Manly Wade Wellman - Novel 1940 (8 page)

At once I lost my resentment of his sly assertion of power
over my senses.

"Full details?"
I
cried.

"Enough, I think, to build the machine itself."

And tnen I saw Lisa's eyes, turned mournfully upon me, as
though already she bade me good-bye.

The
New Reflector

EVEN if I could, I do not think I would se£ down exact
details of a machine which is so apt to cause trouble as the one which Guaracco
had retrieved in theory from the waste places of my mind. The fact is, he kept
the plans to himself, and questioned meonly now and then, sometimes hypnotizing
me for the questions, sometimes not. And there were bits of science which even
he could not digest.

"These exact measurements of the steel frame parts,
how can we achieve them?" he would ask. "You tell me, in your sleep,
of micrometers, yet how can we design a micrometer? How, even knowing its
principle, can we make it without proper tools? How was the first micrometer
made?"

Automatic lathes, alloy charts and welding torches were
equally unobtainable.

Guaracco did the next best thing. He sought out a master
swordsmith and in some adroit way—I think his witch-cult helped him—bound the fellow
to his service by terror and awe.

This craftsman, with all his tools and materials, he
transported to the country estate, and there set him to work painstakingly
shaping the metal skeleton of the reflector mechanism.

Electrical engineering Guaracco learned from the ground
up. Here, once again, I
must needs
be hypnotized and
my subconscious mind probed. My partner began with sticks of sealing wax and
glass rods, rubbing them with fur or silk, and studying the effects of the
static charges. From that he progressed to what I was able to remember as a
Leyden jar, contrived by his own cunning hands after several unsuccessful
trials. Finally came simple batteries, but here he kept back from me the
knowledge he had mined from my own inhibited memory.

He refused to tell the acids and metals involved. When I
insisted, interruption came—a messenger from Lorenzo, asking how I progressed
with the flying machine.

"You reminded him," I accused Guaracco in
private.

"How ungrateful you are,
Leo
!"
He snickered unabashedly, fingering his red beard. "Go to
Florence
and make your report. I shall work here in our laboratory, and promise you that
I will have progress to show when you return."

To
Florence
,
perforce, I went. Lorenzo received me with some impatience, in his frescoed
audience chamber at the palace.

"Well, young sir, what of the wings you were
making?" he demanded. "I gave you and Guaracco money for your experiments,
and it is high time you made me some return."

I exhibited my small models, all that I had to show since
the breaking of my first wings. He was interested, but not completely
satisfied, and I regretted having mentioned aviation to him. Yet, I knew, men
could fly. I remembered seeing
them,
in that age whence
I came and which itself was yet to come—men flying singly or in parties with
the aid of great spreadpinioned contrivances.

Meanwhile, Lorenzo was giving me orders.

"I shall see this device take shape under my own
eyes. At my villa in
Fiesole
is a
great guest house. Go you thither, set up your shop, and have sent to you all
that you need. Work where I can watch."

I bowed acceptance, and went to
Fiesole
.
There messengers brought me the remains of my wings and rudder, also more
leather, silk and staves, while Lisa came at my urgent plea to help with the
sewing. She made a considerable impression on the various guests who thronged
Lorenzo's villa. Botticelli wanted to paint her, Poliziano wrote six sonnets
about her,
Giuliano
spoke so courtly to her that Simonetta's
eyes took on a green glow, and to a certain captain of mercenaries, a Spaniard
named Hernando Villareal, I was forced to voice a warning.

"THE young lady is working on my machine," I
told him, "at my wish and under my protection. She does not welcome your
pressing attentions."

"By God's blood," he sneered. We were walking in
a grove of poplars, to which I had drawn him for privacy. "I think, Ser
Leo, that it is you who find the situation unwelcome."

"I do not like it either, if that will content
you."

He caressed his long moustache of black silk. "Now
nay, it does not content me a whit. I shall say to her what I please, whenever
1 please."

"Few words are best," I made reply. "If you
speak to her again, I shall deprive your company of its captain." And I
turned and walked away.

