among them who was either a mandrake man housing a soul or one of the few reanimates who seemed almost fully human, he'd get little information. But he was curious as to what the Satheri had expected to do with aircraft. The rocks had better range and altitude than any planes of equal hauling-power. He located one man who seemed a little brighter than the others. The fellow was lying on the ground, staring at the sky with his hands clasped behind his head. From time to time he frowned as if the side of the sky was making him wonder. The man nodded as Hanson dropped down beside him. Hi! Just get your Mac? Yeah, Hanson assented. What's the score? The man sat up and made a disgusted noise. Who knows, he answered. There was more emotion in his voice than might be expected from a reanimate. In real life, on his own world, he must have had an amazing potential for even that much to carry over. We're dead. We're dead, and we're here, and they tell us to make helicopters. So we make them, working like dogs to make a deadline. Then just as the first one comes off the line, the power fails. No more juice. The head engineer took off in the one we finished. He was going to find out what gives, but he never came back. So we sit. He spat on the ground. I wish they'd left me dead after the plant blew up. I'm not myself since then. What in hell would they need with helicopters? Hanson asked. The man shrugged. Beats me. But I'm beginning to figure some things out. They got some kind of trouble with the sky. I figured they got confused in bringing us here. This shop is one that made those big cargo copters they call Skyhooks, and maybe they thought the things were just what they're called. All I know is they kept us working five solid weeks for nothing. I knew the power was going to fail. They had the craziest damn generating plant you ever saw, and it couldn't last. The boilers kept sizzling and popping their safety valves with no fire in the box. Just some little old man sitting in a corner practicing the Masonic grip or something over a smudge pod. Hanson gestured back to the sheds. If there's no power, what are those lights? Which lights, they told us, the man explained, saved a lot of wiring or something. They—hey, what's that? He was looking up, and Hanson followed his gaze. There was something whizzing overhead at jet plane speed. A piece of the sky falling, he said. The man snorted, falling sidewise, not likely even here. I tell you pal, I don't like this place. Nothing works right. There was no fuel for the copter we finished, the one we called Betsy Ann. But the little geezer who worked the smudge pod just walked up to it and wiggled his finger. Start your motor going, Betsy Ann, he ordered, with some other mumbo-jumbo. Then the motor roared, and he and the engineer took off at double the speed you could make on high-test gas. Hey, there it is again. Doesn't look like Betsy Ann coming back, either. The something whizzed by again in the other direction, but lower and slower. It made a gigantic but erratic circle beyond the sheds and swooped back. It looked nothing like a helicopter. It looked like a Halloween decoration of a woman on a broomstick. As it came nearer, Hanson saw that it was a woman on a broomstick, flying erratically. She straightened out in a flat glide. She came in for a one-point landing a couple of yards away. The tip of the broom handle hit the ground, and she went sailing over it to land on her hands and knees. She got up, facing the shed. The woman was Nima. Her face was mask-like, her eyes tortured, she was staring searchingly around her, looking at every man. Nima, Hanson cried. She spun to face him and gasped. Her skin seemed to turn gray, and her eyes opened to double their normal size. She took one tottering step toward him, and halted. Illusion! She whispered hoarsely and slumped to the ground in a faint. She was reviving before he could raise her from the ground. She swayed a moment staring at him. You're not dead. What's so wonderful about that around here? He asked, but not with much interest. With the world going to pot, and only a few days left, the girl's face and the slim young body under it were about all the reality left worth thinking about. He grabbed for her, pulling her to him. Bertha had never made him feel like that. She managed to avoid his lips and slid away from him. But they used the snether-knife. Dave Hanson, you never died. It was only induced illusion by that... that... bork. And to think that I nearly died of grief while you were enjoying yourself here, you... you man-drake man! He grunted. He'd almost managed to forget what he was, and he didn't enjoy having the aircraft worker find out. He turned to see what the reaction was, and then stared open mouth to his surroundings. There were no lights from the plane factory. In fact, there was no plane factory. In the half-light of the sky he saw that the plant was gone. No men were left. There was only barren earth with a tiny, limp sapling in the middle of empty acres. What happened? Nima glanced around briefly inside. It's happening all over. They created the plain plant by the law of identities, from that little plain tree sapling, I suppose. It is a plain plant, after all. But, with the conjunctions and signs failing, all such creations are returning to their original form unless a spell is used continually over them. Even then sometimes we fail. Most of the projects vanished after the sun fell. Hanson remembered the man with whom he'd been talking before Nima appeared. He'd have liked to know such a man before death and revivification had ruined him. It wasn't fair that anyone with character enough to be that human, even as a zombie, should be wiped out without even a moment's consideration. Then he remembered the man's own estimate of his current situation. Maybe he was better off, returned to the death that had claimed him. Reluctantly he returned to his own problems. All right, then. If you thought I was dead, what are you doing here, Nima? I felt the compulsion begin even before I returned to the city. I thought I was going mad. I tried to forget you, but the compulsion grew until I could fight it no longer. She shuddered. It was a terrible flight. The carpets will not work at all now, and I could hardly control the broom. Sometimes it wouldn't lift, twice it sailed so high I could hardly breathe, and I had no hope of finding you, yet I went on. I've been flying when I could for three days now. Bork, of course, hadn't known of her spell with which she'd forced herself to want him well and truly. Apparently it had gone on operating even when she thought he was dead, and with a built-in sense of his direction. Well, she was here, and he wasn't sorry. Hanson took another look across the plains toward the glowing hell of the horizon. He reached for her and pulled her to him. She was firm and sweet against him, and she was trembling in response to his urging. At the last moment she pulled back. You forget yourself, Dave Hanson. I am a registered and certified virgin. My blood is needed for—for spells that won't work anyhow, he told her harshly. The sky isn't falling now, kid. It's down. Or most of it. But she hesitated, then let herself come a trifle closer. Her voice was doubtful. It's true that our spells are failing. Not even the surest magic is reliable. The world has gone mad, and even magic is no longer trustworthy, but— He was just pulling her close enough again, and feeling her arms lift to his neck, when the ground shook behind them, and there was a sound of great, jarring, thudding steps. Hanson jerked around to see a great rock making its landing run, heading straight for them. The huge bird braked savagely, barely stopping before they were under its feet. From its back a ladder of some flexible material snaked down, and men began descending. The first were mandrakes in the uniform of the Sathari, all