_But the Knyght was a little less than Perfect, and his
horse did not have a metabolism, and his "castle" was much
more mobile--timewise!--than it had any business being!_
by Robert F. Young
_Illustrated by Leo Summers_
_A Knyght ther was, and that a worthy man,
That fro the tyme that he first bigan
To ryden out, he loved chivalrye,
Trouthe and honour, fredom and curteisye_
--THE CANTERBURY TALES
* * * * *
I
Mallory, who among other things was a time-thief, re-materialized the
time-space boat _Yore_ in the eastern section of a secluded valley in
ancient Britain and typed CASTLE, EARLY SIXTH-CENTURY on the
lumillusion panel. Then he stepped over to the control-room telewindow
and studied the three-dimensional screen. The hour was 8:00 p.m.; the
season, summer; the Year 542 A.D.
Darkness was on hand, but there was a full moon rising and he could
see trees not far away--oaks and beeches, mostly. Roving the eye of
the camera, he saw more trees of the same species. The "castle of
Yore" was safely ensconced in a forest. Satisfied, he turned away.
If his calculations were correct, the castle of Carbonek stood in the
next valley to the south, and on a silver table in a chamber of the
castle stood the object of his quest.
_If_ his calculations were correct.
Mallory was not one to keep himself in suspense. Stepping into the
supply room, he stripped down to his undergarments and proceeded to
get into the custom-built suit of armor which he had purchased
expressly for the operation. Fortunately, while duplication of early
sixth-century design had been mandatory, there had been no need to
duplicate early sixth-century materials, and sollerets, spurs,
greaves, cuisses, breastplate, pauldrons, gorget, arm-coverings,
gauntlets, helmet, and chain-mail vest had all been fashioned of
light-weight alloys that lent ten times as much protection at ten
times less poundage. The helmet was his particular pride and joy: in
keeping with the period-piece after which it had been patterned, it
looked like an upside-down metal wastepaper basket, but the one-way
transparency of the special alloy that had gone into its construction
gave him unrestricted vision, while two inbuilt audio-amplifiers
performed a corresponding service for his hearing.
The outer surface of each piece had been burnished to a high degree,
and he found himself a dazzling sight indeed when he looked into the
supply-room mirror. This effect was enhanced no end when he buckled on
his chrome-plated scabbard and red-hilted sword and hung his
snow-white shield around his neck. His polished spear, when he stood
it beside him, was almost anticlimactic. It shouldn't have been. It
was a good three and one-half inches in diameter at the base, and it
was as tall as a young flagpole.
As he stood there looking at his reflection, the red cross in the
center of the shield took on the hue of freshly-shed blood. The
period-piece expert who had designed the shield had insisted on the
illusion, saying that it made for greater authenticity, and Mallory
hadn't argued with him. He was glad now that he hadn't. Raising the
visor of his helmet, he winked at himself and said, "I hereby christen
ye 'Sir Galahad'."
Next, he bethought himself of his steed. Armor clanking, he left the
supply room and walked down the short passage to the rec-hall. The
rec-hall occupied the entire forward section of the TSB and had been
designed solely for the benefit of the time-tourists whom Mallory
regularly conducted on past-tours as a cover-up for the illegal
activities which he pursued in between trips. In the present instance,
however, the hall went quite well with the _Yore's_ lumillusioned
exterior, possessing, with its gallery-like mezzanine, its long snack
table, and its imitation flagstone flooring, an early sixth-century
aspect of its own--an aspect marred only slightly by the
"anachronistic" telewindows inset at regular intervals along the
walls.
Mallory's steed stood in a stall-like enclosure that was formed by the
tourist-bar and one of the walls, and it was a splendid "beast"
indeed--as splendid a one as the twenty-second century robotics
industry was capable of creating. Originally, Mallory had planned on
bringing a real horse with him, but as this would have necessitated
his having to learn how to ride, he had decided against it. The
decision had been a wise one: "Easy Money" looked more like a horse
than most real horses did, could travel twice as fast, and was as easy
to ride and to maneuver as a golp jetney. It was light-brown in color
with a white diamond on its forehead, it was equipped with a secret
croup-compartment and an inbuilt saddle, and its fetlock-length
trappings were made of genuine synthisilk threaded with gold. It wore
no armor--it did not need to: weapons manufactured during the Age of
Chivalry could no more penetrate its "hide" than a tooth pick could.