He was in a towering rage, and made haste in search of a
friend to bear me a formal defiance. The first he met was Giuliano, who had not
forgotten the cudgeling I had given him, and the friendship he had sworn.
Giuliano informed the Spaniard that I was the most dangerous antagonist in
Christendom, in whose hands a wand was worse than a sword, and a sword itself a
finger of Fate. Whereat Captain Hernando Villareal left
Fiesole
the same day, indeed left
Florence
,
and I never heard speak of him again.

When my wings were comple'tely repaired and improved, I
made a second attempt, springing from the eaves of the guest house while
Lorenzo and his friends watched. Again I failed badly, tumbling aslant through
the air, but this time I managed to land upright on my feet, only spraining my
ankle. My wings and other harness remained undamaged, and I was not distressed
by Guaracco's ironic laughter.

"I count myself lucky," I said, and Giuliano ran
out to support my limping steps. "My ankle will mend of itself. But my
wings, being broken, would take much more labor and time."

"You have not a complete loss of labor to show,"
Lorenzo was considerate enough to say. "You came to ground a good ten
paces beyond the house, farther than you might have leaped unaided."

"And had you leaped without wings you would have had
worse hurt than your ankle," added Giuliano, though he had first disputed
my theory of man's ability to fly. "For those two moments you were above
ground, methought I saw your fabric hold you aloft. It broke your fall, at
least."

This encouragement heartened me. "I shall yet
succeed," I made bold to say, while a physician plucked the shoe from my
injured foot. "It is not the fault of my theory, nor the weakness of my
arms. I must learn, as a fledgling bird learns."

But my sprained ankle kept me for days at
Fiesole
,
where I could practice no art save lute playing and repartee among those silken
courtiers. Lisa insisted on remaining with me, most prettily concerned over my
injury.

After a day or so Guaracco appeared with
some of his healing salves, to care for me with the apparent soliditude of a
kinsman, to bow and utter compliments to the ladies, to discuss poetry with
Poliziano, weapons with Giuliano, science and government with Lorenzo.

"I submit that my young Cousin Leo makes progress
with his flying," he told the company. "Who can hold these first
failures against him? Can he learn as a science, in a few days, the behavior
that has been a born instinct of birds since the Creation?"

WITH more such talk, Guaracco helped to convince Lorenzo that
I should continue my labors in the field of aviation. I came to realize that it
was to Guaracco's interest that I do so. He wanted me to stay out of his way.
He was carefully arranging that I not re-learn too much of the science I
remembered only when in a trance.

The rest of that summer I was able to put off a third
experiment with my wings—not that I did not want to fly, but that I dreaded
failing and falling again before the eyes of my patron.

During the winter I achieved several substitute offerings.
These included a plan for draining some nearby swamps, which Lorenzo approved
but did not act upon at once; a brief written outline of a new system of sword play
for the palace guardsmen, which Lorenzo in high good humor caused me to
demonstrate upon two very surprised and glum fencing-masters; and a suggestion,
rather vague, about the use and purpose of antiseptics, at which Lorenzo
laughed and which I could not demonstrate at all.

I made several attempts at fashioning both a microscope
and a telescope, but I did not understand the accurate grinding of lenses, and
nobody was skillful enough to show me. Also, even when I secured from Andrea Verrocchio's
spectacle maker a pair of indifferent lenses that would serve, I could not
bring them into proper relationship in a tube.

One thing I remembered well from my century, or rather the
one before it, was Mark Twarn's pleasant novel about the Connecticut Yankee in
King Arthur's court. I was failing signally to duplicate the exploits of that
hardheaded and blithe hero. Perhaps the

Yankee, being an adroit and impassioned mechanic, knew the
principles of all things from the ground up.

My science, first of all, had been sketchy and too
derived. Second, I had been too interested in art, so that my less loved
studies in chemistry, engineering and physics had been shoved too far back in
that now clouded brain of mine. Without Guaracco's hypnotism, hardly anything of
real complex practicality could be evoked. And with Guaracco's hypnotism, I was
unable to see or appreciate the very things I was caused to remember.

