Unexpected Magic (5 page)

“Damn!” said F. C. Stone. “I shall have to revise all my books!” An acute need to visit the toilet down the passage came upon her. She picked up her mug of
chphy
reflexively, thought better of that, and put it down again. Her mind dwelt on that toilet, its bowl stained from Danny's attempt, some years ago, to concoct an elixir of life, and its chain replaced by a string of cow bells. To take her mind off it, she said, “Tell me what you mean to do when you and the other ships come out over Nad. Does this start a revolution?”

“It's rather more complicated than that,” said Adny. “Out of the twelve Male Lodges, there are only six prepared to rebel. Two of the remaining six are neutral traditionally and supported in this by the Minor Covens, but the Minor Covens are disaffected enough to ally with the Danai, who are a helium life-form and present a danger to all of us. The four loyal Lodges are supposed to align with the Old Coven, and on the whole they do, except for the Fifth Lodge, which has thrown in with the Midmost Coven, who are against everyone else. Their situation is complicated by their concessions to the Traders, who are largely independent, save for overtures they seem to have made to the Anders. The Anders—another life-form—have said they are
our
allies, but this flirting with the Traders makes us suspicious. So we decided on a bold ploy to test—”

“Stop!” said F. C. Stone. Much as she loved writing this kind of stuff, hearing someone talk like it made her head reel. “You mean, you've gone to all this trouble just for a test run?”

“It's more complicated than—” began Adny.

“No, I don't want to know!” said F. C. Stone. “Just tell me what happens if you fail.”

“We can't fail,” he replied. “If we do, the High Coven will crush the lot of us.”

“Me, too?” F. C. Stone inquired anxiously.

“Possibly,” said Adny. “They may not realize how I did this, but if they do, you can probably stop them by destroying your machine.”

“Never!” said F. C. Stone. “I'd rather suffer—or, better still, win!”

A bell rang. The keyboard reappeared, elongated and bent, in her screen. “Emerged over Nad,” the computer said. “Candy! What is this? I count sixteen other ships emerged, two Trader, four Ander, and the rest appear to be Matriarch. We jump back.”

“Give me functions Nine and Ten!” Adny snapped.

“I authorize Adny—” said F. C. Stone.

“Oh, Candy!” the computer said reproachfully. “Why are you so good to that little creep? He's only a man.”

“I authorize Adny in functions Nine and Ten,” F. C. Stone almost shrieked. It was the only way she could think of to stop the unpleasant sensations which were suddenly manifesting, mostly in her head and stomach. It was as if surf were breaking through her in bubbles of pain. A tearing feeling across her shoulders made her think she was germinating claws there. And psychic attack or not, she knew she just had to get to that toilet.

“Acknowledged,” the computer said glumly.

She leaped from her chair and ran. Behind her she heard claps of sound and booms that seemed to compress the air around her. Through them she heard Adny's voice issuing orders, but that was shortly overlaid by a high-pitched whistling, drilling through her ears even through the firmly shut toilet door.

But in the loo, as she was adjusting her dress, a certain sanity was restored to F. C. Stone. She looked at her own face in the mirror. It was encouragingly square and solid and as usual—give or take a sort of wildness about the eyes—and it topped the usual rather overweight body in its usual comfortably shapeless sweater. She raked her fingers through the graying frizz of her hair, thinking as she did so that she would make a very poor showing beside Adny of the golden voice. The action brought away two handfuls of loose hair. As always, she was shedding hair after a heavy session at the word processor—a fact she was accustomed to transfer to her aliens, who frequently shed feathers or fur during jump. Things were quite normal. She had simply been overworking and let Danny's joke get to her.

Or perhaps it was charred chili powder, she thought as she marched out into the passage again. Possibly due to its hallucinogenic nature, that damnable whistling was still going on, pure torture to her ears. From the midst of it she could hear Adny's voice. “Nad Coven, do we have your surrender, or do we attack again?”

I've had enough! thought F. C. Stone. She marched to her desk, where the screen was showing Adny's curlicue, pulsing to the beat of the beastly shrilling. “Stop this noise!” she commanded. “And give me a picture of
Partlett
's flight deck.” If you
can
, she thought, feeling for the moment every inch the captain of the starship
Candida.

The whistling died to an almost bearable level. “I need function Eleven to give you vision,” Adny said—irritably? casually? or was it
too
casually? He was certainly overcasual when he added, “It does exist, you know.”

Give him what he wants and get rid of him, thought F. C. Stone. “I authorize function Eleven then,” she said.

“
Oh
!” said the computer, like a hurt child.

And there was a picture on the screen, greenish and jumping and sleeting green lines, but fairly clear for all that.
Partlett
's controls, F. C. Stone noted absently, had fewer screens than she expected—far fewer than she put in her books—but far more ranks of square buttons and far, far too many dials for comfort, all of them with a shabby, used look. But she was looking mostly at the woman who seemed to be asleep in the padded swivel seat in front of the controls. Mother naked, F. C. Stone was slightly shocked to see, and not a mark or a wrinkle on her slender body or on her thin and piquant face. Abruptly F. C. Stone remembered being quite proud of her looks when she was seventeen, and this woman was herself at seventeen, only beyond even her most idealized memories. Immense regret suffused F. C. Stone.

The whistling, blessedly, stopped. “Candy is really the same age as you,” Adny observed.