carrying weapons with evil-looking blades or sharp stickers. The last man off was Bork. He came toward Hanson and Nima, with a broad grin on his face. The great rock's hard-drumming wings set up a constant sound of rushing air, and the distance flowed behind them. There was the rush of wind all around them, but on the bird's back they were in an area where everything seemed calm. Only when Hanson looked over toward the ground was he fully conscious of the speed they were making. From the height he could see where the sun had landed. It was sinking slowly into the earth, lying in a great, fused hole. For miles around, smaller drops of the three-mile diameter sun had spattered, and were etching deeper holes in the pitted landscape. Then they began passing over desolate country, scoured by winds, gloomy from the angry glaring clouds above. Once, two bodies went hurtling upwards toward the great gaps in the sky. Those risings were from men who were no worshipers of the eggs hatching. Bork commented. It's spreading. Something is drawing them up from all over the planet. Later, half a square mile of the shell cracked off. The rock squawked harshly, but it had learned and had been watching above. By a frantic effort of the great wings it missed their hurtling chunk. They dropped a few thousand feet in the winds that followed the piece of sky, but their altitude was still safe. Then they passed over a town, flying low. The sights below were out of a ghoul's back and alia. As the rock swept over, the people stopped their frenzied pursuit of sensation and ran for weapons. A cloud of arrows hissed upwards, all fortunately too late. They blame all their troubles on the magicians, Bork explained. They've been shooting at everything that flies. Not a happy time to associate with the Sathari, is it? Nima drew further back from him. We're not all cowards like you. Only rats desert a sinking ship. Nobody thought it was sinking when I deserted, Bork reminded her. Anyhow, if you'd been using your eyes and seen the way we are travelling, you'd know I've rejoined the crew. I've made up with the Sather carf, and at a time like this our great grandfather was glad to have me back. Nima rushed toward him in delight, but Hanson wasn't convinced. Why, he asked. Bork sobered. One of the corpses that fell back from the rising's added a word to what the others had said. No, I'll bear the weight of it myself, and not burden you with it. But I'm convinced now that this egg should not hatch. I had doubts before, unlike our friend Malak, who also heard the words, but it's doubly the fanatic now. Perhaps the hatching cannot be stopped, but I've decided that I am a man, and must fight like one against the fates. So though I still oppose much that the Satheri have done, I've gone back to them. We'll be at the camp of the Sather carf shortly. But so'd everything up neatly, Hanson thought. Before he had been torn between two alternatives. Now there was only one, and he had no choice. He could never trust the sons of the egg with Bork turned against them. He stared up at the sky, realizing that more than half of it had already fallen. The rest seemed too weak to last much longer. It probably didn't make much difference what he did now or who had him. Time was running out for this world. The light was dimmer by the time they reached the great capital city, or what was left of it. They had left the Sunpire far to the south. The air was growing cold already. The rock flew low over the city. The few people on the streets looked up and made threatening gestures, but there was no flight of arrows from the ground. Probably the men below had lost even the strength to hate. It was hard to see, since there was no electric lighting system now, but it seemed to Hanson that only the oldest and ugliest buildings were still standing. Honest stone and metal could survive, but the work of magic was no longer safe. One of the remaining buildings seemed to be a hospital, and the empty space in front of it was crammed with people. Most of them seemed to be dead or unconscious. Squat mandrakes were carrying off bodies toward a great fire that was burning in another square. Plague and pestilence had apparently gotten out of hand. They flew on, beyond the city, toward the construction camp that had been Hanson's headquarters. The rock was beginning to drop into a long landing-glide, and details below were easier to see. Along the beach beyond the city, a crowd had collected. They had a fire going, and were preparing to cook one of the mermaids. A fight was already going on over the prey. Food must have been exhausted days before. The camp was a mess when they reached it. One section had been ripped down by the lash of wind from a huge piece of the sky, which now lay among the ruins with a few stars glowing inside it. There was a brighter glow beyond. Apparently one blob of material from the sun had been tossed all the way here, and had landed against a huge rock to spatter into fragments. The heat from those fragments cut through the chill in the air, and the glow furnished light for most of the camp. The tents had been burned, but there was a new building where the main tent had been. This was obviously a hasty construction job, thrown together of rocks and tree trunks without the use of magic. It was more of an enormous lean-to than a true building, but it was the best protection now available. Hanson could see Sather Carve and Sir Cigarme waiting outside, together with less than a hundred other warlocks. The Mandrakes prodded Hanson down from the rock and toward the new building, then left at a wave of the Sather Carve's hand. The old man stared at Hanson intently, but his expression was unreadable. He seemed to have aged a thousand years. Finally he lifted his hand in faint greeting, sighed, and dropped slowly to a seat. His face seemed to collapse, with the iron running out of it. He looked like a beaten, sick, old man. His voice was toneless. Fix the sky, Dave Hanson. There were angry murmurs from other warlocks in the background, but Sather Carve shook his head slowly, still facing Hanson. No. What good to threaten dire punishments, or to torture you when another day or week will see the end of everything. What good to demand your reasons for desertion when time is so short. Fix the sky, and claim what reward you will afterwards. We have few powers now that the basis of astrology is ruined. But repair our sky, and we can reward you beyond your dreams. We can find ways to return you to your own world intact. You have near immortality now. We can fill that entire lifetime with pleasures. We'll give you jewels to buy an empire. Or if it is vengeance against whatever you feel we are, you shall know my secret name and the name of everyone here. Do with us then what you like. But fix the sky. It shook Hanson. He had been prepared to face fury, or to try lying his way out if there was a chance, with some story of having needed to study Menace's methods, or of being lost. But he had no defense prepared against such an appeal. It was utterly mad. He could do nothing, and their demands were impossible. But before the picture of the world dying and the decay of the old Sather's pride, even Hanson's own probable death with the dying world seemed unimportant. He might at least give them something to hope for while the end came. Maybe, he said slowly, maybe if all of the men you brought here to work on the problem were to pool their knowledge, we might still find the answer. How long will it take to get them here for a counsel? Sir Perth appeared from the group. Hanson had thought the man dead in the ruins of the pyramid, but somehow he had survived. The fat was going from his face, and his mustache was untrimmed, but he was uninjured. He shook his head sadly. Most have disappeared with their projects. Two escaped us. Menace is dead. Calliostro tricked us