The Warlock's Grandfather Read online

  THE WARLOCK'S GRANDFATHER

  by

  Christopher Stasheff

  Copyright © 1992, 2014 by Christopher Stasheff

  Cover art © 2014 by Eleanore Stasheff

  BN ID: 2940150274310

  Published by Stasheff Literary Enterprises, Champaign, IL

  Visit us at http://christopher.stasheff.com

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Table of Contents

  The Warlock's Grandfather

  About the Author

  Ebooks by Christopher Stasheff

  Rory, 13th Count d'Armand, had lived long and prospered. He had labored to achieve an illustrious career, if that can truly be said of anyone who spent all seventy-three of his years on a backwater asteroid, and never sought to retire.

  Instead, he began to ignore the business.

  "But, Pater," said his heir Rupert, "the new line of automatons cannot be delayed any longer. The prototypes have been approved by the Family Committee and await only your assent."

  "And the younger son and cousins are too timid to talk to the old man, so they've sent you to air their opinions?"

  Rupert reddened. "It is my duty and privilege as senior of my generation, sir. Come, what is your judgment? It is time to retool or reject."

  "I couldn't say." The Count frowned. "I really haven't had time to study the schematics and blueprints."

  "You haven't... had...?"

  "You look quite handsome with so ruddy a complexion, son—you really should spend more time under the tanning lamps. But no, I haven't; there have been more important matters claiming my attention." He nodded toward the glowing screen that hung on the wall.

  "Your manuscript, yes, I know." Rupert reflected that perhaps Mater's death had stricken the old man harder than he had realized. "But the factory is the source of our income, Pater. Without it, there would be no money to support your literary endeavors."

  Rory frowned. "I understand that quite well, son. I have guided d'Armand Automatons for forty years."

  Rupert swallowed. "My apologies, sir. It is only that my priorities are, perhaps, somewhat other than your own."

  "I know—I was young once, myself. I've matured, though, and come to feel the call of greater responsibilities."

  "But sir, we must produce new models or lose our share of the market!"

  "And so we shall."

  "Which?" For a crazy moment, Rupert was afraid his father was planning to scuttle the family business. "Then you approve the new models?"

  "Neither." The Count turned back to his screen. "I simply haven't time for such details. Do look after them for me, won't you, son?"

  "Sir—are you asking me to assume responsibility for the entire operation?"

  "What a splendid idea! Please do, Rupert—take care of all matters relating to trade. After all, you'll have to do it sooner or later—why not while I'm still here to consult, eh?"

  "A masterful plan," Rupert agreed, feeling giddy with delight.

  "So glad you agree. Now, do be off and let me go back to work, eh? There's a good lad."

  "Quite surely, sir." And Rupert slipped out the door to give the master computer the go-ahead, and tell his wife Elaine the glorious news.

  The Count watched the glowing blue print scroll past.

  So Rupert took over the factory officially—he'd been doing it unofficially all year—and Rory devoted himself completely to his "scribbling," as he called it. Unfortunately, his style of composition seemed to involve a great deal of wandering about the castle, gazing off into space and muttering to himself. It was slightly unnerving for his sisters and his cousins and his aunts, not to mention his nieces and grand-nieces, or his nephews and grand-nephews. Whether it bothered his brother or not, could only be learned by a spirit medium, but informed opinion suggests that illustrious d'Armand was above caring about such trivialities, having removed his operations to a loftier plane, courtesy of a bad bout of pneumonia.

  In brief, Rory was the only male member of his generation left, the last thorn upon the bush, as it were, so he may be forgiven—though that statement might have been disputed by Lady Mirthlis, who came around a corner one evening and almost bumped into the Count. He was standing by a window and gazing out at the stars, muttering something under his breath. "Well!" she exclaimed, somewhat taken aback. "Your pardon, my lord."

  "Eh? Oh! Surely, surely. Good day, Duchess." Rory inclined his head with an affable smile. The lady curtsied, and they both turned away, the Count to continue gazing and muttering, the lady to continue on her way to the drawing room, wondering why Rory had addressed her as "Duchess" when her husband was only a baron.

