The chandeliers dimmed. The torch-wielding audience went into motion like sparks stirred by a gust of wind, some motoring toward the high ground and others preferring the water's edge. As the house lights faded to black, they amused themselves playing their torches back and forth across the walls and the curtain, creating an apocalyptic sky torn by hundreds of comets. A tongue of clammy, algae-colored light shone beneath the water, resolving itself into a long narrow thrust stage as it rose toward the surface, like Atlantis resurgent. The audience noticed it and bounced their spotlights off the surface, catching a few dark motes in the crossfire: the heads of a dozen or so performers, slowly rising out of the water. They began to speak in something like unison, and Hackworth realized that they were the chorus of lunatics he had seen earlier.
"Set me up, Nick," said a woman's voice behind him.
"Tucked 'em in, did you?" said the barkeep.
"Ninnies."
Hackworth turned and saw that it was the young woman in the devil costume who had acted as tour guide for the Heartlanders. She was very petite, dressed in a long black skirt slit all the way to the hipbone, and she had nice hair, very thick and black and glossy. She carried a glass of wheat beer over to the counter, primly swept her devil's tail out of the way in a gesture that Hackworth found hopelessly fetching, and took a seat. Then she let out an explosive sigh and put her head down on her arms for a few moments, her blinking red horns reflecting in the curved window like the taillights of a full-laner. Hackworth laced his fingers together around his pint and smelled her perfume. Down below, the chorus had gotten out of hand and was trying to pull off a rather ambitious Busby Berkeley dance number. They showed an uncanny ability to act in unison— something to do with the 'sites that had burrowed into their brains— but their bodies were stiff, weak, and badly coordinated. What they did, they did with absolute conviction, which made it good anyway.
"Did they buy it?" Hackworth said.
"Pardon me?" said the woman, looking up alertly like a bird, as if she hadn't known Hackworth was here.
"Do those Heartlanders really believe that story about the drunken pilot?"
"Oh. Who cares?" the woman said.
Hackworth laughed, pleased that a member of Dramatis Personae was affording him this confidence.
"It's off the point, isn't it," the woman said in a lower voice, getting a bit philosophical now. She squeezed a wedge of lemon into her wheat beer and took a sip. "Belief isn't a binary state, not here at least. Does anyone believe anything one hundred percent? Do you believe everything you see through those goggles?"
"No," Hackworth said, "the only thing I believe at the moment is that my legs are wet, this stout is good, and I like your perfume."
She looked a bit surprised, not unpleasantly so, but she wasn't nearly that easy. "So why are you here? Which show did you come to see?"
"What do you mean? I suppose I came to see this one."
"But there is no this one. It's a whole family of shows. Interlaced." She parked her beer and executed Phase 1 of the here-is— the-church maneuver. "Which show you see depends on which feed you're viewing."
"I don't seem to have any control over what I see."
"Ah, then you're a performer."
"So far I have felt like a very inept slapstick performer."
"Inept slapstick? Isn't that a bit redundant?"
It wasn't that funny, but she said it wittily, and Hackworth chuckled politely.
"It sounds as though you've been singled out to be a performer."
"You don't say."
"Now, I don't normally reveal our trade secrets," the woman continued in a lower voice, "but usually when someone is singled out as a performer, it's because they have come here for some purpose other than pure, passive entertainment."
Hackworth stuttered and fumbled for words a bit. "Does that— is that done?"
"Oh, yes!" the woman said. She rose from her stool and moved to the one right next to Hackworth. "Theatre's not just a few people clowning about on a stage, being watched by this herd of oxen. I mean, sometimes it's that. But it can be ever so much more-really it can be any sort of interaction between people and people, or people and information." The woman had become quite passionate now, forgotten herself completely. Hackworth got boundless pleasure just from watching her. When she'd first entered the bar, he'd thought she had a sort of nondescript face, but as she let her guard down and spoke without any self-consciousness, she seemed to become prettier and prettier. "We are tied in to everything here— plugged into the whole universe of information. Really, it's a virtual theatre. Instead of being hard-wired, the stage, sets, cast, and script are all soft-they can be reconfigured simply by shifting bits about."
"Oh. So the show-or interlaced set of shows-can be different each night?"
"No, you're still not getting it," she said, becoming very excited. She reached out and gripped his forearm just below the elbow and leaned toward him, desperate to make sure he got this.
"It's not that we do a set show, reconfigure, and a different one next night. The changes are dynamic and take place in real time. The show reconfigures itself dynamically depending upon what happens moment to moment-and mind you, not just what happens here, but what is happening in the world at large. It is a smart play—an intelligent organism."
