Agatha H and the Voice of the Castle

The old man slowly removed his waistcoat. “Not yet,” he confirmed in a hollow voice. “That’s my job.”

“I see I’m never going to learn.”

Carson grinned and clapped him on the back. “Then you’ve learned something already.” He turned to Agatha, who was examining a large bank of controls with great interest, “Your pardon, my lady, but… if you could assist me in the warm-up sequence? I’m supposed to do it myself, but…”

For the first time Agatha noticed that the old man was showing his age. The long climb and the task ahead had clearly taken a toll on him.

“You sit down. I’ll take care of this.” She told him. When he began to protest, she raised her voice. “SIT!” Involuntarily, the old man sat. “Now you rest, and tell me what to do.”

A nearby chest contained oiled rags and tools, and soon enough, under the old man’s direction, Agatha had the others wiping and tightening connections while she ran through an impressive diagnostic sequence that, while it told her that the machines were functional, failed to provide her with any clue as to their purpose. Occasionally she became so intrigued by the machines that she began to drift into a Spark fugue, but these were always shortcircuited by Carson, who seemed to always know the right time to distract her.

Carson saw Krosp looking at him after the third instance and shrugged. “It’s a knack. You’ll pick it up if you live long enough.”

In a very short time, Agatha tightened a final screw and threw a large red lever. There was a faint crackling from within the depths of the device and with a groan, wheels began to turn and lights flickered on throughout the chamber. A faint whiff of ozone and burnt insulation began to fight with the smell of limestone. She turned to Carson. “I think that’s everything. Did I do it correctly?”

The old man took a last pull on his pipe, knocked it against a girder, and climbed to his feet. “I certainly hope so. I haven’t done this in a long time.”

“Why not?”

“Because it hurts,” the old man snapped. “A lot.”

Agatha looked distressed. Seeing her face, the old man’s expression softened slightly. “But mostly,” he admitted, “because, up until now, I hadn’t thought that any of the claimants that had wandered into Mechanicsburg had a chance of being a real Heterodyne.”

Agatha absorbed this. “So what is it we’re doing down here?”

“I’m going to let you talk to the Castle.”

“And that hurts you?”

The old man nodded. “From down here? Yes. But no one else can do it.”

“Why couldn’t…say…Wooster do it?”

The British agent jerked in surprise. “Hold on—”

Agatha waved a hand. “Just as an example.”

“Hold on—why me?”

“Because I’m curious.”

The old man nodded and removed his cap, revealing the fearsome scars set in a perfect square upon his bald pate. His voice rang with pride. “Because I am the Seneschal of Castle Heterodyne. Because I’m the one with the special holes drilled into my skull and the sockets embedded there.” He rolled his eyes: “Vanamonde should have had it done years ago. But…well, the Heterodynes were gone, and…” He shrugged.

Carson lowered himself onto a leather-padded seat, cracked with age and spotted with mildew. He gingerly drew a large, complicated-looking machine towards his head. Agatha could see that it was a helmet, supported by an array of counter-weighted arms that swung it easily into place. Four spring-loaded clamps were positioned roughly above the scars on the old man’s head. His hands danced across the ancient control board, and with a final grimace, he snapped the last switch.

Instantly the four clamps flexed, driving the metal rods downward into his head with a sickening sound, and the old man screamed. The helmet crackled with electricity and the tubes began to glow. Carson sat stock-still, the only movement a faint trail of blood that slid out from under the helmet and slowly dripped off his chin. Agatha stared in horror and reached toward him, then stopped dead when Carson spoke.

His voice was odd. Dry and slow, as if it had bounced back and forth across great distances before finally finding its way out through the old man’s pale lips.

“It has been four hundred and thirty-seven million, two hundred and fifteen thousand, three hundred and fifty-three seconds since this system was last activated,” the old man whispered. Suddenly his head jerked to the side, causing everyone watching to jump back. A delighted grin spread across his features, and when he next spoke, his voice was stronger, but no less disturbing. “Why, it’s still old Carson! And here he swore he’d never be back!” His head swiveled around and examined the group staring back at him. “He must be very certain indeed!”

He leaned forward. His hand jerked upward and unfolded, pointing directly at Ardsley Wooster. “So you think you’re a Heterodyne, eh, boy?”

Wooster stumbled back a pace. “What? No! Not at all!”

The thing inside Carson’s head paused, and then cocked his head to one side, as if it was listening to an unseen voice. “A what?” he asked querulously.