  On a similar occasion, Sir Lantren happened to encounter Count Rory as he was strolling through the west gallery, gazing off into space. The baronet stopped for the obligatory salutation and few words of conversation. "Greetings, milord! And how do you fare today?"

  "Fair indeed, Lord Lantren. Have you come to shine upon our court?"

  Sir Lantren puffed himself up a little, please and flattered. "Oh, come now, milord. 'Tis good of you to notice my small triumph in the squash tournament."

  "Not at all, good sir! So skilled a man as yourself lends luster to our Court of Granclarte! But I see you are accoutered for encounter; pray do not let me detain you. No, now, your opponent is waiting; be off with you, and may you fare well in the tourney!" The Count inclined his head, and Sir Lantren returned the gesture, then hurried away to his match. As the Count had guessed from the baronet's attire, he was indeed on his way to a game of squash with Rupert, his host. The old man's memory was not what it was, though, to have thought a younger son of a younger son could be a lord; still, it was pleasant to hear the title now and again. And if Sir Lantren should have had only a passing moment of puzzling at the Count's referring to the squash court as "Granclarte," it is not terribly surprising; Sir Lantren was the kind who dealt only with the here-and-now, and forebore speculation.

  Of course, he also did not read, and consequently would not have noticed that, in Count Rory's chronicle that night, there appeared an account of the quest of the Knight of the Lantern, who had come to seek illumination for the Court of the Kings.

  But Count Rory's absent-mindedness was scarcely so excusable when it was one of his own family whose title he misplaced. Admittedly, his family was extended, perhaps even overextended, but one would have expected Count Rory to remember the proper title of his own son-in-law.

  "It was quite remarkable," Lord Blunt said to the heir and his wife, over coffee in their private apartments.

  "Pater's mind is definitely wandering, darling," said Lady Florice.

  "Not only his mind—it takes his body along." Lord Blunt shook his head in amazement. "One never knows where one will come across him, nowadays."

  "Well, he has retired, milord," Rupert said, feeling rather uncomfortable. "I suppose he no longer feels constrained to be in any given place at any given hour."

  "Perhaps, perhaps," Lord Blunt agreed. "But really, to address me as an earl! Surely he could remember that his son-in-law is a Marquis!"

  "But of course." Lady Elaine showed a bit of pique; she was well aware that Florice had married up. Of course, so had she herself, but that only made things worse.

  "And what was that deal of blather about Fess being 'an excellent squire'?" Lord Blunt tended to rant a bit, when he was sure he wouldn't be contradicted. "And this nonsense about the wonderful weather we're having? On an asteroid!"

  Rupert was looking extremely nervous, so his younger brother Robin spoke up. "Pater has always lamented the lack of weather on Maxima, milord."

  "Particularly snow at Christmas time,"
Lady Rose murmured.

  Lady Elaine shot her a dark look and hurried to explain. "The Count claims that the dearth of atmosphere robs us of one of the most time-honored of conversational topics."

  "Well, there's truth in that, of course," Lord Blunt grumbled, "but really! To try to rectify it by pretense!"

  He wasn't the only one to be upset by Count Rory's rambling—but in Lady Rose's case, it was a matter of genuine concern. "Come, look at the beauties of our landscape!" the Count told her, and drew her over to the great quartz port in the drawing room. "Does it not fill you with a sense of peace?"

  "Well—now that you mention it, there is tranquility in it." Rose was Robin's wife, but her attachment to the old Count went quite beyond that. She had come to have genuine affection for him, in spite of his occasional tempers and continual whimsies. So she gazed out at the harsh plain, filled with small craters and jutting spikes of rock, starkly lit by the shrunken sun. "But I do so miss the snows of the Catskills at Christmas time!"

  Rory turned to her, his manic mood abated in sympathy. "Ah, poor waif! Poor Terran-born! To be thrown amidst the harsh crags of this drifting asteroid! I am wrong to bring you to the window! Come, let us return to the drawing-room, and the warmth of camaraderie!"