"So, if, for example, a battle between the Fists of Righteous Harmony and the Coastal Republic were taking place in the interior of China at this moment, then shifts in the battle might in some way-"
"Might change the color of a spotlight or a line of dialogue— not necessarily in any simple and deterministic fashion, mind you-"
"I think I understand," Hackworth said. "The internal variables of the play depend on the total universe of information outside-"
The woman nodded vigorously, quite pleased with him, her huge black eyes shining.
Hackworth continued, "As, for example, a person's state of mind at any given moment might depend on the relative concentrations of innumerable chemical compounds circulating through his bloodstream."
"Yes," the woman said, "like if you're in a pub being chatted up by a fetching young gentleman, the words coming out of your mouth are affected by the amount of alcohol you've put into your system, and, of course, by concentrations of natural hormones— again, not in a simple deterministic way-these things are all inputs."
"I think I'm beginning to get your meaning," Hackworth said.
"Substitute tonight's show for the brain, and the information flowing across the net for molecules flowing through the bloodstream, and you have it," the woman said.
Hackworth was a bit disappointed that she had chosen to pull back from the pub metaphor, which he had found more immediately interesting.
The woman continued, "That lack of determinism causes some to dismiss the whole process as wanking. But in fact it's an incredibly powerful tool. Some people understand that."
"I believe I do," Hackworth said, desperately wanting her to believe that he did.
"And so some people come here because they are on a quest of some sort-trying to find a lost lover, let's say, or to understand why something terrible happened in their lives, or why there is cruelty in the world, or why they aren't satisfied with their career. Society has never been good at answering these questions-the sorts of questions you can't just look up in a reference database."
"But the dynamic theatre allows one to interface with the universe of data in a more intuitive way," Hackworth said.
"That is precisely it," the woman said. "I'm so pleased that you get this."
"When I was working with information, it frequently occurred to me, in a vague and general way, that such a thing might be desirable," Hackworth said. "But this is beyond my imagination."
"Where did you hear of us?"
"I was referred here by a friend who has been associated with you in the past, in some vague way."
"Oh? May I ask who? Perhaps we have a mutual friend," the woman said, as if that would be a fine thing. Hackworth felt himself reddening and let out a deep breath.
"All right," he said, "I lied. It wasn't really a friend of mine. It was someone I was led to."
"Ah, now we're getting into it," the woman said. "I knew there was something mysterious going on with you."
Hackworth was abashed and did not know what to say. He looked into his beer. The woman was staring at him, and he could feel her eqes on his face like the warmth of a follow spot.
"So you did come here in search of something. Didn't you? Something you couldn't find by looking it up in a database."
"I'm seeking a fellow called the Alchemist," Hackworth said. Suddenly, things got bright. The side of the woman's face that was toward the window was brilliantly illuminated, like a probe in space lit on one side by the directional light of the sun. Hackworth sensed, somehow, that this was not a new development. Looking out over the audience, he saw that nearly all of them were aiming their spotlights into the bar, and that everyone in the place had been watching and listening to his entire conversation with the woman. The spectacles had deceived him by adjusting the apparent light levels. The woman looked different too; her face had reverted to the way it looked when she came in, and Hackworth now understood that her image in his spectacles had been gradually evolving during their conversation, getting feedback from whatever part of his brain buzzed when he saw a beautiful woman.
The curtain parted to reveal a large electric sign descending from the fly space: JOHN HACKWORTH in QUEST FOR THE ALCHEMIST starring JOHN HACKWORTH as HIMSELF.
The Chorus sang:
He's such a stiff John Hackworth is
Can't show emotion to save his life
With nasty repercussions, viz
He lost his job and lost his wife
So now he's on a goshdarn Quest
Wandering all o'er the world
Hunting down that Alchemist
'Cept when he stops to pick up girls.
Maybe he'll clean up his act
And do the job tonight
A fabulous adventure packed
With marvelous sounds and sights
Let's get it on, oh Hacker John
Let's get it on, on, on.
Something jerked violently at Hackworth's neck. The woman had tossed a noose around him while he'd been staring out the window, and now she was hauling him out the door of the bar like a recalcitrant dog. As soon as she cleared the doorway, her cape inflated like a time-lapse explosion, and she shot twelve feet into the air, propelled on jets of air built into her clothing somehow-she payed out the leash so that Hackworth wasn't hanged in the process. Flying above the audience like the cone of fire from a rocket engine, she led the stumbling Hackworth down the sloping floor and to the edge of the water. The thrust stage was linked to the water's edge by a couple of narrow bridges, and Hackworth negotiated one of these, feeling hundreds of lights on his shoulders, seemingly hot enough to ignite his clothing. She led him straight back through the center of the Chorus, beneath the electric sign, through the backstage area, and through a doorway, which clanged shut behind him. Then she vanished.
