“Yes, I see. But I don’t see what this has to do with your magic powers.”
He grinned. “All right. Now, I have just said there seems no reason why still swifter-frequency, unknown forms of radiation could not exist above the known wavelengths—or below them, for that matter. In fact, the Adepts did discover these unknown wavelengths above cosmic rays, very early in Parlion’s history. They are called the transcosmics, or ‘Cherenski Radiation’ after their discoverer. And, to get technical about it, their frequencies lie in the vicinity of ten-to-the-twenty-fifth-power cycles per second—and the wavelengths are measured in the range of point-oh-oh-one Siegbahn Units. These are the frequencies erf telepathic thought, and they went undiscovered for ten thousand years of history. Up there in the millionth-of-an-Angstrom band was hidden the wavelengths of the human mind, and of life itself, long known to be electrical but never measured until the age of the Interregnum, long after the Empire of the Galaxy had fallen. It was perhaps the most momentous discovery in science since the perfection of man’s use of atomic power.”
Now Lurn was fascinated, following with rapt absorption the White Wizard’s account of this unknown page of scientific history. The secret of Parlion—the secret behind magic! “X-rays penetrate solid matter. This is due to their wavelength. The shorter the wavelength the greater the penetration. X-rays are stopped by a layer of lead or cadmium. Cosmics, with even shorter wavelengths, pass through lead as if it were empty air. Very little, short of a few miles of planetary crust, stops the cosmics. Nothing stops the transcosmics.
“Our so-called magic is simply a technical control over thought. Through mental surgery, power-cells in the brain are stimulated to extraordinary efficiency. Gland-stimulation by sonic-beams gives us more mental power. My magic is of the mind. The old shaman was mistaken when he assumed the illusion-ring that gave me the likeness of Perion the Piper altered light, creating a visual illusion. It helped me manipulate the Rovers’ minds, creating a mental illusion. Yonder apparatus magnifies the strength of my mental waves—pushes them up to fantastic heights, somewhat over a quantum energy of between ten and one hundred billion electron volts. This is necessary, because with my one mind I am telepathing mental illusions into hundreds of minds across near-interplanetary distances.”
“But the way you ‘bent’ space, when you transported us from the Hall of Zargon to the seaside hill where your invisible ship was waiting. That was not a mental illusion, surely!” Lurn protested.
“No illusion, girl, but still a mental feat. Distance, you see, is an imaginary distinction between one ‘point’ and another—affected by size, velocity, viewpoint, and duration of observation. Lizaar of Algon nearly three centuries ago demonstrated that space is not rigid, but plastic (these are very imprecise terms, but I have no time to teach you the language of plenum mechanics)—to a mind of near-infinite size, velocity, or of supertemporal viewpoint, distance would be purely an illusion of limited sense. To put it very, very simply, what I did was to convince my conscious mind we were on that hilltop—and we were. Parlion has evolved a system of mental discipline beyond any other known.”
Leaving her with these marvels to digest, he had then returned to the crystal helmet and continued his telepathic seige of Xulthoom.
When Drask shattered the radium-ruby, and the Goddess spoke, it was nearly as astounding a surprise to Calastor as to the Warlord or the shaman. The other phantom terrors of Xulthoom had been the work of Calastor’s superb mentality, intensified beyond the limits of human capability by the artificial resonance-accelerator and projector embodied in the crystal helmet.
But this was intervention from an Unknown.
An unwelcome intervention, too, as it spurred the frayed temper of the Warlord, motivating him to abandon looting the World of Mists and to initiate his long-dreaded assault on the Nucleus-world of the future empire.
When that decision had been put into action, Calastor abandoned his mental bombardment, quit the mind-multiplying machine and went swiftly to the controls. The slim cruiser leapt from her orbit and hurtled through the void to a region of space well clear of the interference of planetary magnetic fields. Calastor was going to attempt telepathic communication with Parlion across the awful gulf of interstellar space. Well he knew so terrific an effort might burn out his brain, but the only way he could destroy the Star Rovers lay in summoning aid from the White Order.
Before he could attempt communication, something began to happen—
The first sign of it was noticed by Lurn. The girl felt a curious, gathering tension in the cabin. Her skin crawled. Her scalp prickled. The very air seemed charged with electrical excitement, as it does before a sudden thunderstorm.
Lurn shrieked!
Seven ghostly figures materialized within the cabin.
They faded into visibility with magical swiftness and ease, like developing a photograph. One moment you are dipping a blank white film in the chemical solution; in the next instant the film bears a picture.
“Lurn—fear nothing! These are friends,” Calastor said, slipping his arm reassuringly about her slim shoulders. He strode forward to greet their mysterious visitors.
They were seven men, naked except for loincloths of immaculate white fabrics. At first glance they seemed old— and old. Some were diminutive, others tall and gaunt. Some were bald, others wore snowy manes of untrimmed hair. A few were clean-shaven, others wore long, patriarchal white beards. Strangely, at second glance, Lurn could not tell whether they were very old … or agelessly young. Their eyes were clear, sharp, alert. Warm good humor sparkled there, but there was also the sense of scalpel-keen minds: intellects vast and cool and awesome. But no visible signs of age showed in their straight, erect posture. The old men had faces smooth and unlined, where ancients Lurn had seen on other planets wore visages of sagging, worn-out tissues, pouched, tired eyes and flabby, pendulous jowls. These men had the faces of youths, and only the faintly visible tracery of millions of tiny wrinkles betrayed any greater age.
Their bodies, too, did not bear the ravages of time. Smooth-muscled, slim, tanned and healthy, they moved with the lithe vigor of the young and strong.
These were the Arch Adepts of the Order, the super-magicians of fabulous Parlion.
“Greetings, O Calastor!” the foremost of the seven addressed the young man in ringing tones. “It was not needed that you attempt to communicate with us, for we have been observing the progress of your mission—with this.”