_Come on, Easy Money_, Mallory encephalopathed. _You and I have a
little job to do._
The rohorse emitted several realistic whinnies, backed out of its
"stall", trotted smartly over to his side, and nuzzled his right
pauldron. Mallory mounted--not gracefully, it is true, but at least
without the aid of the winch he would have needed if his armor had
been manufactured in the sixth century--and inserted the red pommel of
his spear in the stirrup socket. Then, activating the _Yore's_ lock,
he rode across the imaginary drawbridge that spanned the mirage-moat,
and set forth into the forest. As the "portcullis" closed behind him,
symbolically bringing phase one of Operation Sangraal to a close, he
thought of Jason Perfidion.
* * * * *
Standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling, wall-to-wall fireplace in
the big balconied room, Perfidion said, "Mallory, you're wasting your
time. Worse, you're wasting mine."
The room climaxed a vertical series of slightly less sumptuous
chambers known collectively as the Perfidion Tower, and the Perfidion
Tower stood with a score of balconied brothers on a blacktop island in
the exact center of Kansas' largest golp course. A short distance from
the fraternal gathering stood yet another tower--the false tower into
which Mallory had lumillusioned his TSB upon his arrival. On the Golp
Terrace, as the blacktop island was called, everyone and everything
conformed--or else.
The room itself was known to time-thieves as "Perfidion's Lair". And yet
there was nothing about Jason Perfidion--nothing physical, that is--that
suggested the predator. He was Mallory's age--thirty-three--tall, dark of
hair, and strikingly handsome. He looked like--and was--a highly
successful businessman with a triplex on Get-Rich-Quick Street, and he
gave the impression that he was as honest as the day was long. Just the
same, the predator was there, and if you were alert enough you could
sometimes glimpse it peering out through the smoky windowpanes of his
eyes.
It wasn't peering out now, though. It was sleeping. However, it was
due to wake up any second. "Then you're not interested in fencing the
Holy Grail?" Mallory asked.
Annoyance intensified the slight swarthiness of Perfidion's cheeks.
"Mallory, you know as well as I do that the Grail never really
existed, that it was nothing more than the mead-inspired daydream of a
bunch of quixotic knights. So go and get your hair cut and forget
about it."
"But suppose it _did_ exist," Mallory insisted. "Suppose, tomorrow
afternoon at this time, I were to come in here and set it down on this
desk here? How much could you get for it?"
Perfidion laughed. "How much _couldn't_ I get for it! Why, without
even stopping to think I can name you a dozen collectors who'd give
their right arm for it."
"I'm not interested in right arms," Mallory said. "I'm interested in
dollars. How many Kennedees could you get for it?"
"A megamillion--maybe more. More than enough, certainly, to permit you
to retire from time-lifting and to take up residence on Get-Rich-Quick
Street. But it doesn't exist, and it never did, so get out of here,
Mallory, and stop squandering my valuable time."
Mallory withdrew a small stereophoto from his breast pocket and
tossed it on the desk. "Have a look at that first--then I'll go," he
said.
Perfidion picked up the photo. "An ordinary enough yellow bowl," he
began, and stopped. Suddenly he gasped, and jabbed one of the many
buttons that patterned his desktop. Seconds later, a svelte blonde
whom Mallory had never seen before stepped out of the lift tube. Like
most general-purpose secretaries, she wore a maximum of makeup and a
minimum of clothing, and moved in an aura of efficiency and sex. "Get
me my photo-projector, Miss Tyler," Perfidion said.
When she returned with it, he set it on his desk and inserted the
stereophoto. Instantly, a huge cube materialized in the center of the
room. Inside the cube there was a realistic image of a resplendent
silver table, and upon the image of the table stood an equally
realistic image of a resplendent golden bowl. Perfidion gasped again.
"Unusual workmanship, wouldn't you say?" Mallory said.