Hackworth was surrounded on three sides by softly glowing blue walls. He reached out to touch one and received a mild shock for his troubles. Stepping forward, he tripped over something that skittered across the floor: a dry bone, big and heavy, larger than a human femur.
He stepped forward through the only gap available to him and found more walls. He had been deposited into the heart of a labyrinth.
It took him an hour or so to realize that escape through normal means was hopeless. He didn't even try to figure out the labyrinth's floor plan; instead, realizing that it couldn't possibly be larger than the ship, he followed the foolproof expedient of turning right at every corner, which as all clever boys knew must always lead to an exit. But it didn't, and he did not understand why until once, in the corner of his eye, he saw a wall segment shift sideways, closing up an old gap and creating a new one. It was a dynamic labyrinth.
He found a rusty bolt on the floor, picked it up, and threw it at a wall. It did not bounce off but passed through and clattered onto the floor beyond. So the walls did not exist except as figments in his spectacles. The labyrinth was constructed of information. In order to escape, he would have to hack it.
He sat down on the floor. Nick the barman appeared, walking unhindered through walls, bearing a tray with another stout on it, and handed it to him along with a bowl of salty peanuts. As the evening went on, other people passed through his area, dancing or singing or dueling or arguing or making love. None of these had anything to do, particularly, with Hackworth's Quest, and they appeared to have nothing to do with each other. Apparently Hackworth's Quest was (as the devil-woman herself had told him) just one of several concurrent stories being acted out tonight, coexisting in the same space.
So what did any of this have to do with the life of John Hackworth? And how was Fiona mixed up in it?
As Hackworth thought about Fiona, a panel in front of him slid to the side, exposing several yards of corridor. During the next couple of hours he noted the same thing several times: An idea would occur to him, and a wall would move. In this way he moved in fits and starts through the maze, as his mind moved from one idea to the next. The floor was definitely sloping downward, which would obviously bring him below the waterline at some point; and indeed he had begun to sense a heavy drumming noise coming up through the deckplates, which might have been the pounding of mighty engines except that this ship, as far as he knew, wasn't going anywhere. He smelled seawater before him and saw dim lights shining through its surface, broken by the waves, and knew that in the flooded ballast tanks of this ship lay a network of underwater tunnels, and that in those tunnels were Drummers. For all he knew, the whole show was just a figment being enacted in the mind of the Drummers. Probably not the main event either; it was probably just an epiphenomenon of whatever deep processes the Drummers were running down there in their collective mind.
A wall panel slid aside and gave him a clear path to the water. Hackworth squatted at the water's edge for a few minutes, listening to the drums, then stood up and began to undo his necktie.
He was terribly hot and sweaty, and bright light was in his eyes, and none of these things were consistent with being underwater. He awoke to see a bright blue sky overhead, pawed at his face, and found that the spectacles were gone. Fiona was there in her white dress, watching him with a rueful smile. The floor was pounding Hackworth on the buttocks and evidently had been for some time, as the bony parts of his backside were bruised and raw.
He realized that they were on the raft, heading back toward the London docks; that he was naked and that Fiona had covered him with a sheet of plastic to protect his skin from the sun. A few other theatergoers were scattered about, slumped against one another, utterly passive, like refugees, or people who've just had the greatest sex of their lives, or people who are tremendously hung over.
"You were quite a hit," Fiona said. And suddenly Hackworth remembered himself being paraded naked and dripping down the thrust stage, waves of applause rolling over him from the standing audience.
"The Quest is finished," he blurted. "We're going to Shanghai."
"You're going to Shanghai," Fiona said. "I'll see you off at the dock. Then I'll be going back." She cocked her head over the stern.
"Back to the ship?"
"I was a bigger hit than you were," she said. "I've found my calling in life, Father. I've accepted an invitation to join Dramatis Personae."
Carl Hollywood's hack.
Carl Hollywood leaned back against the hard lacquered back of his corner seat for the first time in many hours and rubbed his face with both hands, scratching himself with his own whiskers. He had been sitting in the teahouse for almost twenty-four hours, consumed twelve pots of tea, and twice called in masseuses to unknot his back.