successfully. You are all we have left, and we can't even supply labour beyond those you see here. The people no longer obey us, since we have no food to give them. You're the only hope, Bork agreed. They've saved what they could of the tools from the camp and what magical instruments are still useful. They've held on only for your return. Hanson stared at them, and around at the collection of brick-a-brack and machinery they had assembled for him. He opened his mouth, and his laughter was a mockery of their hopes and of himself. Dave Hanson, world saver! You got the right name, but the wrong man, Sather Karf, he said bitterly. He'd been a pretender long enough, and what punitive action they took now didn't seem to matter. You wanted my uncle, David Arnold Hanson. But because his friends called him Dave and cut that name on his monument, and because I was christened by the name you called, you got me instead. He'd have been helpless here, probably, but with me you have no chance. I couldn't even build a dog-house. I wasn't even a construction engineer, just a computer operator and repairman. He regretted ruining their hopes almost as he said it. But he could see no change on the old Sather's face. It seemed to stiffen slightly and become more thoughtful, but there was no disappointment. "'My grandson Borg told me all that,' he said. "'Yet your name was on the monument, and we drew you back by its use. Our ancient prophecy declared that we should find omnipotence carved on stone in a pool of water as we found your name. Therefore by the laws of rational magic it is you to whom nothing is impossible. We may have mistaken the direction of your talent, but nonetheless it is you who must fix the sky. What form of wonder is a computer?' Dave shook his head at the old man's monomania. Just a tool. It's a little hard to explain, and it couldn't help. Humour my curiosity, then. What is a computer, Dave Hanson?' Nima's hand rested on Hanson's arm pleadingly, and he shrugged. He groped about for some answer that could be phrased in their language, letting his mind flicker from the modern electronic gadgets back to the old-time tide predictor. An analog computer is a machine that sets up conditions mathematically similar to the conditions in some problem, and then lets all the operations proceed while it draws a graph, a prediction, of how the real conditions would turn out. If the tides change with the position of some heavenly body, then we can build cams that have shapes, like the effect of the moon's orbit, and gear them together in the right order. If there are many factors, we have a cam for each factor, shaped like the periodic rise and fall of that factor. They're all geared to let the various factors operate at the proper relative rate. With such a machine, we can run off a graph of the tides for years ahead. Oh, hell, it's a lot more complicated than that, but it takes the basic facts and draws a picture of the results. We use electronic ones now, but the results are the same. I understand, Sather Karf said. Dave doubted it, but he was happy to be saved from struggling with a more detailed explanation, and maybe the old man did understand some of it. He was no fool in his own subject, certainly. Sather Karf pondered for a moment, and then nodded with apparent satisfaction. Your world was more advanced in understanding than I had thought. This computer is a fine scientific instrument obeying natural law well. We have applied the same methods, though less elaborately, but the basic magical principle of similarity is the foundation of true science. Dave started to protest and then stopped, frowning. In a way what the other had said was true. Maybe there was some relation between science and magic after all. There might even be a meeting-ground between the laws of the two worlds he knew. Computers set up similar conditions with the idea that the results would apply to the original. Magic used some symbolic part of a thing in manipulations that were to be effective for the real thing. The essential difference was that science was predictive and magic was effective, though the end results were often the same. On Dave's world the cardinal rule of logic was that the symbol was not the thing, and work done on symbols had to be translated by hard work into reality. Maybe things were really more logical here, where the symbol was the thing, and all the steps in between thought and result were saved. So, we are all at fault, Sather Karve said finally. We should have studied you more deeply, and you should have been more honest with us. Then we could have obtained a computer for you, and you could have simulated our sky as it should be within your computer and forced it to be repaired long ago. But there's no time for regrets now. We cannot help you, so you must help yourself. Build a computer, Dave Hanson. It's impossible. Sudden rage burned on the old man's face, and he came to his feet. His arm jerked back and snapped forward. Nothing happened. He grimaced at the ruined sky. Dave Hanson, he cried sharply, by the unfailing power of your name which is all of you I hold you in my mind and your throat is in my hand. The old man squeezed suddenly, and Hanson felt a vice clamp down around his throat. He tried to break free, but there was no escape. The old man mumbled, and the vice was gone. But something clawed at Hanson's liver, something else rasped across his sciatic nerve. His kidneys seemed to be wrenched out of him. You will build a computer, Sather Karve ordered, and you will save our world. Hanson staggered from the shock of the pain. But he was no longer unused to agony. He had spent too many hours under the baking of the sun, the agony of the snether-knife, and the lash of an overseer's whip. The agony could not be stopped, but he'd learned that it could be endured. His fantastic body could heal itself against whatever they did to him, and his mind refused to accept the torture supinely. He took a step towards Sather Karve, and another. His hands came up as he moved forward. Bork laughed suddenly. Let up, Sather Karve, or you'll regret it. By the laws you're dealing with a man this time. Let up, or I'll free him to meet you fairly. The old man's eyes blazed hotly. Then he sighed and relaxed. The clutching hands and the pain were gone from Hanson as the Sather Karve slumped back wearily to his seat. Fix our sky, the old man said woodenly. Hanson staggered back, panting from his efforts. But he nodded. All right, he agreed. Like Bork, I think a man has to fight against his fate, no matter how little chance he has. I'll do what I can. I'll build the damned computer. But when I'm finished, I'll wait for your true name. Suddenly Sather Karve laughed. Well said Dave Hanson. You'll have my name when the time comes, and whatever else you desire. Also, what poor help we can give you now. Sir Perth, bring food for Dave Hanson. Sir Perth shook his head sadly. There is none, not at all. We hoped that the remaining planets would find a favourable conjunction, but— Dave Hanson studied his helpers with more bitterness. Oh, hell! he said at last. He snapped his fingers. Abracadabra! His skill must be improving, since he got exactly what he had wished for. A full side of beef materialized against his palm, almost breaking his arm before he could snap it out of the way. The others swarmed hungrily toward it. At their expressions of wonder Hanson felt more confidence returning to him. He concentrated and went through the little ritual again. This time loaves of bread rained down, fresh bread, and even of the brand he had wished for. Maybe he was becoming a magician himself with a new magic that might still accomplish something. Sather Karve smiled approvingly. The theory of resonance I see. Unreliable, generally. More of an art than a science. But you show promise of remarkable natural ability to apply it. You know about it? Dave