“Yes,” said Haplo. “Alfred would want it that way. And I don’t believe you have to worry,” he added, squeezing her hand. “The Sartan magic will take care of its own. No one will find that room who isn’t meant to.”
“Do you think so? Then I don’t need to worry?”
“No. Now, you’d better go on ahead. I think Limbeck’s looking for you.” Indeed, the procession had straggled to a halt again. Limbeck could be seen in the front, in the reflected glow of the Sartan sigla, peering myopically into the shadows.
“Jarre?” he was calling.
“He’s such a druz,” said Jarre fondly, and started to hurry back up to the front of the line. “Won’t you come, too?” she asked Haplo, hesitating. “Are you feeling all right?”
“Just a little weakness,” Haplo lied easily. “Let go of the past, Jarre. Reach out to the future with both hands. It will be a good one for you and your people.”
“I will,” said Jarre decisively. “After all, you gave us that future.” She had a sudden funny feeling that she would never see him again.
“Jarre!” Limbeck was getting worried.
“You’d better run along,” Haplo told her.
“Good-bye,” she faltered, a smothering ache in her chest. Leaning down, she gave the dog a hug that nearly choked the animal; then, blinking back sudden and inexplicable tears, she ran off to join Limbeck.
Change—even good change—was hard. Very hard indeed.
The procession halted outside a door marked by gleaming blue Sartan runes. Bathed in the soft blue light, Limbeck marched up to the door and, acting according to Jarre’s instructions (she held the book, reading out directions), the dwarf drew with a stubby finger the Sartan rune that completed the circle of runes on the door.
The door swung open.
A strange clanking sound could be heard within, coming toward them. The elves and humans held back, curious but alarmed.
Limbeck, however, marched right in. Jarre hurried to stay at his side. The wizard Trian nearly tripped on the dwarves’ heels, hastening in behind. The room they entered was brightly lighted by globes hanging from the ceiling. The light was so bright after the darkness of the tunnels that they had to shade their eyes momentarily.
A man made all of metal—silver and gold and brass—walked over to meet them. The metal man’s eyes were jewels; it moved stiffly. Sartan runes covered its body.
“It’s an automaton,” announced Limbeck, recalling Bane’s word. The dwarf waved his hand at the metal man with as much pride as if he’d made it himself. Awed, Trian stared at the automaton, and at the huge glass eyeballs that lined the walls, each eye gazing out watchfully on a certain part of the great machine. The wizard looked around dubiously at the banks of gleaming metal adorned with glass boxes and small wheels, levers, and other fascinating and unfathomable objects.
None of the levers or gears or wheels was moving. All held perfectly still, as if the Kicksey-winsey had fallen asleep and was waiting for the sunlight to shine on closed eyelids, -when it would awake.
“The gate is open. What are my instructions?” asked the metal man.
“It speaks!” Trian was agog.
“Of course it does,” Limbeck said proudly. “It wouldn’t be much use otherwise.”
He gulped in excitement, reached out a shaking hand for Jarre. She caught hold of his hand in hers, held on to the book in the other. Trian was trembling in excitement.
One of the human mysteriarchs, peering in nervously through the door, had broken down and was weeping uncontrollably.
“All lost,” he was blubbering incoherently, “all lost, for all these many centuries.”
“Now found,” Trian breathed. “And bequeathed to us. May the ancestors make us worthy.”
“What do I say to the metal man, my dear?” Limbeck quavered. “I... want to make sure I get it right.”
“ ‘Put your hand on the wheel of life and turn,’” Jarre read the directions in dwarven.
Trian translated the words into elven and human for those crowding around the door.
“Put your hand on the wheel of life and turn,” Limbeck ordered the automaton. The dwarf’s voice cracked at first, but, gathering his confidence, he boomed out the last words so that even Haplo, standing alone and forgotten in the hall, heard them.
A gigantic wheel made of gold was affixed to one of the metal walls. Runes were etched all around the wheel. The metal man obediently clanked its way over to the wheel. The automaton placed its hands on the wheel and then looked back with its jeweled eyes at Limbeck.
“How many times do I turn it?” the mechanical voice intoned.
“ ‘One for each of the worlds,’” said Jarre, sounding doubtful.
“That is correct,” said the metal man. “Now, how many worlds are there?” None of them who’d studied the book was sure about this part. The answer wasn’t given. It was as if the Sartan assumed the number would be common knowledge.
They had consulted Haplo. He’d shut his eyes, as if he were seeing moving pictures—like those in the Sartan magic lantern—in his mind.
“Try the number seven,” Haplo had advised them, but wouldn’t say how he arrived at the answer. “I’m not sure myself.”
“Seven,” Jarre repeated with a helpless shrug.
“Seven,” said Limbeck.
“Seven worlds,” murmured Trian. “Can such a thing be?” Apparently it could, for the automaton nodded and, reaching up its hands, took hold of the wheel and gave it a mighty turn.
The wheel shuddered; its gears squealed from long disuse, but it moved. The metal man began to speak, saying a word every time it turned the wheel. No one could understand what it said except Haplo.
“The first world, the Vortex,” said the automaton in Sartan. The wheel revolved with a protesting, grinding sound.
“The Vortex,” Haplo repeated. “I wonder...” His musings were cut short.
“The Labyrinth,” the metal man intoned.
Again the wheel turned.
“The Nexus,” said the automaton.
“The Labyrinth, then the Nexus.” Haplo considered what he was hearing. He quieted the dog, which had begun to howl dismally—the squealing of the wheel hurt its sensitive ears. “Both of those in order. Perhaps that means the Vortex is in the—”
“Arianus,” said the metal man.
“It said us!” Jane cried in delight, recognizing the Sartan word for their world.
“Pryan. Abarrach. Chelestra.” At each name in the roll call, the metal man gave the wheel another turn.
When it came to the last name, it stopped.
“Now what?” Trian asked.
“ ‘Heaven’s fire will spark life,’” Jarre read.
“I’m afraid we were never very clear on that part,” Limbeck said in apology.
“Look!” cried Trian, pointing to one of the crystal eyeballs that looked out upon the world.
Terrible thunderclouds, darker and more ferocious than any that had been seen before on Drevlin, were massing in the skies above the continent. The land grew pitch-black. The very room in which they stood, so brightly lit, seemed darker, though they were far, far beneath the ground.
“My—my goodness,” stammered Limbeck, eyes round. Even without his spectacles, he could see the boiling clouds swirling over his homeland.
“What have we done?” Jarre gasped, crowding close to Limbeck.
“Our ships,” cried the elves and the humans. “This will wreck our ships. We’ll be stranded down here—”
A bolt of jagged lightning shot from the clouds, struck one of the metal hands of the Liftalofts. Arcs of fire swirled around the hand, flashed down the metal arm. The arm twitched. Simultaneously hundreds of other spears of lightning slanted down from the heavens, struck hundreds of metal hands and arms, all over Drevlin. The eyeballs focused on each. The mensch gazed from one to the other in terrified astonishment.