  "No, no!" Rose caught his arm just as he turned. "It has a beauty of its own, Beau-Papa, this severe landscape of yours! It is only at such times as the Christmas season that I miss my home! The love that surrounds me is more than recompense for the loss of my homeland, with its crowding and rudeness and noise! At least on Maxima there is, as you say, tranquility!"

  "Tranquility indeed!" Rory enthused. "The gently-rolling lawn, the hills that rise beyond it, verdant with pines! The dusty road where the laborers stroll home from their toils, amidst the hedgerows of a summer's eve!"

  Rose looked up at him in surprise, then tried to hide a thrill of alarm. Surely he was not seeing the same landscape as she was! "You... will not venture out unattended, surely, milord?"

  "No, of course not! Who ever heard of a knight embarking on a quest without his squire? No, wherever I wander, Fess will journey with me!"

  "Quite a relief," Rose said. "I'm sure Fess would not let him go out on the surface without his pressure suit, or a safety line. But, Robin, I'm afraid for him!"

  "Oh, he'll be all right, my dear, never fear!" Robin embraced his wife, partly in reassurance, partly to hide his own concern.

  "But he said that someday, he must wander through the whole of 'this land of Dondedor,' to see the sights the nobles of the court speak of!"

  "Well, I'll ask him to let me join his excursion," Robin promised, "and I'll tell Fess to call me, no matter where I am or what I'm doing."

  "Oh, I know I'm being silly to worry!" Rose sniffled. "But, darling—what is 'Dondedor'?"

  Rory gave up and turned away from his manuscript with a sigh. "I cannot heed the tales the knights have but lately told me, good Fess. When e'er I attempt to envisage, the picture of the face of my daughter-in-law rises up to obscure it, woebegone in her yearning for her lost home."

  "But the Lady Elaine can summon the torchship to whisk her over to her parents' mansion in a matter of minutes, milord."

  "No, no, Fess! Our poor waif from Earth!"

  "But the Lady Rose is happy in Chateau d'Armand, milord."

  "Well, yes, that is so," the Count reflected, "but at the holidays, she misses her home terribly. She was commenting to me only today on her longing for the Snow of Yesteryear—or, at least, those of Michigan."

  "We could arrange a diorama, milord."

  "Why, what a wonderful idea!" The old Count looked up, eyes glowing. "See to it at once, Fess! Snow all over the chateau! Even the Dower House! Just what the poor lamb needs!"

  "As you wish, my lord. Of what dimensions do you wish the diorama to be?"

  "Diorama?" Rory looked up. "Oh no, Fess! No diorama! The real chateau—all of it!"

  "But... my lord..." Fess's computer-brain added up the gallons. "Where are we to obtain so much snow?"

  "Why, from ice! We're sitting on an ice mine, you know, Fess."

  "I am aware of it, milord." Fess had supervised the building of the chateau. "But it will take a great many cubic kilograms of ice—and we will have to shave each one..."

  "Take all you need!" Rory waved away the objection. "Whether we store it under the chateau or in it, what difference?"

  "Evaporation, my lord—or rather, sublimation, I should say. With no air, there will be no atmospheric pressure, and the crystals of ice will turn instantly to gas, without passing through the liquid state."

  "Yes, yes, I know what 'sublime' means, outside the field of aesthetics! But surely, it's cold enough outside to prevent such a problem."

  "Only at night, sir—and the asteroid does face the sun now and again."

  "And the radiant energy might warm it enough to sublime?" The old lord frowned. "I shouldn't think so—but certainly it warrants a test run. Melt the ice, boil it, and condense it as you shoot it out over the rooftops. Try it on the roof of the northwest gable, and if it doesn't sublime, we'll know we can do it."

  "And if it does, boss?"

  "If it does..." The old lord scowled, deep in thought. Then he looked up, his face clearing. "Change it, Fess! Knock off the odd electron here and there. Make the ice crystals cling to one another. If they're boded so tightly, they'll stay solid."

  "And how am I to do that, sahib?"

