In an earlier generation the street had, as its name implied, been a coterie of those who delved into the secrets of matter and labored to find the Philosopher’s Stone. Those who came after them had shown only a cursory interest in such long and fruitless researches, and the street was stocked instead with practitioners of related matters—apothecaries, metalsmiths and the like. In the whole avenue there was only one proper devotee of the ancient art, and that was Gebeth, whom Rachad referred to as his mentor, in his more flamboyant moments.
As in much of this quarter the street was laid with loose sand instead of with cobbles, for such had been the custom in older times. Rachad passed by the open workshop of a maker of bronze door-knockers and, at the next house, had occasion to make use of a sample of the same man’s work: a large heavy knocker fashioned in the form of Mercury, the winged messenger and symbol of quicksilver, which he pounded decisively against the thick plank door.
He had to pound a second time before there came a scraping of wood on wood from within and the door eased open. Standing in dimness, because of the shuttered windows, was the man he knew only as Gebeth the alchemist.
“Good day, sir,” Rachad said brightly.
The other grunted in displeased fashion. “Oh, it’s you. You’d better come in.”
Rachad followed him into a small living room which, despite the bright sunshine outside, had as its only illumination a small oil lamp on a book-strewn table in the corner. Gebeth liked to shut himself away from the outside world, to ponder, study and work in quiet solitude.
The alchemist seated himself at the table, where he had evidently been reading when interrupted by Rachad. He was a man advanced in years, his face much lined by the effort of prolonged thought. His hair was white and wispy. His eyes had an introspective look, as of one given to daydreams, but when they settled on Rachad they were steady and challenging.
“And to what do I owe this unexpected visit?”
“I am here for the same reason as always, Gebeth.”
“I have not seen you in three days,” the older man said, disgruntled. “With such laxness you will not learn much, and why should I bother to teach you?”
“Do not be displeased with me, sir,” Rachad said defensively. “I have been working to earn money. See, I have brought you a sum to help further your work.”
Gebeth inspected the coins he handed over, and glanced at Rachad suspiciously. Rachad’s countenance remained bland; in point of fact, the money was a part of his share in the spoils of a minor escapade—theft from a warehouse near the airfield—but he did not wish Gebeth to know that. Financing his research was a continual problem for the old man and Rachad regarded it as in his best interests to help whenever he could.
Gebeth sighed and waved a hand as if waving away the fumes of his former bad humor. In all honesty he could not regard Rachad seriously as an apprentice in the Hermetic Art. The boy was flighty and volatile, and little interested in abstract matters. Nevertheless he was useful as an assistant, which was one reason why Gebeth had kept him on. A certain amount of grumbling over his defections was an integral part of their relationship and not at all harmful. He had even managed to teach Rachad a smattering of alchemical lore.
He closed the book he had been studying, marking his place, and rose to his feet.
“Come.”
With a key from the pocket of his gown he unlocked a door to a short, dark corridor leading to the rear of the house. At the end of it he unlocked a second door. Rachad’s nostrils were assailed by various acrid odors, predominantly the smell of burning sulphur.
Unlike the living room, the laboratory took advantage of natural light which came through smoky glass panels in the sloping roof. It was also uncomfortably hot. Each degree of heat required a different furnace and Gebeth had half a dozen, three of which were currently stoked.
Besides the furnaces the room contained a fantastic clutter of alembics, retorts and cucurbics, crucibles and mortars, and more elaborate apparatus such as the kerotakides for performing projection, which had been used recently for it stood blackened on the workbench, and the infusorator, a cumbersome piece of equipment incorporating plates of zinc and copper bathed in acid. Gebeth crossed to the other side of the laboratory and returned with a slab of something gleaming. “This I made today by projecting mercury on sulphur.”
Rachad accepted the object and inspected it. It was yellow, with a red tint; heavy and with the feel of metal. He gasped involuntarily as he turned it over, rubbing it and holding it to the light. His eyes widened with excitement and triumph.
“You have succeeded at last! You have made gold!”
With a sour smile Gebeth took back the slab. “Not gold. This is merely a form of cinnabar, which I have given some of the properties of gold. But it is not gold.”
Rachad looked crestfallen, and stuck out his lower lip in a pout.
“All metals, as you know, are compounded of mercury and sulphur in various ratios,” Gebeth said, “so theoretically any metal can be transformed into any other by altering those ratios. That mercury and sulphur can, by marrying, yield cinnabar, would seem to confirm this fact Yet others besides myself have gone down this road, tinting and projecting for years on end without finding true gold at the end of it. Without preparing the tincture itself, nothing can be done.”
“So?” Rachad frowned. He knew the alchemist was leading to something.
“Look at me, Rachad. I am an old man. For nearly forty years I have been on this quest, trying to turn base metal into gold. But where is my gold? Do you want to expend your life likewise, Rachad? You are not properly into the hunt yet. But once it grips your soul—” Gebeth clenched his fist convulsively. “It will not let go. My advice is to leave the great work alone.”
“I have never heard you speak like this before, sir,” said Rachad in a disappointed and surly tone. “You have been full of encouragement up until now.”
“True, but in the past few days I have reached a momentous conclusion. Never will I make gold. Never will I have the Tincture that heals metals in my possession. Of that I am certain.” The old man’s voice was dry with a defeat that he had forced himself to face up to.
Rachad instantly wished that he had withheld the money he had just given Gebeth, but the thought was squashed in his general dismay. “But you have been so close,” he protested weakly.
“Hundreds of others have been as close. How many have made gold?” Gebeth took out his key ring again, and moved to a wall safe which he opened with considerable squeaking and clanging of steel. Carefully, as if handling something precious, he took out a stiff, bulky book. “There are definite reasons for my decision, which means that as from today I shall probably abandon my efforts—the last in the street to do so.” He paused and his eyes went dreamy, as though he remembered past colleagues and neighbors. “It is only fair that I should explain why. Four years ago this rare book came into my possession. Few copies of it exist in the whole world, and I am showing it to you now only in the belief that you can hold your tongue and speak of it to no one.”
Dumbly Rachad nodded.
“Let us return to the other room,” Gebeth said.
Back in the living room the alchemist laid the book on the table under the lamp. Rachad saw now that though the book was large in area it actually had few pages, but that these were thick and stiff. The binding was of beaten copper and was engraved with letters and figures in some foreign script he did not recognize.