had assumed that it was completely outside their experience and procedures. We knew it. But when more advanced techniques took over most of us forgot it. The syllables resonate in a sound pattern with your world, to which you also still resonate. It won't work for you with anything from this world, nor will anything work thus for us from yours. We had different syllables, of course, for use here. Sather Karve considered it. But if you can control it, and bring in one of your computers, or the parts for one... Sixteen tries later, Dave was cursing as he stared at a pile of useless items. He'd gotten transistors at first. Then he lost control with too much tension or fatigue, and began getting a bunch of assorted junk, such as old 201A tubes, a transit, a crystal vase, and resistors. But the chief trouble was that he couldn't secure working batteries. He had managed a few, but all were dead. Like the soul, electrical charges will not transfer. Sather Karve agreed sadly. I should have told you that. There was no electricity here with which to power anything, and their spells could not be made to work now. Even if he could build a computer out of what was obtainable, there would be no way to power it. Overhead the sky shattered with a roar, and another piece fell, tearing downwards toward the city. Sir Segarme stared upwards in horror. Mars, he croaked, Mars has fallen! Now there can be no conjunction ever. He tautened, and his body rose slowly from the ground, a scream ripped from his lips, and faded away as he began rushing upwards with increasing speed. He passed out of their sight, toward the new hole in the sky. 9. In the hours that followed, Dave's vague plans changed a dozen times as he found each idea unworkable. His emotional balance was also erratic, though that was natural, since the stars were completely berserk in what was left of the sky. He seemed to fluctuate between bitter sureness of doom and a stupidly optimistic belief that something could be done to avert that doom. But whatever his mood, he went on working and scheming furiously. Maybe it was the desperate need to keep himself occupied that drove him, or perhaps it was the pleading he saw in the eyes around him. In the end, determination conquered his pessimism. Somewhere in the combination of the science he had learned in his own world and the technique of magic that applied here, there had to be an answer, or a means to hold back the end of the world until an answer could be found. The biggest problem was the number of factors with which he had to deal. There were seven planets and the sun and three thousand fixed stars. All had to be ordered in their courses, and the sky had to be complete in his calculations. He had learned his trade where the answer was always to add one more circuit in increasing complexity. Now he had to think of the simplest possible similarity computer. Electronics was out, obviously. He tried to design a set of cams like the Tide Machine to make multiple tracings on paper similar to a continuous horoscope but finally gave it up. They couldn't build the parts, even if there had been time. He had to depend on what was available, since magic couldn't produce any needed device, and since the people here had depended on magic too long to develop the other necessary skills. When only the broadest powers of magic remained, they were hopeless. Names were still potent, resonance worked within its limits, and the general principles of similarity still applied. But those were not enough for them. They depended too heavily on the second great principle of contagion, and that seemed to be wrapped up with some kind of association through the signs and houses and the courses of the planets. He found himself thinking in circles of worry and pulled himself back to his problem. Normally a computer was designed for flexibility and to handle varying conditions. This one could be designed to handle only one set of factors. It had to duplicate the courses of the objects in their sky and simulate the general behavior of the dome. It was not necessary to allow for all theoretical courses, but only for the normal orbits. And finally, he realized that he was thinking of a model, the one thing which is functionally the perfect analog. It brought him back to magic again. Make a doll like a man, and stick pins in it, and the man dies. Make a model of the universe within the sky, and any changes in that should change reality. The symbol was the thing, and a model was obviously a symbol. He began trying to plan a model with three thousand stars in their orbits, trying to find some simple way of moving them. The others watched in fascination. They apparently felt that the diagrams he was drawing were some kind of scientific spell. Sir Perth was closer than the others, studying the marks he made. The man suddenly pointed to his computations. Over and over I find the figure seven, and the figure three thousand. I assume that the seven represents the planets, but what is the other figure? The stars, Hanson told him impatiently. Sir Perth shook his head. That is wrong. There were only two thousand seven hundred and eighty one before the beginnings of our trouble. And I suppose you've got the exact orbits of every one, Hanson asked. He couldn't see that the difference was going to help much. Naturally, they are fixed stars, which means they move with the sky. Otherwise, why call them fixed stars? Only the sun and the planets move through the sky. The stars move with the sky over the world as a unity. Dave grunted at his own stupidity. That really simplified things, since it meant only one control for all of them and the sky itself. But designing a machine to handle the planets and the sun, while a lot simpler, was still a complex problem. With time it would have been easy enough, but there was no time for trial and error. He ripped up his plans and began a new set. He'd need a glass sphere with dots on it for the stars, and some kind of levers to move the planets and sun. It would be something like the aurories he'd seen used for demonstrations of planetary movement. Sir Perth came over again, staring down at the sketch. He drowned in doubt. Why waste time drawing such engines? If you want a model to determine how the orbits should be, we have the finest aurory ever built here in the camp. We brought it with us when we moved, since it would be needed to determine how the sky should be repaired, and to bring the time and the positions into congruence. Wait! He dashed off, calling two of the mandrakes after him. In a few minutes they staggered back under a bulky affair in a protective plastic case. Sir Perth ripped off the case to reveal the aurory to Hanson. It was a beautiful piece of workmanship. There was an enormous sphere of thin crystal to represent the sky. Precious gems showed the stars affixed to the dome. The hole was nearly eight feet in diameter. Inside the crystal Hanson could see a model of the world on jeweled bearing supports. The planets and the sun were set on tracks around the outside, with a clockwork drive mechanism that moved them by means of stranded spider web cords. Power came from weights, like those used on an old-fashioned clock. It was obviously all handwork, which must make it a thing of tremendous value here. Sather Farreth spent his life designing this, Sir Perth said proudly. It is so well designed that it can show the position of all things for a thousand centuries in the past or future by turning these cranks on the control, or it will hold the proper present positions for years from its own engine. It's beautiful workmanship, Hanson told him, as good as the best done on my world. Sir Perth went away, temporarily pleased with himself, and Hanson stood staring at the model. It was as good as he'd said it was, and completely damning to all of his theories and hopes. No model he could make would equal it. But