The afternoon light coming in the windows behind him flickered as the crowd outside began to break up. They had been treated to a remarkable free media show, watching over his shoulders for hours as the dramaturgical exploits of John Percival Hackworth had played themselves out, in several different camera angles, on floating cine windows on Carl Hollywood's pages. None of them could read English, and so they had been unable to follow the story of Princess Nell's adventures in the land of King Coyote, which had been streaming across the pages at the same time, the storyline fluctuating and curling in upon itself like a cloud of smoke spun and torn by invisible currents.
Now the pages were blank and empty. Carl reached out lazily with one hand and began to stack the sheets on top of each other, just for something to occupy his hands while his mind worked— though it wasn't working, at this point, so much as stumbling blindly through a dark labyrinth a la John Percival Hackworth. Carl Hollywood had long suspected that, among other things, the network of the Drummers was a giant system for breaking codes. The cryptographic systems that made the media network run securely, and that made it capable of securely transferring money, were based on the use of immense prime numbers as magic keys. The keys could theoretically be broken by throwing enough computing power at the problem. But at any given level of computing power, code-making was always much easier than code-breaking, so as long as the system kept moving to larger and larger prime numbers as computers got faster, the code-makers could stay far ahead of the code-breakers forever.
But the human mind didn't work like a digital computer and was capable of doing some funny things. Carl Hollywood remembered one of the Lone Eagles, an older man who could add huge columns of numbers in his head as quickly as they were called out. That, in and of itself, was merely a duplication of something that a digital computer could do. But this man could also do numerical tricks that could not easily be programmed into a computer.
If many minds were gathered together in the network of the Drummers, perhaps they could somehow see through the storm of encrypted data that roared continuously through media space, cause the seemingly random bits to coalesce into meaning. The men who had come to talk to Miranda, who had persuaded her to enter the world of the Drummers, had implied that this was possible; that through them, Miranda could find Nell.
Superficially, this would be disastrous, because it would destroy the system used for financial transactions. It would be as if, in a world where commerce was based upon the exchange of gold, some person had figured out how to change lead into gold. An Alchemist.
But Carl Hollywood wondered if it really made a difference. The Drummers could only do such things by subsuming themselves into a gestalt society. As the case of Hackworth demonstrated, as soon as a Drummer removed himself from that gestalt, he lost touch with it completely. All communication between the Drummers and normal human society took place unconsciously, through their influence upon the Net, in patterns that appeared subliminally in the ractives that everyone played with in their homes and saw playing across the walls of buildings. The Drummers could break the code, but they couldn't take advantage of it in an obvious way, or perhaps they simply did not want to. They could make gold, but they were no longer interested in having it.
John Hackworth, somehow, was better than anyone else at making the transition between the society of Drummers and the Victorian tribe, and each time he crossed the boundary, he seemed to bring something with him, clinging to his garments like traces of scent. These faint echoes of forbidden data entrained in his wake caused tangled and unpredictable repercussions, on both sides of the boundary, that Hackworth himself might not even be aware of. Carl Hollywood had known little of Hackworth until several hours ago, when, alerted by a friend in Dramatis Personae, he had joined his story in progress on the black decks of the show boat. Now he seemed to know a great deal: that Hackworth was the progenitor of the Young Lady's Illustrated Primer, and that he had a deep relationship with the Drummers that went far beyond anything as simple-minded as captivity. He had not just been eating lotuses and getting his rocks off during his years beneath the waves.
Hackworth had brought something back with him this time, when he had emerged naked and streaming with cold seawater from the warren of Drummers in the ballast tanks of the ship. He had emerged with a set of numerical keys that were used to identify certain entities: the Primer, Nell, Miranda, and someone else who went by the name of Dr. X. Before he had fully reentered his conscious state, he had supplied those keys to the Clown, who had been there to haul his gasping and shivering body out of the water.
The Clown was a mechanical device, but Dramatis Personae had been good enough to allow Carl Hollywood to control it— and to improvise much of Hackworth's personal script and storyline— for the duration of the show.
Now Carl had the keys and, for the purposes of the Net, was indistinguishable from Miranda or Nell or Dr. X or even Hackworth himself. They were written out across the surface of a page, long columns of digits grouped in bunches of four. Carl Hollywood told this sheet to fold itself and then tucked it into his breast pocket. He could use them to untangle this whole business, but that would be another night's hack. Snuff and caffeine had done as much as they could. It was time to go back to the hotel, soak in a bath, get some sleep, and prepare for the final act.
