Grailblazers Read Online Free

of ancient monuments. These areas are used, as one would expect, for administration, storage and similar purposes; but nobody as yet has come up with a satisfactory (or at least comfortable) explanation for the fact that, when the staff come in every morning, they tend to find that someone’s been using the typewriters and the kettles are warm.
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    â€˜That’s it?’ Boamund said.
    â€˜Basically, yes,’ the hermit replied. ‘I’ve left out Helmut von Moltke and the Peace of Nikolsburg, and maybe I skated over the Benelux customs union a bit, but I think you’ve got the essentials there. Anything you’re not sure about, you can look up in the book.’
    Boamund shrugged. He had learnt that, in the one and a half thousand years he’d been asleep, Albion had indeed changed its name and they’d invented a few labour-saving gadgets, but basically things were very much the same. In fact, to be absolutely honest, they were worse. He was disappointed.
    â€˜My dad used to tell me,’ he said, ‘that by the time I was grown up, mankind would have grown a third arm it could use to scratch the small of its back.’
    The hermit smiled, a tight-lipped, well-there-it-is-and-it’s -too-late-now sort of smile, shrugged, and examined the crumpet on the end of his toasting fork. Outside in the street, small children rode up and down on bicycles and smacked the heads off flowers with plastic swords.
    â€˜I know,’ agreed the hermit sadly. ‘We’ve tried, God only knows, but people just won’t listen. You try and guide them in the right direction, and what do you get? Apathy. You drop heavy hints to them about harnessing the power of the sun, the wind and the lightning and they go and invent the vacuum cleaner. Nobody’s the slightest bit interested in mainstream technology any more.’
    Boamund looked sympathetic. ‘It must be hard for you,’ he said.
    â€˜Not really,’ said the hermit. ‘I get by more or less. It’s not like the old times, but as far as I’m concerned, the main thing is to try and blend into the landscape, as it were, and bide my time.’
    â€˜Bide your time until when?’
    â€˜I’m coming to that,’ said the hermit. The insubstantial red glow had burnt the crumpet, and the hermit impatiently dismissed them both and opened a packet of biscuits instead. ‘Have one?’ he asked. ‘You must be starving after all this time.’
    â€˜Thank you,’ Boamund said, and took a mouthful of Rich Tea. A moment later, he made a face, spat out a mouthful of crumbs and coughed.
    The hermit apologised. ‘I should have warned you,’ he said. ‘It’s organic, I’m afraid. Made from ground-up grass seeds and processed sugar-beet, would you believe. The art of synthesising food was lost centuries ago. You get used to it after a while, but it still tastes like eating your way through somebody’s compost heap. Here, have a doughnut.’
    A doughnut appeared on the arm of Boamund’s chair and he ate it thankfully. With his mouth full, he asked, ‘So how do you manage it? Blending into the landscape, I mean?’
    â€˜Simple,’ replied the hermit, ‘I pretend to repair televisions. You won’t credit it, but this country is full of little old men with their elbows showing through the sleeves of their cardigans who make a living mending televisions.’
    Boamund considered. ‘Those are the little box things with pictures in them?’
    The hermit nodded. ‘I’ve been here forty years now,’ said the hermit, ‘and nobody’s taken the slightest notice of what I do. If anyone hears strange noises or sees flashing green lights late at night, the neighbours say, ‘Oh him, he mends televisions,’ and that seems to satisfy them. I imagine that, since they expect you to work miracles, they aren’t too bothered if you do. In