Read Changeling (Illustrated) for Free Online

chairs. But where was the main light source? What was that large gray thing with the glassy rectangle at its center? And all those tiny lights?
    Nothing moved about him, save for the settling dust. He got to his feet, advancing slowly.
    “Hello?” he whispered.
    “Yes, hello, hello!” came a loud voice. “Hello?”
    “Where are you?” he asked, halting and turning in a slow circle.
    “Here, with you,” was the reply. The words had an archaic accent to them, like that of the Northlanders.
    “I do not see you. Who are you?”
    “My, you speak strangely! Foreigner? I am a teaching machine, a library computer.”
    “My words may seem strangely accented and assembled because of the passage of time,” Mark said, with a sudden insight concerning the age and function of the device. “Can you make allowances, adjust for this? I am having a difficult time understanding even your simplest statements.”
    “Yes. Talk a lot. I need a good sample. Tell me about yourself and the things that you wish to know.”
    Mark smiled and lowered his blade. He limped to the nearest chair and slumped into it. He rubbed his shoulder.
    “I will,” he said, moments later. “But how is this place lighted?”
    The screen glowed before him. Beneath a heavy layer of dust, a wiring diagram suddenly appeared upon it.
    “Is that what you mean?” asked the voice.
    “Maybe. I’m not certain.”
    “Do you know what it is?”
    “Not yet,” he said, “but I intend to. If you will instruct me.”
    “I have the means to provide for your well-being for so long as you wish to remain here. I will instruct you.”
    “I think I may have just fallen into the very thing I sought,” Mark replied. “I’ll tell you about myself, and you tell me about power sources . . . ”
     

 
     
V .
     
    Daniel Chain—a junior at State, working on his certificate in Medieval Studies; slim and hard, after two years on the boxing and fencing teams; less than happy at the subtle pressure still exerted by his father for him to change his History and Linguistics major and join him in the business—sat upon the tall stool, thinking of all these matters and others, after the fashion of half-controlled reverie which informed his mind whenever he played.
    The club was dim and smoky. He had followed Betty Lewis, who sang torch songs and blues numbers accompanied by piano rolls and a deep decolletage and who always drew heavy applause when she took her bows. Now he was filling the room with guitar sounds. He played on Saturday nights and alternate Fridays, doing as many instrumentals as vocals. The people seemed to like his music both ways. Right now, he was in a nonvocal mood.
    Tonight was the other Friday, and the place was considerably less than packed. He recognized several familiar faces at the small tables, some of them nodding in time with the beat.
    He sculpted the swirls of smoke as they drifted up toward the lights, into castles, mountain ranges, forests and exotic beasts. The mark on his wrist throbbed slightly as this occurred. It was strange how few of the patrons ever looked up and noticed his music-shaped daydreams hovering above their heads. Or perhaps the ones who did were already high and thought it normal.
    Improvising, he moved an army across a ridge. He attacked it with dragons and tore it to pieces. Troops fled in all directions. Smiling, he upped the tempo.
    In time, he saw an elbow strike a mug of beer. It slowed in midair as he played, twisting upright, retaining much of the beverage. It came to a stop inches above the floor, then descended the final distance gently. By the time its owner found it there and exclaimed upon the miracle, Dan had returned to his world of open spaces and trees, mountains and clear rivers, prancing unicorns and diving griffins.

     
    Jerry, the bartender, sent up a pint. Dan paused to sip from it, then in a small fit of self-awareness began the tune to which he had set “Miniver Cheevy.” Soon, he was singing