Poor Andrea Verrocchio, who had hoped for so much from my
drawing, dared to shake his untidy head over these scientific gropings of mine.

"His Magnificence will ruin a master painter to make
a convenient philosopher," he mourned. And it was true that I had little
or no opportunity that winter to paint the picture I had once visioned as my
footprint in the sands of Renaissance time.

As for the time reflector, which Guaracco
worked on with phenomenal energy and understanding, it took form and power as
the cold weather passed us by.
Among the things it lacked was a piece of
alum large enough to make a lens, but the most notable alum mines of our
knowledge were not far away—fifty miles to the southwest in the ancient town of
Volterra.

At
that time, however, the Volterrans chose to refuse any trade or tribute to
Lorenzo; even to defy him.

It
began to look as if the only alum we could get must be secured by theft or force.

The
Fate of Volterra

HERE was, indeed, what seemed a full stop to our hopes for
completing the mechanism. I could think of nowhere to get alum in a large enough
portion but in a mine. True, crystals may be built or fed, but I did not know
how; and the only available mine was the one at Volterra.

That defiant city was a small one, but plucky and proud,
with splendid defenses. As I mused, into my mind drifted a few lines of a poem
I had heard very often in my other existence

. . .
lordly
Volterra

Where stands the far-famed hold.

Filed high by hands of giants

For god-like kings of old,*

Whether Volterra's defenses were giant-built and god-begun
I cannot say; but they were tremendously old and strong, what I was to see of
them, walls of rough-cut stone that were said to go back to ancient Etruscan times.
The city thus enclosed stood upon a huge olive-clad height, from which the sea
was visible, a score of miles distant.
Near at hand opened the
dark mouths of the alum mines which were so suddenly forbidden to us.
In
fact, the Volterrans forcibly ejected certain Florentine commissioners who
claimed a tribute for Lorenzo.

His Magnificence undoubtedly meant what he had once told
me about wishing to avoid war as costly, dangerous and ignoble. But this was
too loud a challenge for even his considerable patience. In the spring of 1472
he called a meeting of the Signoria—the lot-chosen body of citizens who acted as
public council—for discussion of the problem. It so
happened
that Guaracco himself, a Florentine resident by virtue of that house near
Verrocchio's bottega was a member of this jury-like group of governors, and present
at the meeting.

* These lines are from "Horatius at the Bridge."
by Thomas Babington Macauley. The alum mines referred to are still workable.

I, too, would have liked to attend, but it was impossible.
Lorenzo had called for a secret session—proof of his concern over the matter.
All I knew was that one of the Signoria, a conservative old fellow by the name
of Tomasco Soderino, was intending to speak strongly for conciliation and peace.
Perhaps he could restore friendship with the Volterrans, make it possible for
me to secure my alum.

I wished Lisa were there, to talk serenely and pleasantly
to me. But with Guaracco's permission she was visiting a friend, the abbess of
a convent near
Venice
.

The meeting lasted all morning, and all afternoon, and at
the end of it Guaracco came to seek me at Verrocchio's.

"It is all settled," he informed me, grinning
triumphantly.

"Settled?" I repeated. "Peace, you mean?"

"War," he replied. "We take your needful alum
by force."

I felt a little shocked. "But Soderino was going
to—"

"
Aye,
and he did,"
Guaracco anticipated the end of the sentence. "Bleated about soft answers
to turn away Volterran wrath, bleated for hours. I had an answer ready. I told

Lorenzo that we could not make your flying
machine without alum, and plenty of it."

"Alum is not for the flying machine," I
protested, "but for the time reflector."

He gestured idly with a big hand. "Do you not think I
know, boy? But we need alum, and what matter under which pretext we get it?
Lorenzo is obsessed with desire to see men fly. My word was the final ounce in
the balance to make him decide for war."

After that, things moved fast in
Florence
,
because word arrived that the town of
Volterra
had employed a round thousand tough mercenaries to defend her ancient walls.
Lorenzo immediately gathered four times that number of troops, and as thejr
commander engaged Federigo d'Urbino, one of the most noteworthy soldiers of the
Italian peninsula.*

HE did
not deign to take command himself, and restrained the younger and
more fiery
Giuliano fromdoing so.