in spite of it and all its precise analogy to the universe around him, the sky was still falling in shattered bits. Sather, Carth and Bork had come over to join Hanson. They waited expectantly, but Hanson could think of nothing to do. It had already been done, and had failed. The old man dropped a hand on his shoulder. There was the weight of all his centuries on the Sather, yet a curious toughness showed through his weariness. What is wrong with the orery, he asked. Nothing. Nothing at all, dammit, Hanson told him. You wanted a computer, and you've got it. You can feed in data as to the hour, day, month, and year turn the cranks, and the planets there will turn to their proper position exactly as the real planets should run. You don't need to read the results off graph paper. What more could any analog computer do? But it doesn't influence the sky. It was never meant to, the old man said, surprised in his voice. Such power! Then he stopped, staring at Hanson, while something almost like awe spread over his face. Yet the prophecy and the monument were right. You have unlocked the impossible. Yet you seem to know nothing of the laws of similarity of magic, Dave Hanson. Is that crystal similar to the sky by association, by contagion, or by true symbolism? A part may be a symbol for the whole, or so may any designated symbol, which may influence the thing it is. If I have a hair from your head, I can model you with power over you, but not with the hair of a pig. That is no true symbol. Suppose we substituted bits of the real thing for these representations, Hanson asked. Bork nodded. It might work. I have heard you found the sky material could be melted, and we've got enough of that where it struck the camp. Any one of us who had studied elementary alchemy could blow a globe of it to the right size for the sky dome. And there are a few stars from which we can chip pieces enough. We can polish them and put them into the sphere where they belong. And it will be risky, but we may even be able to shape a bit of the sun-stuff to represent the great orb in the sky. What about the planets? Hanson was beginning to feel the depression lift. You might get a little of Mars, since it fell near here, but that still leaves the other six. That, long associated with a thing, achieves the nature of the thing, Sather Karfin toned as if giving a lesson to a kindergarten student. With the right colors, metals, and bits of jewels, as well as more secret symbols, we can simulate the planets. Yet they cannot be suspended above the dome, as in this orary. They must be within the sky, as in nature. How about putting some iron in each, and using a magnet on the control-tracks to move the planets? Hanson suggested. Or does cold iron ruin your conjuring here? Sather Karfin snorted an obvious disgust, but Bork only grinned. Why should it? You must have heard peasant superstitions. Still, you'd have a problem if two tracks met as they do. The magnets would then affect both planets alike. Better make two identical planets for each, and two suns, and put one on your track-controls. Then one must follow the other, though the one remain within the sky. Hanson nodded. He'd have to shield the cord from the sun-stuff, but that could be done. He wondered idly whether the real universe was going to wind up with tracks beyond the sky on which little duplicate planets ran. Just how much similarity would there be between model and reality when this was done, if it worked at all? It probably didn't matter, and it could hardly be worse than whatever the risers had run into beyond the whole in the present sky. Metaphysics was a subject with which he wasn't yet fully prepared to cope. The model of the world inside the orary must have been made from earthly materials already, and it was coloured to depict land and sea areas. It could probably be used. At their agreement he nodded with some satisfaction. That should save some time at least. He stared doubtfully at the rods and bearings that supported the model world in the centre of the orary. What about those things? How do we hold the globe in the centre of everything? Bork shrugged. It seems simple enough. We'll fashion supports of more of the sky material. And have real rods sticking up from the poles in the real universe? Hanson asked sarcastically. Why not? Bork seemed surprised at Hanson's tone. There have always been such columns connecting the world and the sky. What else would keep us from falling? Hanson swore. He might have guessed it. The only wonder was that simple rods were used instead of elephants and turtles. And the doubly damned fools had let menace drive millions of slaves to death to build a pyramid to the sky when there were already natural columns that could have been used. There remains only one step, Sathercarve decided after a moment more. To make symbol and thing congruent all must be invoked with the true and secret name of the universe. Hanson suddenly remembered legends of the tetragrammaton and the tales of magic he'd read in which there was always one element lacking. And I suppose nobody knows that or dares to use it. There was hurt pride in the aged face and the ring of vast authority in his voice. Then you suppose wrong, Dave Hanson. Since the world first came out of duality, a Sathercarve has known that mystery. Make your device, and I shall not fail in the invocation. For the first time, Hanson discovered that the warlocks could work when they had to, however much they disliked it. And at their own specialties they were superb technicians. Under the orders of Sathercarve, the camps sprang into frenzied but orderly activity. They lost a few mandrakes in prying loose some of the sun material, and more in getting a small sphere of its shape. But the remainder gave them the heat to melt the sky stuff. When it came to glassblowing, Hanson had to admit they were experts. It should have come as no surprise, after the elaborate alchemical apparatus he'd seen. Once the crystal shell was cracked out of the orery, a flat-faced sir came in with a long tube and began working the molten sky material, getting the feel of it. He did things Hanson knew were nearly impossible, and he did them with the calm assurance of an expert. Even when another rift in the sky appeared with a crackling of thunder, there was no faltering on his part. The sky shell and world supports were blown into shape around the world model inside the outer tracks in one continuous operation. The sir then clipped the stuff from his tube and sealed the tiny opening smoothly with a bit of sun material on the end of a long metal wand. Interesting material, he commented, as if only the technical nature of the stuff had offered any problem to him. Tiny, carefully polished chips from the stars were ready, and men began placing them delicately on the shell. They sank into it at once and began twinkling. The planets had also been prepared, and they also went into the shell, while a mate to each was attached to the tracking mechanism. The tiny sun came last. Hanson fretted as he saw it sink into the shell, sure it would begin to melt the sky material. It seemed to have no effect, however. Apparently, the sun was not supposed to melt the sky when it was in place. So the little sun didn't melt the shell. Once he was sure of that, he used a scrap of the sky to insulate the second little sun that would control the first sympathetically from the track. He moved the control delicately by hand, and the little sun followed dutifully. The weights on the control mechanism were in place, Hanson noted. Someone would probably have to keep them wound from now on, unless they could devise a foolproof motor. But that was for the future. He bent to the hand-cranks. Sather Karf was being called to give the exact settings for this moment, but Hanson had a rough idea of where the planet should be. He began turning the crank just as the