Montag stared, his awe more genuine than pretended. “Jawohl, Herr Kronprinz,” he answered. “What planet is the Herr Kronprinz from?”
For just a moment Kurqosz stared, then laughed a single loud whoop. “Der rote Planet,” he answered. The Red Planet. He knew the German for Mars, but had translated literally from his own language. Macurdy might have taken him seriously, except for his laugh, and an auric reaction that in a human coincided with amusement.
“If you do not satisfy me, I will give you ears like mine. Now, show me how large a fireball you can make.”
Montag made one perhaps an inch in diameter, which floated a couple of inches from his fingertip. Kurqosz stepped toward him, and reaching, tested it for heat, seeming surprised when, at several inches distance, it was uncomfortably hot, though Montag showed no indication of discomfort.
“Does it not burn?” he asked.
The question took Macurdy by surprise; he hadn’t thought about it before. “No, Herr Kronprinz. It is my fire. It cannot burn me.”
Kurqosz pursed his lips. “Interesting, interesting. Make it be thirty centimeters away.”
“I-cannot, Herr Kronprinz. I–don’t know how:” Kurqosz turned, gestured, and above a table, a hawk-like bird materialized, hovering on loudly thrumming wings that scattered papers from a table. Its head was like a great bat’s, eyes glowing red, gaping mouth showing needle-teeth. “It can bekilled by casting your fireball at it,” Kurqosz said. “I will count to five, and if you have not killed it by then, I will have it attack you! One, two . . .”
At five, the thing darted forward. Montag’s large right hand snatched, caught its head and crushed it. He felt its weight, its blood in his fist, its briefly flailing wings. “I’m sorry, Herr Kronprinz!” he cried, “I’m sorry! It was going to do something bad to me!”
Kurqosz stared, then grinned, cocking a quizzical eye. “Do not be concerned, Herr Montag. I can make as many of them as I wish.” Without raising his voice, he spoke to the closed door: “Greszak, come and take Herr Montag back to his keeper. I am done with him for now. Tell the Hauptsturmfuhrer we may be able to do something worthwhile with this one.”
When the bird had appeared, Macurdy assumed it was an illusion. But when it was launched toward him, or launched itself, his gut reaction was to defend himself. And it seemed well that he had, considering how real how physical!–it had proven. Sorcery like Kurqosz’s exceeded by far anything he’d witnessed in Yuulith. What were these Voitar? Could they really have come from Mars?
And like Landgraf, Kurqosz had realized at once his ability–or at any rate his potential-to throw plasma balls. So much for secrecy.
Going down the stairs to Landgrafs office, a notion struck Macurdy. Opening his hand, he looked at it, willing the blood gone. And abruptly it was. Apparently Kurqosz’s fierce bird was only conditionally real after all.
Macurdy found himself in a classroom. Nargosz was about Greszak’s eight but seemed older, and had less presence. He didn’t dominate a room as Greszak did, let alone the Crown Prince. The students-Otto, Anna Hofstetter, and the elderly female psychio–were on break, Otto and the old woman sitting quietly, doing nothing. Anna, on the other hand, walked briskly around the room swinging her arms, perhaps the only physical activity she got, Macurdy thought.
Nargosz assigned Montag a seat, and after two or three minutes had Anna sit down. Then he had them all do a drill, in which they sat with closed eyes, visualizing. At varying intervals he had them visualize something different. They continued this for two hours without a break, then were released for lunch. After lunch, Macurdy thought of faking it-the drill seemed useless-but didn’t. Clearly these Voitar were powerful magicians; perhaps the drills would take. He’d never thought of monotony as particularly instructive though.
By 2:00 PM he’d turned on a peculiar mental phenomenon: He was groggy felt desperately sleepy-but did not doze offl His head lolled as if his neck were a string, he slobbered, felt an intense, an excruciating longing to curl up on the floor. If only he could nap, just for a minute, he’d sit back up and continue the drill. Somehow he continued anyway, struggling, almost whimpering-then the condition faded, the longing passed, and the drill went easier. A little later, Nargosz gave them a ten-minute break, requiring all of them to get up and move around.