From the Primer, Princess Nell's ride to the Castle of King Coyote;
description of the castle;
an audience with a Wizard;
her final triumph over King Coyote;
an enchanted army.
Princess Nell rode north into an explosive thunderstorm. The horses were driven nearly mad with terror by the cannonlike explosions of the thunder and the unearthly blue flashes of the lightning, but with a firm hand and a soothing voice in the ear, Nell urged them forward. The cairns of bones strewn along the roadside were evidence that this mountain pass was no place to dawdle, and the poor animals would be no less terrified huddling under a rock. For all she knew, the great King Coyote was capable of controlling even the weather itself and had prepared this reception to try Princess Nell's will.
Finally she crested the pass, and none too soon, as the horses' hooves had begun to slip on a thick layer of ice, and ice had begun thickly to coat the reins and to weigh down the animals' manes and tails. Working her way down the switchbacks, she left the high fury of the storm behind and pushed into masses of rain as dense as any jungle. It was well that she had paused for a few days at the foot of the mountains to review all of Purple's magic books, for on this night ride through the mountains she used every spell Purple had taught her: spells for casting light, for choosing the right fork in the road, for calming animals and warming chilled bodies, for bolstering her own failing courage, for sensing the approach of any monsters foolish enough to venture out in such weather, and for defeating those desperate enough to attack. This night ride was, perhaps, a rash act, but Princess Nell proved equal to the challenge. King Coyote would not expect her to make such a crossing. Tomorrow when the storm on high had cleared, he would send his raven sentinels winging through the pass and down into the plain below to spy on her, as he had for the last several days, and they would return with dismaying news: The Princess had vanished! Even King Coyote's best trackers would not be able to follow her path from yesterday's campsite, so craftily had she covered her real tracks and laid false ones.
Dawn found her in the heart of a great forest. King Coyote's castle was built on a high woodland plateau surrounded by mountains; she estimated she was several hours' ride away. Staying well clear of the high road taken by the messengers from the Cipherers' Market, she made camp under an overhanging rock along a river, sheltered from the chill wet wind and safe from the eyes of the raven sentinels, and lit a tiny fire where she made some tea and porridge. She napped until the middle of the afternoon, then rose, bathed in the bitter water of the stream, and untied the oilcloth packet she had brought with her. It contained one of the costumes worn by the messengers who galloped to and from the Cipherers' Market. It also contained a few books containing enciphered messages— authentic ones dispatched from various stalls in the market addressed to King Coyote's castle.
As she made her way through the woods toward the high road, she heard massed hoofbeats rolling by and knew that the first contingent of messengers had just come over the pass after waiting for the storm to pass. She waited a few minutes and then followed them. Turning onto the high road out of the dense woods, she reined in her horse and sat for a moment, astonished by her first sight of the Castle of King Coyote.
She had never seen its like in all of her travels through the Land Beyond. Its base was as wide as a mountain, and its walls rose sheer and straight into the clouds. Galactic clouds of lights shone from its myriad windows. It was guarded by mighty stockades, each of them a great castle unto itself, but built not on stony foundations, but upon the very clouds themselves; for King Coyote, in his cleverness, had devised a way to make buildings that floated on the air. Princess Nell spurred her horse forward, for even in her numbness she sensed that someone might be watching the high road from a window high in one of the castle's glittering oriels. As she galloped toward the castle, she was torn between a sense of her own foolishness in daring to assault such a mighty fortress and admiration for King Coyote's work. Faint clouds of diaphanous black oozed between the towers and stockades, and as Princess Nell drew closer, she saw that they were actually regiments of ravens going through their military drills. They were the closest thing King Coyote had to an army; for as one of the ravens had told her, after he had stolen the eleven keys from around her neck,
Castles, gardens, gold, and jewels
Contentment signify, for fools
Like Princess Nell; but those
Who cultivate their wit
Like King Coyote and his crows
Compile their power bit by bit
And hide it places no one knows.
King Coyote did not preserve his power by armed might but by cleverness, and sentinels were the only army he needed, information his only weapon.
As she galloped the final miles to the gate, wondering whether her legs and back would hold out, a thin steam of black issued from a narrow portal high in one of the floating stockades, thickened into a transparent ball, and dove toward her like a plunging comet. She could not help flinching from the illusion of mass and momentum, but, a stone's throw above her head the cloud of ravens parted into several contingents that whirled around and struck from several directions, converging on her, passing around her so closely that the wind from their rattling wings blew her hair back, finally reforming into a disciplined group that returned to its stockade without a look back. Apparently she had passed the inspection. When she reached the mighty gate, it was standing open for her, and no one was guarding it. Princess Nell rode into the broad streets of King Coyote's castle.