Sather came up. There was a slight movement. Then the crank stuck, and there was a whirring of slipping gears. The fools who had moved the aurory must have been so careless that they'd sprung the mechanism. He bent down to study the tiny jeweled gears. A whole gear-train was out of place. Sather Karf was also inspecting it, and the words he cried didn't sound like an invocation, though they were strange enough. He straightened, still cursing. Fix it. I'll try, Hanson agreed doubtfully. But you'd better get the man who made this. He'll know better than I. He was killed in the first cracking of the sky when a piece hit him. Fix it, Dave Hanson. You claim to be a repairman for such devices. Hanson bent to study it again, using a diamond lens one of the warlocks handed him. It was a useful device, having about a hundred times magnification without the need for exact focusing. He stared at the jumble of fine gears, then glanced out through the open front of the building toward the sky. There was even less of it showing than he had remembered. Most of the great dome was empty, and now there were suggestions of shadows in the empty spots. He looked away hastily, shaken. I'll need some fine tools, he said. They were lost in moving this, Sir Perth told him. This is the best we can do. The jumble of tools had obviously been salvaged from the kits on the tractors in the camp. There was one fairly small pair of pliers, a small pick, and a sorted useless junk. He shook his head hopelessly. Fix it, Sather Karf ordered again. The old man's eyes were also on the sky. You have ten minutes, perhaps. No more. Hanson's fingers steadied as he found bits of wire and began improvising tools to manipulate the tiny gears. The mechanism was a piece of superb craftsmanship that should have lasted for a million years, but it had never meant to withstand the heavy shock of being dropped as it must have been. And there was very little space inside. It should have been disassembled and put back piece by piece, but there was no time for that. Another thunder of falling sky sounded, and the ground heaved. Earthquakes! Sather Karf whispered. The end is near. Then a shout went up, and Hanson jerked his eyes from the gears to focus on a group of rocks that were landing at the far end of the camp. Men were springing from their backs before they stopped running. Men in dull robes with elaborate masks over their faces. At the front was Malak, leader of the sons of the egg, brandishing his knife. His voice carried clearly. The egg hatches, to the oary and smash it. That was the shadow in the pool destroyed before Dave Hanson can complete his magic. The men behind him yelled. Around Hanson the magicians cried out in shocked fear. Then old Sather Karf was dashing out from under the cover of the building, brandishing a pole on which a drop of the sun's stuff was glowing. His voice rose into a command that rang out over the cries of the others. Dave reached for a heavy hammer, meaning to follow. The old Sather seemed to sense it without looking back. Fix the engine, Dave Hanson, he called. It made sense. The others could do the fighting, but only he had training with such mechanisms. He turned back to his work, just as the warlocks began rallying behind Sather Karf, grabbing up what weapons they could find. There was no magic in this fight. Sticks, stones, hammers, and knives were all that remained workable. Dave Hanson bent over the gears, cursing. Now there was another rumble of thunder from the falling sky. The half light from the reflected sunlight dimmed, and the ground shook violently. Another set of gears broke from the housing. Hanson caught up a bit of sun stuff on the sharp point of the awl and brought it closer until it burned his hands. But he had seen enough. The mechanism was ruined beyond his chance to repair it in time. He slapped the cover shut and stuck the sun-tipped awl where it would light as much of the awry as possible. As always the skills of his own world had failed. To the blazes with it, then. When in magic land, magic had to do. He thought of calling Sir Perth or Sather Karf, but there was no time for that, and they could hardly have heard him over the sounds of the desperate fight going on. He bent to the floor, searching until he found a ball of the sky material that had been pinched off when the little opening was sealed. Further hunting gave him a few bits of dust from the star bits and some of the junk that had gone into shaping the planets. He brushed in some dirt from the ground that had been touched by the sun stuff and was still glowing faintly. He wasn't at all sure of how much he could extrapolate from what he'd read in the book on applied semantics, but he knew he needed a control, a symbol of the symbol in this case. It was crude, but it might serve to represent the awry. He clutched it in his hand and touched it against the awry, trying to remember the formula for the giving of a true name. He had to improvise, but he got through a rough version of it until he came to the end. I, who created you, name you—what the doosity name it? I name you Rumpelstiltskin, and order you to obey me when I call you by your name. He clutched the blob of material tighter in his hand, mentally trying to shape an order that wouldn't backfire, as such orders seem to in the childhood stories of magic he had learned. Finally his lips whispered the simplest order he could find. Rumpelstiltskin, repair yourself. There was a whirring and scraping inside the mechanism, and Hanson let out a yell. He got only a hasty glimpse of gears that seemed to be back on their tracks before Sather Karf was beside him driving the cranks with desperate speed. We have less than a minute, the old voice gasped. The Sather's fingers spun the controls. Then he straightened, moving his hands toward the aurory and passes too rapid to be seen. There was a string of obvious ritual commands in their sacred language. Then a single word rang out, a string of sounds that should have come from no human vocal cords. There was a wrench and twist through every atom of Hanson's body. The universe seemed to cry out. Over the horizon a great burning disc rose and leaped toward the heavens as the sun went back to its place in the sky. The big bits of sky stuff around also jerked upwards, revealing themselves by the wind they whipped up and by the holes they ripped through the roof of the building. Hanson clutched the scrappy it pocketed, but it showed no sign of leaving, and the tiny blob of sun stuff remained fixed to the all. Through the diamond lens, Hanson could see the model of the world in the aurory changing. There were clouds apparently painted on it, where no clouds had been, and there was an indication of movement in the green of the forests and the blue of the oceans as if trees were whipping in the wind and waves lapping the shores. When he jerked his eyes upward, all seemed serene in the sky. Sunlight shone normally on the world, and from under the roof he could see the gaudy blue of sky, complete, with the cracks in it smoothing out as he watched. The battle outside had stopped with the rising of the sun. Half the warlocks were lying motionless, the other half had clustered together close to the building where Hanson and Sather Carve stood. The sons of the egg seemed to have suffered less, since they greatly outnumbered the others, but they were obviously more shocked by the rising of the sun and the healing of the sky. Then Malick's voice rang out sharply, it isn't stable yet, destroy the machine, the egg must hatch! He leaped forward, brandishing his knife, while the sons of the egg fell in behind him. The warlocks began to close ranks, falling back to make a stand under the jutting edge of the roof where they could protect the aurory. Bork and Sir Perth were among them, bloody but hopelessly determined. One look at Sather Carve's expression was