Her attention turned to him. His seat was humbler, a padded swivel stool. Sitting on it was a small man with a long, nervy face, the type of man who usually has tufts of hair growing in his ears and below his eyes, as if to make up for the fact that such men's hair always tends to be thin and fluffy on top. Adny's hair was noticeably thin on top, but he had smoothed and curled it to disguise the fact, and it was obvious that he had plucked and shaved all other hair from his wrinkled little body; F. C. Stone had no doubt of this, since he was naked, too. The contrast between his appearance and his voice was, to say the least of it, startling.

Adny saw her look and grinned rather ruefully as he leaned forward to hold a paper cup under some kind of tap below the control panel. She realized he could see her, too. The contrast between herself and the sleeping beauty beside him made her feel almost as rueful as he looked. “Can you give me a picture of Nad and any damage there?” she asked, still clinging to her role as Captain. It seemed the only way to keep any dignity.

“Certainly,” he said, running his finger down a row of the square buttons.

She found herself apparently staring down at a small town of old houses built up against the side of a hot stony hill—red roofs, boxlike white houses, courtyards shaded with trees. It was quite like a town in Spain or Italy, except that the shapes of the walls and the slant of the roofs were subtly different and wrong. It was the very smallness of the difference between this and towns she knew which, oddly enough, convinced F. C. Stone for once and for all that this place was no fake. She really was looking at a real town in a real world somewhere else entirely. There was a smoking, slaggy crater near the market square and another downhill below the town. That had destroyed a road. She had glimpses of the other spaceships, drifting about looking rather like hot-air balloons.

“Why is it such a small place?” she said.

“Because Nad is only a small outpost of the Matriarchy,” Adny replied in his golden voice. The picture flipped back to show he had turned to face her on his stool, sipping steaming liquid from his paper cup. No doubt it was
kfa
or even
quphy.
He smiled through its steam in a way that must have beguiled the poor sleeping beauty repeatedly, and she found she was wishing he had turned out to be an alien instead. “I owe you great thanks on behalf of the Second Male Lodge,” he said. “We now have the Nadlings where we want them. And since you have given me full control of this ship and access to all my ex-mistress's power, I can move on to the central worlds in strength and use her as a hostage there.”

Hitler and Napoleon were both small men, F. C. Stone thought, with golden voices. It gave her a slight, cold frisson to think what she might have loosed on the unfortunate Matriarchy. “You gave me the impression that this
was
the central world,” said F. C. Stone.

“Not in so many words,” said Adny. “You don't think I'd be fool enough to move against the strength of the Matriarchy without getting hold of a conscious-class computer first, do you?”

F. C. Stone wished to say that yes, she did. People took that sort of desperate risk in her books all the time. It depressed her to find him such a cautious rebel.
And
he had cheated her, as well as his sleeping beauty, and no doubt he was all set to turn the whole works into a Patriarchy. It was a total waste of a morning.

Or was it? she wondered. A matriarchy where men were sold as slaves was right up her street. There was certainly a book in there. Perhaps she should simply be grateful and hope that Adny did not get too far.

“Tell me,” she said, at which he looked up warily from his cup, “what is that stuff you're drinking?
Goffa? Xvay
?”

She was glad to see she had surprised him. “Only coffee,” he said.

F
rom the moment the Platts came to Chipping Hanbury everyone knew they were Caring People. They bought the old cottage up Weavers Close beside the field where the children went to cycle and play football. Mr. Platt took the cottage apart all by himself and built it up again and painted it white. Mrs. Platt took the garden apart and painted everything there white too.

When they had done that, they began caring for Chipping Hanbury.

Mr. Platt brought out a news sheet which he called
Hanbury Village News
and put a copy through everyone's door. The copies were addressed to everyone by their first names in the most friendly way: the Willises' was to Glenda and Jack, the Moores' to Lily and Tony, the Dougals' to Marcia and Ken, and so on. Everyone wondered how Mr. Platt knew their names, and whether he was right to call Hanbury a village when it was really just a place on the edge of London. The news sheet was full of kind advice about how Hanbury needed more streetlights and a bus shelter and tidier front gardens. Weavers Pond was full of rubbish too, Mr. Platt said reproachfully, and the football field ought to be a proper sports center. People like Glenda and Jack, who had private incomes, really ought to see about cleaning the place up.

“Why does he think we have private incomes?” said Mrs. Willis. “Because the children have ponies?” Mrs. Willis did typing for people in order to pay for the ponies and she was rather hurt.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Platt was caring for animals. The first to go was the Dougals' cat Sooty. Then the Deans' dog Lambert. Then Holly Smith's angora rabbit. Mrs. Platt called on the Dougals, the Deans, and the Smiths and explained at length that she had found the animal wandering about, and it might have gone in the road, and there was such a lot of traffic these days, and one should keep pets tied up. Mrs. Platt was thin, with intense gray eyes, and she bent forward nervously when she talked, and twisted her hands together. People found it hard to interrupt her when she was so worried. But after an hour or so, the Dougals and the Deans and the Smiths plucked up courage to ask what had happened to their animals. Mrs. Platt explained that she had put them in the car and Mr. Platt had driven them to a vet he knew, to have them put down.

Mr. Platt's next news sheet had a sorrowful page on how badly people looked after their animals. The other pages were about the new greenhouses Mr. Platt was building behind the cottage. Mr. Platt was a thick energetic man with a beard and juicy red lips, and he had a passion for building greenhouses. When he was not doing that, he was either standing with his head back and his chest out admiring the latest greenhouse, or he was walking around Hanbury looking for news to put in his news sheet. He was walking in Hart Lane when Sarah Willis got run away with by her pony.