The Warlock in Spite of Himself - Warlock 01 Read Free

Union.
    But democrats are seldom welcome on planets run by totalitarian governments, and scarcely more welcome on planets where anarchy prevails - this due to the very nature of democracy, the only practical compromise between totalitarianism and anarchy.
    What was needed was a permanent organization of revolutionaries, subversive republican democrats. Since there was a large supply of outof-work revolutionaries on hand, the organization was quickly formed, and christened the Society for the Conversion of Extraterrestrial Totalitarianisms. The 'Nascent' was added a century later, when all the known inhabited planets had been subverted and had joined DDT. The old revolutionaries were still a problem, the more so since there were more of them so they were sent out singly to find the Lost Colonies. Thus was formed SCENT, the organization whose mission it was to sniff out the backward planets and put them on the road to democracy. Since Rod had found a medieval planet, he would probably have to foster the development of a constitutional monarchy.
    Rod, born Rodney d'Armand (he had five middle names, but they make dull reading) on a planet inhabited exclusively by aristocrats and robots, had joined SCENT at the tender age of eighteen. In his fourteen years of service, he had grown from a gangling, ugly youth to a lean, wellmuscled, ugly man. His face was aristocratic; you could say that for it - that, and no more. His receding hairline gave onto a flat, sloping forehead that ran up against a brace of bony brow-ridges, somewhat camouflaged by bushy eyebrows. The eyebrows overhung deep sockets, at the back of which were two, somewhat hardened gray eyes - at least Rod hoped they looked hardened.
    The eye sockets were thresholded by high, flat cheekbones, divided by a blade of nose that would have done credit to an eagle. Under the cheekbones and nose was a wide, thin-lipped mouth which, even in sleep, was twisted in a sardonic smile. Under the mouth was a square jawbone and a jutting chin.
    Rod would have liked to say that it was a strong face, but it tended to soften remarkably when/if a girl smiled at it. Dogs and children had the same effect, with a great deal more frequency. He was a man with a Dream. (There had been a Dream Girl once, but she was now one with his callow youth.) - Dream of one unified Galactic government (democratic, of course). Interstellar communications were still too slow for a true democratic federation; the DDT was actually a loose confederation of worlds, more of a debating society and service organization than anything else.
    But adequate communication methods would come along some day, Rod was sure of that, and when they did, the stars would be ready. He would see to that.
    'Well, let's be about our business, Fess. No telling when someone might wander by and spot us.' Rod swung up and into the air lock, through and into the cabin again. He went to the plate in the wall, released the catches. Inside was a control panel; above this was a white metal sphere with a dull finish, about the size of a basketball. A massive cable grew out of the top of the sphere and connected to the wall of the ship.
    Rod unscrewed the connection, released the friction clamp that held the sphere in place, and carefully lifted it out.
    'Easy,' Fess's voice said from the earphone implanted in the bone behind Rod's right ear. 'I'm fragile, you know.'
    'A little confidence, please,' Rod muttered. The microphone in his jawbone carried his words to Fess. 'I haven't dropped you yet, have I?'
    'Yet,' echoed the robot.
    Rod cradled the robot 'brain' in the crook of one arm, leaving one arm free to negotiate the air lock. Outside again, he pressed a stud in the side of the ship. A large door lifted from the side of the pseudoasteroid. Inside, a great black horse hung from shock webbing, head between its forelegs, eyes closed.
    Rod pressed a button; a crane extended from the cargo space. The horse swung out on the crane, was lowered till