enough to convince Hanson that Malick had cried the truth, and that their work could still be undone. And it was obvious that the warlocks could never stand the charge of the sons. Too many of them had already been killed, and there was no time for reviving them. Sather Carve was starting forward into the battle, but Hanson made no move to follow. He snapped the diamond lens to his eye, and his fingers caught at the drop of sun-staff on the awl. He had to hold it near the glowing bit for steadiness, and it began searing his fingers. He forced control on his muscles, and plunged his hand slowly through the sky sphere, easing the glowing blob downward toward the spot on the globe he had already located with the lens. His thumb and finger moved downward delicately, with all the skill of practice at working with nearly invisible fine wires on delicate instruments. Then he jerked his eyes away from the model and looked out. Something glaring and hot was suspended in the air five miles away. He moved his hand carefully, steadying it on one of the planet tracks. The glowing fire in the air outside moved another mile closer than another. And now, around it, he could see a monstrous fingertip, and something that might have been miles of thumbnail. The warlocks leaped back under the roof. The sons of the egg screamed and panicked. Jerking horribly, the monstrous thing moved again. For part of a second it hovered over the empty camp. Then it was gone. Hanson began pulling his hand out through the shell of the model, whimpering as his other hand clenched against the blob in his pocket. He had suddenly realized what horrors were possible to anyone who could use the orery now. Rumpelstiltskin, I command you to let no other hand than mine enter and to respond to no other controls. He hoped it would offer enough protection. His hand came free, and he threw the sun-bit away with a flick of his wrist. His hand ached with the impossible task of steadiness he had set it, and his finger and thumb burned and smoked, but the wound was already healing. In the exposed section of the camp, the sons of the egg were charred corpses. There was a fire starting on the roof of the building, but others had already run out to quench that. It sounded like the snuffling progress of an undine across the roof. Maybe magic was working again. Bork turned back from the sight of his former companions. His face was sick, but he managed to grin at Hanson. Dave Hanson, to whom nothing is impossible, he said. Hanson had located Neema finally as she approached. He caught her hand and grabbed Bork's arm. Like his own, it was trembling with fatigue and reaction. Come on, he said. Let's find some place where we can see whether it's impossible now for you to magic up a decent meal, and a drink strong enough to scare away the sylphs. The sylph that found them wasn't scared by the scotch, but there was enough for all of them. Three days can work magic, in a world where magic works. The planets swung along their paths again, and the sun was in the most favourable house for conjuration. The universe was stable again. There was food for all, and houses had been conjured hastily to shelter the people. The plagues were gone. Now the strange commerce and industry of this world were humming again. Those who had survived, and those who could be revived, were busily rebuilding. Some were missing, of course. Those who had risen and hatched were beyond recall, but no one spoke of them. If any sons of the egg survived, they were quiet in their defeat. Hanson had been busy during most of the time. It had been taken for granted that he would tend to the orery, setting it for the most favourable conditions when some special and major work of magic required it, and he had taken the orders and moved the controls as they wanted them. The orery was housed temporarily in the reconstituted hall of the Sathari in the capital city. They were building a new hall for it, to be constructed only of natural materials and hand labour, but that was a project that would take long months still. Now the immediate pressure was gone, and Hanson was relaxing with Bork and Neema. Another week, Bork was saying, maybe less, and then gangs of the warlocks can spread out to fix up all the rest of the world, and to take over control of their slaves again. Are you happy with your victory, Dave Hanson? Hanson shrugged. He wasn't entirely sure now. There was something in the looks of the Sathar who gave him orders for new settings that bothered him, and some of the developments he watched were hardly what he would have preferred. The warlocks had good memories, it seemed, and there had been manifold offences against them while the world was falling apart. He tried to put it out of his mind as he drew Neema to him. She snuggled against him, admiring him with her eyes. But old habits were hard to break. Don't, Dave. I'm a registered and certified— She stopped then, blushing, and Bork chuckled. Sir Perth appeared at the doorway with two of the mandrakes. He motioned to Hanson. The Council of Sathari want you, he said. His eyes avoided the other, and he seemed uncomfortable. Why? Bork asked. It's time for Dave Hanson's reward, Sir Perth said. The words were smooth enough, but the eyes turned away again. Hanson got up and moved forward. He had been wondering when they would get around to this. Beside him, Bork and Neema also rose. Never trust a sather, Bork said softly. Neema started to protest, then changed her mind. She frowned, torn between old and new loyalties. The summons was only for Dave Hanson, Sir Perth said sternly as the three drew up to him. But as Hanson took the arms of the other two, the sir shrugged and fell in behind. Very softly, too low for the hearing of the mandrakes, his words sounded in Hanson's ear. Guard yourself, Dave Hanson. So, there was to be treachery, Hanson thought. He wasn't surprised. He was probably lucky to have even three friends. The Sathari would hardly feel very grateful to a mandrake man who had accomplished something beyond their power now that the crisis was over. They had always been a high-handed bunch, apparently, and he had served his purpose. But he covered his thoughts in a neutral expression and went forward quietly toward the huge council room. The seventy leading Sathari were all present, with Sathar Karf presiding when Hanson was ushered into their presence. He moved down the aisle, not glancing at the seated Sathari, until he was facing the old man, drawing Neema and Bork with him. There were murmurs of protest, but nobody stopped him. Above him, the eyes of Sathar Karf were uncertain. For a moment there seemed to be a touch of friendliness and respect in them. But there was something else than Hanson liked far less. Any warmth that was there vanished at his first words. It's about time, Hanson said flatly. When you wanted your world saved you were free enough with offers of reward, but three days have passed without mention of it. Sathar Karf, I demand your secret name. He heard Neema gasp, but felt Bork's fingers press against his arm reassuringly. There was a rising mutter of shock and anger from the others, but he lifted his voice over it. And the secret names of all those present. That was also part of the promised reward. And do you think you could use the names, Dave Hanson? Sathar Karf asked. Against the weight of all our knowledge do you think you could become our master that easily? Hanson had his own doubts. There were counter-magical methods against nearly all magic, and the book he had read had been only an elementary one. But he nodded. I think with your name I could get my hands on your hearts, even if you did your worst. It doesn't matter, I claim my reward. And you shall have it. The word of Sathar Karf is good, the old man told him, but there was no mention of when you would be given those names. You said that when the computer was