As he lifted his head, he saw a man sitting across the stream from him.
Magnus stared up through the port beside the airlock, amazed at the size of the ship. “All this, for only one man?”
“Two, if necessary,” Matilda answered, “and for a year or more. It is a home away from home, and has to store food and water for twelve Terran months, as well as a selection of robot bodies for the ‘brain,’ and everything our experts can think of, for survival on a strange planet.”
Magnus was awed. This close to the ship, it seemed vast, a great golden disk whose rim was twenty feet in the air. Beside it, the converted asteroid that was his father’s ship seemed small and inconsequential.
Then Magnus noticed the cable connecting the two ships. He frowned and was about to ask, but even as he opened his mouth, the cable disconnected from Fess’s ship and reeled slowly back into the golden disc, waving like a snake charmer’s cobra in the negligible gravity. “Why were the two ships connected?”
Aunt Matilda looked blank. “Why, I’ve no idea.” Magnus shrugged it off; the matter seemed inconsequential. He gazed up at the huge ship, sitting in golden splendor amid the desolation of the airless asteroid, and felt exalted at the mere thought that it was his ship, now. “It is magnificent!”
“Not quite as noble as it looks,” Aunt Matilda said, amused. “The color is due to a superconducting finish that allows the most effective force-field ever developed, to be erected around the ship with far less energy than ever before.”
“I am glad it has a utilitarian excuse,” Magnus answered, “for I will feel sinfully sybaritic in such a craft. What did my uncle term it—a TLC?”
“That is its model number,” Aunt Matilda explained. “It stands for ‘Total Life Conserver,’ since it is equipped to protect the lives of its passengers in every way known, up to and including cryogenic freezing, if all else fails.”
“Reassuring,” Magnus murmured.
“It has a serial number, of course,” Matilda went on, “but it also has a more personal designation, connoting its strength and abilities—Hercules Alfheimer.”
“Hercules Alfheimer?” Magnus stared. Hercules, of course, was the great hero of the Greeks—but Alfheim was the home of the light elves of the Norse. “You don’t mind mixing your mythologies, do you?”
The Countess’s eyes glowed, and Magnus suddenly realized that he’d apparently passed some sort of unexpected test. “Quite so, Nephew,” she said. “We try to do that with every new robot, to indicate that it is not restricted to the world-view of any one culture. Naming gives it a more convenient designation than its serial number alone, and one which helps to humanize its behavior.”
Both of which made it seem less intimidating to the humans who had to deal with it, Magnus realized.
“When it is sold, of course,” Matilda went on, “its new owner can change its name to whatever he or she pleases.”
Magnus intended to; the collision of cultures jarred on his sensibilities. “I will treasure it, Aunt. I thank you deeply.”
“Think of us always,” she admonished. “Now, if you must leave, young man, you must. Do come again.”
“It shall be a matter of great anticipation,” Magnus assured her. “My thanks to you, Aunt Matilda, and to my uncle…” He turned to Pelisse and therefore necessarily toward Robert, who stood behind Pelisse with his hand touching her shoulder, still defiant as he stared at Magnus—but forcing a smile now, at least. “Farewell, cousins,” Magnus said. “My life is richer for knowing you.”
“Oh, not farewell!” Pelisse was dewy around the lashes. “Say only, ‘till we meet again!’ ”
“Au revoir, then,” Magnus said, trying to make his smile warm. “This has been an unforgettable experience.” He reached out to squeeze her hand, then turned away and made his escape into the boarding tunnel.
He came out into the ship; the hatch dogged itself behind him, and a soft, deep voice said, “Greetings, Master Magnus.”
“I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Hercules Alfheimer.” Magnus inclined his head, remembering what his father had told him: Be polite to robots, even if they don’t need it—it’ll keep you in the habit of being polite to people. Magnus already knew how thoroughly all human beings are creatures of habit.
“Thank you, Master Magnus,” the robot’s voice answered.
“ ‘Magnus’ alone will do,” the young man said. “I have no wish to have one call me ‘master‘; adjust it in your programming.”
“Noted,” the computer replied. “My name, too, can be changed to suit you, Magnus. I have found that most human beings prefer to shorten long designations.”
“Indeed.” Magnus nodded. “Let us make a contraction of ‘Hercules Alfheimer’: ‘Herkimer.’ ” He smiled; there was something amusing about so grand a ship having so modest a name.
“ ‘Herkimer’ I shall be henceforth,” the computer agreed. “Would you like a tour of the ship, Magnus?”
“After we are in space,” Magnus said. “For now, I would like to be away as quickly as possible.”
“The control room is straight ahead,” Herkimer informed him.
Magnus nodded; he had surmised as much, from the blunt ending of the corridor inside the airlock. He paced forward a dozen steps and found himself looking through an open doorway into the bridge. To his right was a drop shaft; to his left… “What is this hatch across from the elevator?”
“A bunkroom, for those occasions when you wish to sleep near the bridge,” Herkimer answered. “There is a more fitting bedchamber below.”
Magnus could just bet there was. Judging from his guest quarters in Castle d’Armand, it was going to be such a swamp of luxury that he’d probably prefer the bunkroom permanently. He nodded, stepped through the door, sat down on the control couch—and suddenly felt that the ship was really his. “Warm your engines and plot a course for…” Magnus paused; he hadn’t thought this far ahead. Then he shrugged; he wanted to get to Terra sooner or later. “Plot a course inward, toward the sun; we will adjust it in space.”
“Very good, Magnus.”
Magnus was barely aware of the most subtle of vibrations; somewhere in the ship, machinery had come to life.
One final matter remained. “A communication channel to Fess, please.”
“Here, Magnus.”
That had been suspiciously fast. “Fess, you are once again the property of Rod Gallowglass, née Rodney d’Armand, High Warlock of Gramarye. You are to return to him as quickly as possible.”
“Understood, my former master. You will understand, though, Magnus, that I leave you with some trepidation.”
“You may take it with you; I already have enough trepidation to last me a lifetime.”
“A feeble attempt at humor, Magnus.”
“Perhaps, Fess, but I have become wary of sentiment. I will treasure your regard; and you may be as sure as any may, of my safety.”
“That is my cause for concern, Magnus.”
Magnus smiled. “Still, we must bear it, old companion. Farewell, till I see you again on Gramarye! Give my love to my parents and Cordelia, and my warmest regards to my brothers.”
“I shall, Magnus.”
“Depart for Gramarye now, Fess. May your trip be smooth.”
“And yours, Magnus. Bon voyage!”
A surge of feeling hit Magnus, and he might have said more, but Herkimer’s voice murmured, “Ready for liftoff.”
“Which shall lift off, Maxima or we? Nevertheless, let us go.”
There was absolutely no sense of motion—after all, it didn’t take much acceleration to escape from so small a worldlet. But escape they did, and Magnus felt a massive surge of relief. “Viewscreen on, please.”
The screenful of stars before him faded into a view of the “castle,” with the boarding tunnel curving out of the eastern wing. The rough, pitted form of Fess’s ship stood by it, dull in the merciless sunlight. As Magnus watched, the lumpy ball rose and drifted upward, but away from them, toward the constellation of Cassiopeia. When it was well away from the surface, it began to accelerate, dwindling rapidly. Magnus watched as his last contact with home diminished, feeling suddenly very much alone. Just before the ship shrank from sight, Magnus murmured, “Farewell, companion of my youth. You shall ever be with me.”