It was the finest place she had ever seen. Here gold and crystal were not hidden away in the King's treasury but were used as building materials. Green and growing things were everywhere, for King Coyote was fascinated by the secrets of nature and had sent his agents to the farthest reaches of the world to bring back exotic seeds. The wide boulevards of King Coyote's city were lined with trees whose arching limbs closed over the ashlars to form a rustling vault. The undersides of the leaves were silver and seemed to cast a gentle light, and the branches were filled with violet and magenta bromeliads the size of kettles, making a sweet sharp smell, aswarm with ruby-throated hummingbirds and filled with water where tiny fluorescent frogs and beetles lived.
The Messenger's Route was marked with polished brass plates set among the paving-stones. Princess Nell followed it down the grand boulevard, into a park that encircled the city, and then onto a rising street that spiraled around the central promontory. As the horse took her toward the clouds, her ears popped again and again, and from each curve in the road she enjoyed a sweeping view over the lower city and into the constellation of floating stockades where the raven sentinels soared, coming and going in flights and squadrons, bringing news from every corner of the empire.
She rode by a place where King Coyote was adding on to the castle; but instead of an army of stonemasons and carpenters, the builder was a single man, a portly gray-bearded fellow puffing at a long slender pipe, carrying a leather bag on his belt. Arriving at the center of the building site, he reached into his bag and drew out a great seed the size of an apple and pitched it into the soil. By the time this man had walked back to the spiral road, a tall shaft of gleaming crystal had arisen from the soil and grown far above their heads, gleaming in the sunlight, and branched out like a tree. By the time Princess Nell lost sight of it around the corner, the builder was puffing contentedly and looking at a crystalline vault that nearly covered the lot.
This and many other wonders Princess Nell saw during her long ride up the spiral road. The clouds cleared away, and Nell found that she could see great distances in every direction. King Coyote's domain was in the very heart of the Land Beyond, and his castle was built on a high plateau in the center of his domain, so that from his windows he could see all the way to the shining ocean in every direction. Nell kept a sharp eye on the horizon as she climbed toward the King's inner keep, hoping she might get a glimpse of the faraway island where Harv languished in the Dark Castle; but there were many islands in the distant sea, and it was hard to tell the Dark Castle's towers from mountain crags.
Finally the road became level and turned inward to pierce another unguarded gate in another high wall, and Princess Nell found herself in a green, flowery court before the King's keep-a high palace that appeared to have been hewn from a single diamond the size of an iceberg. By now the sun was sinking low in the west, and its orange rays ignited the walls of the keep and cast tiny rainbows everywhere like shards from a shattered crystal bowl. A dozen or so messengers stood in a queue before the doors of the keep. They had left their horses in a corner of the yard where a watering-trough and manger were available. Princess Nell did likewise and joined the queue.
"I have never had the honor of carrying a message to King Coyote," Princess Nell said to the messenger preceding her in the queue.
"It is an experience you will never forget," said the messenger, a cocky young man with black hair and a goatee.
"Why must we wait in this queue? In the stalls at the Cipherers' Market, we leave the books on the table and continue on our way."
Several of the messengers turned and looked back at Princess Nell disdainfully. The messenger with the goatee made a visible effort to control his amusement and said, "King Coyote is no small-timer sitting in a stall at the Cipherers' Market! This you will soon see for yourself."
"But doesn't he make his decisions the same way as all the others-by consulting rules in a book?"
At this the other messengers made no effort to control their amusement. The one with the goatee took on a distinctly sneering tone. "What would be the point of having a King in that case?" he said. "He does not take his decisions from any book. King Coyote has built a mighty thinking machine, Wizard 0.2, containing all the wisdom in the world. When we bring a book to this place, his acolytes decipher it and consult with Wizard 0.2. Sometimes it takes hours for Wizard to reach its decision. I would advise you to wait respectfully and quietly in the presence of the great machine!"
"That I will certainly do," said Princess Nell, amused rather than angered by this lowly messenger's impertinence.
The queue moved along steadily, and as darkness fell and the orange rays of the sun died away, Princess Nell became aware of colored lights streaming out from within the keep. The lights seemed to be quite brilliant whenever Wizard 0.2 was cogitating and dropped to a low flicker the rest of the time. Princess Nell tried to make out other details of what was going on inside the keep, but the countless facets broke up the light and bent it into all directions so that she could get only hints and fragments; trying to see into King Coyote's inner sanctum was like trying to remember the details of a forgotten dream.