finished you would wait for my true name, and I promised that you should have it when the time came. But not what the time would be. So you will wait, or the agreement shall be broken by you, not by me. When you are dying, or otherwise beyond power over us, you shall have the names, Dave Hanson. No, hear me." He lifted his hand in a brief gesture, and Hanson felt a thickness over his lips that made speech impossible. We have discussed your reward, and you shall indeed have it, Sathar Karf went on, exactly as I promised it to you. I agreed to find ways to return you to your own world intact, and you shall be returned. For a moment the thickness seemed to relax, and Hanson choked a few words out through it. What's the world of a Mandrake man, Sathar Karf, a Mandrake swamp? For a Mandrake man, yes, but not for you. There was something like amusement in the old man's voice. I never said you were a Mandrake man. That was told you by Sir Perth, who knew no better. No, Dave Hanson, you were too important to us for that. Mandrake men are always less than true men, and we needed your best. You were conjured atom by atom, id and ka and soul from your world. Even the soul may be brought over with enough masters of magic work together, and you were our greatest conjuration. Even then we almost failed. But you're no Mandrake man. A load of sickness seemed to leave Hanson's mind. He had never fully realized how much the shame of what he thought himself to be had weighed on him. Then his mind adjusted to the new facts, dismissing his past worries. I promised you that we would fill your entire lifetime with pleasures, Sathar Karf went on, and you were assured of jewels to buy an empire. All this the Council is prepared to give you. Are you ready for your reward? No. Bork's cry broke out before Hanson could answer. The big man was writhing before he could finish the word, but his own fingers were working in conjurations that seemed to hold back enough of the spells against him to let him speak. Dave Hanson, your world was a world of rigid laws. You died there, and there would be no magic to avoid the fact that there you must always be dead. Hanson's eyes riveted on the face of Sathar Karf. The old man looked back and finally nodded his head. That is true, he admitted. It would have been kinder for you not to know, but it is the truth. And jewels enough to buy an empire on a corpse, Hanson accused. A lifetime of pleasures, simple enough when that lifetime would be over before it began. What were the pleasures, Sathar Karf? Having you reveal your name just before I was sent back and feeling I'd won? He grimaced. I reject the empty rewards of your empty promises. I also rejected the interpretation, but I was outvoted, Sathar Karf said. And there was a curious reluctance as he raised his hand. But it is too late. Dave Hanson, prepare to receive your reward. By the power of your name, Hanson's hand went to his pocket and squeezed down on the blob of sky material there. He opened his mouth and found that the thickness was back. For a split second his mind screamed in panic as he realized he could not even pronounce the needed words. Then coldness settled over his thoughts as he drove them to shape the unvoiced words in his mind. Nobody had told him that magic incantations had to be pronounced aloud. It seemed to be the general law, but for all he knew, ignorance of the law here might change the law. At least he meant to die trying if he failed. Rumpel Stiltskin, I command the sun to set. He seemed to sense a hesitation in his mind, and then the impression of jeweled gears turning. Outside the window the light reddened, dimmed, and was gone, leaving the big room illuminated by only a few witch-lights. The word Sathar Karf had been intoning came to a sudden stop, even before they could be drowned in the shouts of shock and panic from the others. His eyes centered questioningly on Hanson, and the flicker of a smile crossed his face. To the orary, he ordered, use the manual controls. Hanson waited until he estimated the men who left would be at the controls. Then he clutched the sky blob again. The thoughts in his mind were clearer this time. Rumpel Stiltskin let the sun rise from the west and set in the east. Some of the Sathari were at the windows to watch what happened this time. Their shouts were more frightened than before. A minute later the others were back, screaming out the news that the manual controls could not be moved, could not even be touched. The orary named Rumpel Stiltskin was obeying its orders fully, and the universe was obeying its symbol. Somehow old Sathar Karf brought order out of the frightened mob that had been the greatest Sathari in the world. All right, Dave Hanson, he said calmly, return the sun to its course. We agree to your conditions. You haven't heard them yet. Nevertheless, Sathar Karf answered firmly, we agree. What else can we do? If you decide to wreck the sky again, even you might not be able to repair it a second time. He tapped his hands lightly together, and the sound of a huge gong reverberated in the room. Let the hall be cleared. I will accept the conditions in private. There were no objections. A minute later, Hanson, Bork, and Nima were alone with the old man. Sunlight streamed in through the window, and there were fleecy clouds showing in the blue sky. Well, Sathar Karf asked, there was a trace of a smile on his face, and a glow of what seemed to be amusement in his eyes as he listened, though Hanson could see nothing amusing in the suggestions he was making. First, of course, he meant to stay here. There was no other place for him, but he would have chosen to stay in any event. Here he had developed into what he had never even thought of being, and there were still things to be learned. He'd gone a long way on what he'd found in one elementary book. Now, with a chance to study all their magical lore and apply it with the methods he had learned in his own world, there were amazing possibilities opening up to him. For the world, a few changes would be needed. Magic should be limited to what magic did best. The people needed to grow their own food and care for themselves, and they needed protection from the magicians. There would have to be a code of ethics to be worked out later. You've got all the time you need to work things out, Sathar or Hanson, Sathar Karf told him. It's your world, literally, so take your time. What do you want first? Hanson considered it, while Nima's hand crept into his. Then he grinned. I guess I want to get your great-granddaughter turned into a registered and certified wife and take her on a long honeymoon, he decided. After what you've put me through, I need a rest. He took her arm and started down the aisle of the council room. Behind him he heard Bork's chuckle and the soft laughter of the Sathar Karf, but their faces were sobering by the time he reached the doorway and looked back. I like him too, grandfather, Bork was saying. Well, it seems your group was right after all. Your prophecy is fulfilled. He may have a little trouble with so many knowing his name, but he's Dave Hanson, to whom nothing is impossible. You should have considered all the implications of omnipotence. Sathar Karf nodded. Perhaps. And perhaps your group was also right, Bork. It seems that the world egg has hatched. His eyes lifted and centered on the doorway. Hanson puzzled over their words briefly as he closed the door and went out with Nima. He'd probably have to do something about his name, but the rest of the conversation was a mystery to him. Then he dismissed it. He could always remember it when he had more time to think about it. It was many millennia and several universes later when Dave Hanson finally remembered. By then it was no mystery, of course, and there was no one who dared pronounce his true name. End of Chapter 10 End of The Sky Is Falling by Lester Del Rey