The Rebel of Rhada by Robert Cham Gilman Page A

Vyks will make up a song about this,” he said.
     
     

10
     
    “And what, then, shall we do with the warlocks who profane the ancient knowledge, Grand Master?”
    “First be certain that their enquiries are truly the work of sin. Then you may ask.”
    Emeric of Rhada, The Dialogues, early Second Stellar Empire
     
    What is the Unholy Trinity? The warlock, the Vulk, and science.
    The Vulk Protocols, authorship unknown,
Interregnal period
     
    Cavour stood at the open window, and the rising wind flared his dark cloak and ruffled his gray-black beard. He could see nothing but the glow of an occasional light from the tower itself against the storm and the rain falling like drops of molten amber.
    “They are coming now,” Gret said.
    The warlock turned to look across the room at the pale, fragile blind face. There was a sick worry in him, and fear, too, he would admit that. But his mind was restless, and it touched a thousand things and asked a hundred unanswerable questions, for that was the nature of warlocks. This tower, who built it? And when? Was it truly the work of the Dawn Men? Why did it stand through the millennia, like a monstrous spear jammed into the heart of the mound of Tel-Manhat?
    He regarded Gret narrowly. Not without liking, for the creature was worthy enough. But what was he? Where did he come from? Had there always been Vulks among men? It seemed so, yet it could not be. Only man and Vulk lived among the stars, and the Vulk clung to man with a devotion that was superhuman, truly so, no matter what the fearful said.
    He watched as Gret touched his lyre. The soldiers had not taken it from him. Negligence? Or design? And whose? He turned again to the window and tried to see the hidden earth far below. By the Star, what a treasure house down there, where the soil could be scratched with a dagger point and it would give up mysteries and riddles--coins, machines, carvings, fragments. The whole history of our race is there, the warlock thought, if we could only read it. He made a wry face at the darkness and amended the thought: If we could only study it and be allowed to live. Science is sin--the black equation, the heritage of the Dark Time. How many years, centuries? More than a man could count. He drew his damp robe about him and shivered.
    “Nearer,” the Vulk said dreamily, his fingers caressing the strings.
    The warlock said, “But nothing out there.”
    The Vulk stopped playing. He crouched in an attitude of prayer. “At the guardroom now. Slipping past in the darkness.” He murmured something in an alien tongue. The warlock wondered if he were invoking the aid of his own nonhuman gods.
    “A long climb, Warlock,” Gret murmured.
    “Are we to do nothing to help them?” Cavour asked. He could hear the Vegans in the room outside the god-metal door. They were gaming at Stars and Comets, quarreling over their throws.
    Cavour returned again to the window, searching the upper darkness. There was nothing there that he could see. But a freak of the wind cleared away the mists below, and he suddenly saw a procession of torches and men, tiny as ants in the distance, running down the crooked street toward the base of the tower. Imperials, a whole squadron of them. The wind brought the faint sound of alarms. Cavour’s heart sank. It was Kier they were seeking. His escape was discovered at last. He said anxiously, “They can’t go back.”
    The Vulk shook his head. “They never could.” He rose to his feet and said, “Call the guards now. It is time.”
    Cavour cast one more despairing glance out of the window. “There is nothing there, Gret.”
    “It is time,” the Vulk said, and Cavour nodded and began pounding on the metal door with his clenched fists.
     
    The guardroom was behind and below them. They had slipped past one at a time while the secure Imperials slept or quarreled or polished their weapons. But on the floor above were others. Kier guessed as many as eight or ten. They would not