  "Bah! That's just engineering!" The old lord dismissed the problem with a wave of his hand. "Run it through your circuits and see how it computes! Surely you can handle the details, Fess. Just see to it that my daughter-in-law has some snow for Christmas!" He turned back to his viewscreen, happily able to dismiss the problem of Rose's unhappiness.

  Fess turned away to begin executing his orders, and decided it would be easier to run a wire grid and have the rooftops generate a low-level force field.

  Matters came to a head when Lady Penseclos forgot her clutch bag at dinner and didn't come back for it until the next day—after all, she knew the robots would no doubt have picked it up and be holding it for her. But in mid-afternoon, she had nothing else to do, so she came looking—and found a housekeeping robot trying to polish the silver while Rory was pinching its hip-rod and patting it on its universal joint. The robot didn't notice, of course—it had no sensors in those areas—but it was completely stymied by his 'commands.'

  "Come, little butterfly! Let us sip the nectar while the roses bloom!"

  "Does my lord wish a glass of apricot juice? I shall fetch—"

  "Not your juice, my little blossom, but your petals!"

  "I am equipped with servo-motors, my lord; there is no need for input of manual energy."

  "Oh, but I have great need for fulfillment!"

  "Luncheon is past, but if your lordship is feeling peckish, the kitchen can certainly provide for your needs."

  "But it is you who I wish to have fulfill my needs, my little ruby!"

  Lady Penseclos turned pale and backed away far more quickly than she had approached. Fortunately, the old lord did not see her, but kept up his dialogue with the robot, and Lady Penseclos could turn to run and fetch Lady Elaine.

  "He's doing what?"

  "Flirting with one of the household robots," Lady Penseclos panted. "You really must come put a stop to it, Elaine!"

  "Quite right, my dear!" Lady Elaine set forth toward the dining room with the gleam of battle in her eye, though it was somewhat tarnished with incredulity. "Flirting? With a robot?"

  "I know all men are gadget lovers, my dear, but your father was being a bit extreme."

  "We can only conjecture as to what he was seeing." Rupert lifted his snifter and took a rather large sip of brandy. "It can't have been a robot."

  "He didn't do any harm, though?" Robin asked.

  "No, of course not—the robot was of age, after all."

  Rupert squeezed his eyes shut and pressed a hand to his forehead. "No, what am I saying? Of co
urse he couldn't do any harm—the robot couldn't understand his references, since it was programmed only for housework; so it couldn't say 'yes'—and Pater is far too much the gentleman to force his attentions." His eyes snapped open. "Egad! Is it catching?"

  "No, only confusing," Robin assured him. "Let's go back to your first question: 'What was he seeing?' "

  "Yes. Yes, that was it." Rupert leaned back with a grateful sigh. "Elaine arrived while he was trying to tickle its central column. She managed to attract his attention, and took him away to an early tea—a very early tea."

  "Quite so; it can't have been past 1500." Robin had to fight to hide his smile. "I take it he wasn't upset by Elaine's presence?"

  "Not particularly, though she tells me he did look up with a guilty start."

  "I should think so, after all the lectures he gave us on behavior becoming a gentleman."

  Rupert turned to him with a thoughtful frown. "Perhaps that's it—perhaps we need only remonstrate with him in terms of 'behavior befitting his station.' "

  "Or perhaps," Robin said, with surprising firmness, "we should invite Dr. Reves to dinner."

  In the rooftops, Fess was directing a squadron of robots in rather specialized shapes. To the uninformed, they would have looked like steel-shelled snails with multiple antennae—though those antennae were moving about like tentacles, lifting and readying a long hollow tube several inches in diameter. Fess's directions, of course, were millisecond bursts of radio commands, but if they had been translated into English, they might have sounded something like this: "Unit D-4, lift the mouth of the tube three-tenths of a degree. Unit J-1, couple the tube to the boiler... Unit C-2, open the valve... D-4, move the tube to the left... now the right... left again." A flurry of fine white flakes shot out of the mouth of the tube, arching ten feet across the roof, then falling to the plasticrete tiles, caught and held by the force field. Back and forth the snow-cannon moved, laying a coat of fine white powder over the turrets.