Finally the messenger with the goatee emerged, gave Princess Nell a final smirk, and reminded her to display proper respect.
"Next," intoned the acolyte in a chanting voice, and Princess Nell entered the keep.
Five acolytes sat in the anteroom, each one at a desk piled high with dusty old books and long reels of paper tape. Nell had brought thirteen books from the Cipherers' Market, and at their direction, she distributed these books among the acolytes for decipherment. The acolytes were neither young nor old but in the middle of their lives, all dressed in white coats decorated, in golden thread, with the crest of King Coyote. Each also had a key around his neck. As Princess Nell waited, they deciphered the contents of the books she had brought and punched the results onto strips of paper tape using little machines built into their tables.
Then, with great ceremony, the thirteen paper tapes were coiled up and placed on a tremendous silver platter carried by a young altar boy. A pair of large doors was swung open, and the acolytes, the altar boy, and Princess Nell formed into a procession of sorts, which marched into the Chamber of the Wizard, a vast vaulted room, and down its long central aisle.
At the far end of the chamber was-nothing. A sort of large empty space surrounded by elaborate machinery and clockwork, with a small altar at the front. It reminded Princess Nell of a stage, empty of curtains and scenery. Standing next to the stage was a high priest, older and wearing a more impressive white robe.
When they reached the head of the aisle, the priest went through a perfunctory ceremony, praising the Wizard's excellent features and asking for its cooperation. As he said these words, lights began to come on and the machinery began to whir. Princess Nell saw that this vault was, in fact, nothing more than an anteroom for a much vaster space within, and that this space was filled with machinery: countless narrow shining rods, scarcely larger than pencil leads, laid in a fine gridwork, sliding back and forth under the impetus of geared power shafts running throughout the place. All of the machinery threw off heat as it ran, and the room was quite warm despite a vigorous draught of cold mountain air being pumped through it by windmill-size fans.
The priest took the first of the thirteen rolls of paper tape from the platter and fed it into a slot on the top of the altar. At this point, Wizard 0.2 really went into action, and Princess Nell saw that all the whirring and humming she'd seen to this point had been nothing more than a low idle. Each of its million pushrods was tiny, but the force needed to move all of them at once was seismic, and she could sense the tremendous strains on the power shafts and gear boxes thundering through the sturdy floor of the keep.
Lights came on around the stage, some of them built into the surface of the stage itself and some hidden in the machinery around it. To Princess Nell's surprise, a seemingly three-dimensional shape of light began to coalesce in the center of the empty stage. It gradually formed itself into a head, which took on additional details as the machinery thundered and hissed away: it was an old bald man with a long white beard, his face deeply furrowed in thought. After a few moments, the beard exploded into a flock of white birds and the head turned into a craggy mountain, the white birds swarming about it, and then the mountain erupted in orange lava that gradually filled up the entire volume of the stage until it was a solid glowing cube of orange light. In this fashion did one image merge into another, most astonishingly, for several minutes, and all the time the machinery was screaming away and making Princess Nell most anxious, and she suspected that if she had not seen less sophisticated machines at work at Castle Turing, she might have turned around and fled.
Finally, though, the images died away, the stage became empty again, and the altar spat out a length of paper tape, which the priest carefully folded up and handed to one of the acolytes. After a brief prayer of thanks, the priest fed the second tape into the altar, and the whole process started up again, this time with different but equally remarkable images.
So it went with one tape after another. When Princess Nell became accustomed to the noise and vibration of the Wizard, she began to enjoy the images, which seemed quite artistic to her— like something a human would come up with, and not machinelike at all.
But the Wizard was undoubtedly a machine. She had not yet had the opportunity to study it in detail, but after her experiences in all of King Coyote's other castles, she suspected that it, too, was just another Turing machine. Her study of the Cipherers' Market, and particularly of the rulebooks used by the cipherers to respond to messages, had taught her that for all its complexity, it too was nothing more than another Turing machine. She had come here to the Castle of King Coyote to see whether the King answered his messages according to Turing-like rules. For if he did, then the entire system— the entire kingdom— the entire Land Beyond-was nothing more than a vast Turing machine. And as she had established when she'd been locked up in the dungeon at Castle Turing, communicating with the mysterious Duke by sending messages on a chain, a Turing machine, no matter how complex, was not human. It had no soul. It could not do what a human did.