*This famous general of mercenaries later commanded an
army that fought against Lorenzo. War, to these soldiers of fortune, was a game
and a business. There was no more lasting enmity between such mercenaries than
there is today between lawyers who may have opposed each other in lawsuits, volunteering
to lead the mounted lancers.

But the brothers did lead the force in procession through
the chief streets of the city.

To me that glittering sepectacle was somehow ironic. The
cavalry was, for the most part, French and Navarrese, the pike-trailing
infantry largely Swiss and Swabian, the crossbow companies from
Sicily
,
the artillery and seige train Spanish, and the whole cosmopolitan host
sprinkled here and there with Scots, Hungarians, Englishmen and Moors. If any
element was really missing, it was Florentine.

Yet that was the way the city-states of
Italy
fought—not with their own blood, but with professional adventurers.

Perhaps something can be said for the system. Battles
lacked the extreme ferocity of deadly enmity, for opposing generals were often
old friends and comrades in arms, who were willing to win or lose, so to speak,
on points. At any rate, the Florentine shopkeepers and artisans seemed pleased,
and cheered those foreign soldiers as loudly as though a force of native
Tuscans was marching away to war.

Guaracco, as leader of the party that advocated strife,
went to the palace for permission to accompany the mercenaries. I was with him
as he found Lorenzo, writing busily at his desk in the audience chamber.

"Go if you will," the ruler told Guaracco,
without raising his eyes from the page. "I trust that this campaign is
final."

"You
mean,
destruction of
Volterra?" prompted Guaracco, like a lawyer wrenching an admission from a
witness.

Lorenzo seemed to hear him only by half. "That
physician is often most cruel," he murmured, as he resumed writing what
looked to be a verse, perhaps a sonnet, "
who
appears most compassionate."

To this moment I am sure that what he said was being
fitted into his poem, and had nothing to do with the campaign. Even if I am
wrong, it was a most equivocal answer. But Guaracco bowed as though he had
received specific and welcome orders. Then he hurried away.

Perhaps I should have gone with him then, but I had no
stomach for battle. I felt some uneasy guilt because with Federigo d'Urbino's
train of seige ordnance went my multiplecannon arrangement for battering down
walls, and many of the crossbowmen carried weapons with Guaracco's lever
improvement which I had clarified in a sketch.

A day I lingered in the town, which buzzed with excitement
about the campaign. A whole night I lay wakeful in the cell-like room I still
kept at Verrocchio's bottega. Something indefinable made me woefully nervous.

Dawn had barely become bright before I dressed, drew on
thigh-boots and leather riding-coat, girded myself with a sword and hurried to
where my gray horse was stabled.

It was as if a voice called me to Volterra.

Yet, for all my strangely risen anxiety, I could not ride
my poor horse to death. I did no more than thirty-five miles the first day,
stopping the night at a peasant's hut. When in the morning I continued, before
I had ridden an hour I met another horseman, galloping in the direction of
Florence
.
He was a half-armored French lancer, with the velvet-edged sleeves of an under officer.
Also, he was three-quarters drunk, and waved a grubby wine bottle at me.

"Way! Way!" he bawled. "I bear messages to
Lorenzo!"

BUT I spurred forward and managed to seize his bridle.

"Tell me," I said earnestly, "how goes the
fighting at Volterra?"

He started to laugh, and finished by hiccoughing.
"Fighting?" he echoed scornfully. "Now nay, there was no fighting."

"How's that?"
I persisted.

"We marched under the walls of the town, and bade
them surrender. And"—he broke off to swig wine—"and they did!"
More gulping laughter over something he deemed a joke. "Now, let me ride
on with my dispatches, young sir,"

"One
word
more," I
begged, but he struck at me with the bottle. It was of stone, and heavy, but I flung
up my forearm to save my head and sustained only a musty drenching.

With a prick of the spur, I forced my gray horse close
against his mount, shifting my hand ftom his bridle to his collar, and with the
other hand I wrenched the bottle away from him.

"Why is the army not returning?" I demanded, and
shook him hard.