The thirteenth tape was fed into the altar, and the machinery began to whine, then to whir, and then to rumble. The images appearing above the stage flourished into wilder and more exotic forms than any they had seen yet, and watching the faces of the priest and the acolytes, Princess Nell could see that even they were surprised; they had never seen anything of the like before. As the minutes wore on, the images became fragmented and bizarre, mere incarnations of mathematical ideas, and finally the stage went entirely dark except for occasional random flashes of color. The Wizard had worked itself up to such a pitch that all of them felt trapped within the bowels of a mighty machine that could tear them to shreds in a moment. The little altar boy finally broke away and fled down the aisle. Within a minute or so, the acolytes, one by one, did the same, backing slowly away from the Wizard until they were about halfway down the aisle and then turning away and running. Finally even the high priest turned and fled. The rumbling of the machinery had now reached such a pitch that it felt as though an epochal earthquake were in progress, and Nell had to steady herself with a hand on the altar. The heat coming from back in the machine was like that from a forge, and Nell could see a dim red light from deep inside as some of the pushrods became hot enough to glow.
Finally it all stopped. The silence was astonishing. Nell realized she had been cringing and stood up straight. The red glow from inside the Wizard began to die away. White light poured in from all around. Princess Nell could tell that it was coming in from outside the diamond walls of the keep. A few minutes ago it had been nighttime. Now there was light, but not daylight; it came from all directions and was cool and colorless.
She ran down the aisle and opened the door to the anteroom, but it wasn't there. Nothing was there. The anteroom was gone. The flowery garden beyond it was gone, and the horses, the wall, the spiral road, the City of King Coyote, and the Land Beyond. Instead there was nothing but gentle white light.
She turned around. The Chamber of the Wizard was still there.
At the head of the aisle she could see a man sitting atop the altar, looking at her. He was wearing a crown. Around his neck was a key-the twelfth key to the Dark Castle. Princess Nell walked down the aisle toward King Coyote. He was a middle-aged man, sandy hair losing its color, gray eyes, and a beard, somewhat darker than his hair and not especially well trimmed. As Princess Nell approached, he seemed to become conscious of the crown around his head. He reached up, lifted it from his head, and tossed it carelessly onto the top of the altar.
"Very funny," he said. "You snuck a zero divide past all of my defenses."
Princess Nell refused to be drawn by his studied informality. She stopped several paces away. "As there is no one here to make introductions, I shall take the liberty of doing so myself. I am Princess Nell, Duchess of Turing," she said, and held out her hand.
King Coyote looked slightly embarrassed. He jumped down from the altar, approached Princess Nell, and kissed her hand. "King Coyote at your service."
"Pleased to make your acquaintance."
"The pleasure is mine. Sorry! I should have known that the Primer would have taught you better manners."
"I am not acquainted with the Primer to which you refer," Princess Nell said. "I am simply a Princess on a quest: to obtain the twelve keys to the Dark Castle. I note you have one of them in your possession."
King Coyote held up his hands, palms facing toward her.
"Say no more," he said. "Single combat will not be necessary. You are already the victor." He removed the twelfth key from his neck and held it out to Princess Nell. She took it from him with a little curtsy; but as the chain was sliding through his fingers, he tightened his grip suddenly, so that both of them were joined by the chain. "Now that your quest is over," he said, "can we drop the pretense?"
"I'm sure I don't take your meaning, Your Majesty."
He bore a controlled look of exasperation. "What was your purpose in coming here?"
"To obtain the twelfth key."
"Anything else?"
"To learn about Wizard 0.2."
"Ah."
"To discover whether it was, in fact, a Turing machine."
"Well, you have your answer. Wizard 0.2 is most certainly a Turing machine-the most powerful ever built."
"And the Land Beyond?"
"All grown from seeds. Seeds that I invented."
"And it is also a Turing machine, then? All controlled by Wizard 0.2?"
"No," said King Coyote. "Managed by Wizard. Controlled by me."
"But the messages in the Cipherers' Market control all the events in the Land Beyond, do they not?"
"You are most perceptive, Princess Nell."
"Those messages came to Wizard-just another Turing machine."
"Open the altar," said King Coyote, pointing to a large brass plate with a keyhole in the middle.
Princess Nell used her key to open the lock, and King Coyote flipped back the lid of the altar. Inside were two small machines, one for reading tapes and one for writing them.
"Follow me," said King Coyote, and opened a trap door set into the floor behind the altar.
Princess Nell followed him down a spiral staircase into a small room. The connecting rods from the altar came down into this room and terminated at a small console.