He lost his fierceness, but not his joy over what had
happened.

"You cannot guess?" he flung back, with a
soldier's contempt for one who does not understand military routine.

"The lads are plundering. What else? So should I be
plundering, if—
"

I pushed the wine bottle back into his fist, and let him
go. With whip and

spur
I sped on my way.

But when I arrived I was too late, even if I had had the
power and knowledge to divert that misdeed.

Volterra gushed flame from within her walls. Around the
town capered the victorious troops, some of them drunker than the courier I had
met, others staggering under burdens of loot. Even from afar I heard yells and laughter.
The camp, a great field of tents beneath the hill that supported the town, was
almost deserted, and into it I spurred. By chance I came almost at once to the
commander's pavilion and there I found Federigo d'Urbino, sitting alone.

He slouched forward on his folding chair, his long,
black-tufted chin clutched in a hard hand. His face was as somber as his armor
was bright. He glared up as I swung out of the saddle, "You come with
dispatches from
Florence
, I make no
doubt," he growled. "Ride back and tell that blood-drinker, Lorenzo,
that I will never draw sword for him again, not

if
he seek to buy me with all the
treasure of Croesus."

"What is this drivel?" I snapped back. "Is
not this atrocity your bidding?" In my revulsion, I forgot that I was
calling to account the foremost soldier of the peninsula. But he only shook his
head.

"Not my bidding.
Lorenzo's.
I—I have a reputation as a gentleman and a merciful Christian."

"To be sure it was Lorenzo's bidding," said a
voice behind me, a voice that often had a way of breaking in on conversations.
"You, my dear young Cousin, heard Lorenzo speak to me, give me a
message."

I whirled upon Guaracco, thrusting my angry face into his.

"You dared order this pillage and destruction, as though
you were Lorenzo's agent?"

"Aye, that," he admitted with the utmost good
cheer. "You can bear me witness before Ser Federigo. His Magnificence was
plain: '
That
physician is often most cruel—'"

"So you interpreted his thoughtless speech, you
murdering dog!" I almost choked, and out of my scabbard I swept my blade.
"Draw, before I cut you down and rid Earth of your eternal deviltry!"

The red beard rustled in his old smile of mockery. "I
have no sword, "I bear only—this."

FROM under the fringe of his mantle his hand stole into
view, with his self-invented pistol ready cocked. Even at that, I might have fallen
upon him and forced him to shoot, perhaps killing me, but Federigo d'Urbino,
who did not recognize that deadly little weapon for what it was, sprang up and
caught my arm.

"Do not add one more murder to this massacre, young
sir," he begged me. "It is possible that Ser Guaracco truly misunderstood.
Yet—" he turned away. "Somehow I must stop these fiends at their
hell's work."

Left alone with me, Guaracco stepped warily out of my
reach, pistol still leveled. "It is true that I urged Lorenzo's words upon
the army, and it was none too loth to sack the town. I have even taken a piece
of loot myself. Come and see."

At some time during that speech he had brought his other
hand into view. Something gleamed softly and slyly between thumb and finger—his
great lustrous pearl, full of spells. I fought against its power, as against a
crushing weight, and indeed I did not lose my wits. But I grew tremulous and
vague of thought, and let him coax me to sheathe my sword.

"Come and see," he repeated, and I went with
him, slowly and a little drunkenly, to a tent not far from the commander's.

And there he showed me what he had seized from some
Volterran shop or warehouse. A great soapy block of alum, reflecting subdued
gray and blue lights, lay upon a length of canvas. It was almost exactly
cubical, and a good yard along the edge.

"I knew that I must get hold of this piece,"
Guaracco told me, "and so I passed on Lorenzo's orders. You must not blame
me, Leo, if I show scientific zeal."

Some worse motive had really caused him to start the
cruelties, but I gazed at the greasy-looking crystal, and its light seemed to
drive out some of his spell. In it I saw even a gleam of hope. It would help me
to a completion of the time reflector. Then I would be quit of the Renaissance,
its frustrations and fantasies. Above all, I would be quit of the abominable
Guaracco.