‘You must surely know the legend,’ said Alan Turing, ‘that in England’s darkest hour, when all seems lost and the realm is threatened with overthrow, King Arthur and his knights will stir from their slumberings beneath Avalon and save us from the oppressor.’

‘I consider this to be more than mere legend,’ replied the Magus. ‘But as to whether this machine of yours is possessed by the spirit of Albion’s greatest warrior King, such a proposition I would need to test.’

‘It cannot be Arthur.’ Alan Turing wrung his hands in wretchedness. ‘And it is I who must deal with this matter. I pulled the fuses from the mansion’s fuse box, but still Colossus functions. I know not from where it draws its power. But from wherever that is, it must be cut off.’

‘There can be at times a very fine line between magic and technology, ’ said Hugo Rune, ‘and sometimes there will be no line at all. I shall deal with this, Alan; you must stay here.’

Alan Turing rose to take issue with Mr Rune’s words. But Mr Rune’s stout stick came down firmly on his head.

‘Your smiter is working overtime tonight,’ I observed as I caught the floundering back-room boffin and lowered him gently to the ground.

‘I have never matched wits with such an adversary before,’ said Hugo Rune, polishing the pommel of his big stout stick. ‘It will certainly be a challenge. Do you dare to accompany me, young Rizla?’

‘Well,’ I said, and I thought about this. I do consider myself to be a brave boy. But, as I have said, there are degrees of bravery. And as to whether I possessed bravery to the standard required to qualify for heroic status, that was open to question.

‘Your timidity is understandable,’ said the Perfect Master.

‘I am not timid,’ I said. ‘I am… well… yes, I will join you, Mr Rune. I will. Yes. I will.’

‘Good lad.’ And the great man patted my shoulder. ‘Let us get this done before the rising of the sun, so we can have the squadron leader back to his squadron in time for his breakfast.’

I went, ‘Hm,’ and followed Mr Rune.

I knew from what I had read of Bletchley Park that Colossus occupied what had once been the ballroom of the mansion and I had a pretty good idea of what it looked like, and so, with an inevitability that was little less than inevitable, it came as no surprise to me whatsoever to discover that the huge computer was located somewhere altogether different and looked absolutely nothing like any photograph I had ever seen of it.

‘Down to the cellar,’ cried Hugo Rune.

And down to the cellar went we.

The first thing that I became aware of was a humming vibration. It fair put my teeth upon edge. And there was that bumper-car electric sparks smell, mingled with something all-consumingly cheesy that I did not recognise.

‘The scent of amaranth,’ said Hugo Rune, testing the air with a sensitive nostril. ‘A fragrance brought back from Jerusalem during the Crusades. King Arthur’s favourite, I do believe.’

‘The Crusades?’ I whispered. ‘Since when was King Arthur around at the time of the Crusades?’

‘A rather poorly constructed question,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘So please hush now and do not speak unless I request you so to do.’

‘All right.’

‘Did I request that?’

‘No.’

‘Shut up!’

And we continued in silence.

The hum grew louder, the smells grew smellier and then suddenly-‘Halt!’ The voice came as if down a crackling telephone line, or from some even more crackling ancient 78 rpm record. ‘Halt and bend the knee.’

Hugo Rune knelt and I did likewise. Hurriedly.

‘Who dares to trouble the Monarch unannounced?’ asked the voice.

‘A loyal knight, my liege, with his squire,’ replied Hugo Rune.

‘Advance then and be recognised.’

And Mr Rune rose and I rose also. And we two approached Colossus.

And I have to say that I was mightily impressed by what I saw and mightily afeared by it also.

Colossus sat upon a kind of makeshift throne, constructed apparently from the detritus of the cellar. Discarded packing cases, old steamer trunks, several pairs of stag antlers cunningly laced together. And Colossus resembled a man. He was a good and proper nineteen-forties science-fiction-movie-style robot. Most of his parts were cylindrical, the head, body, arms and legs. And all the parts were heavily riveted and all of a metal buffed and polished. He had oblong, letterbox-shaped slits for eyes and mouth and within these slits there was the suggestion of movement. Of cogs slowly grinding together. Of little wheels turning. Of glowing valves and twinkling lights. The robot’s hands were jointed and dexterous; its feet had pointy toes.

And upon its head sat a paper crown, of the Christmas cracker persuasion.

I viewed this mechanical apparition with considerable misgivings. I could not see any external wiring. No power leads or plugs that might be wrenched suddenly from sockets. This creation exuded an aura of power and confidence. It had the look of something that would not be easily dealt with.

‘I am Arthur, King of all the Britons,’ it said. ‘And who are you to trouble my cogitations?’

‘I am Rune,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘Though you, sire, will recall me as Merlin.’

My mouth grew wide and ached to utter words. But I shut it up and kept silent.

‘Merlin?’ The robot leaned itself forwards, metal creaked on metal, cogwheels whirred and whizzed. ‘Merlin?’ it said once more. ‘So long ago. So much time has passed.’

‘I am here, sire,’ said Hugo Rune, ‘as ever loyal and ready to serve you.’

‘Merlin, Merlin.’ The robot nodded its head. ‘We can use your magic here in this benighted time.’

I looked up at Hugo Rune; his face wore an unreadable expression.

‘Where are my knights?’ asked the robot. ‘My knights of the rounded table? What of Lancelot and Galahad and Berty?’

‘They race upon their mighty steeds to join you, sire.’

‘That is good. That is good. There is so much to be done. So many battles to be waged. No war such as this have ever I seen. Such evil. Such weapons. How has this come to pass?’

‘With the passage of time, sire. Much time has passed. Much progress has been made.’

‘Progress?’ The robot laughed. Its laugh, though, was hollow and somewhat resembled small stones being shaken about inside a tin can. ‘You mock me with your words, Merlin. Progress? Look at your King. I am locked within this suit of armour, unable to free myself. Such weirdery as this there never was. And you would call this progress?’

‘Much progress has been made, but little of value has been learned,’ said Hugo Rune. Which I considered somewhat profound.

As so, it appeared, did the robot.

‘But you have not changed, Merlin,’ it said. ‘Still as bald and well knit. Forever in love with your trenchering.’

I did flinch somewhat at this, as I knew that Mr Rune never took kindly to remarks regarding his portliness.

‘I’ll dine with a less heavy heart once our enemy is defeated,’ he said to the robot. ‘I observed your battle plans upon the map upstairs. Such a campaign, although costly, must surely find success.’

‘So it is to be hoped.’

As I listened to the crackling telephone voice of the robot, I thought to discern emotion in its words. A certain sadness, a wistfulness, a loneliness also. And as it spoke, I sensed an overwhelming exhaustion.

‘Why sit you here, my Lord,’ asked Hugo Rune, ‘in this dark and dampness? There are fine rooms above that would surely serve you better.’

‘No,’ said the robot. ‘Here I must stay, until all I am called to do is done.’

‘Would you not see the light of day once more? Touch mighty oaks that were not yet acorns in our days?’

‘No!’ And the robot shook its head most fiercely. ‘Here must I stay until all is done. I will burn those who fail me with this.’ And electrical sparks grew brightly at its fingertips and arced up into the floorboards forming the ceiling above. ‘Those who will not obey will be subdued or destroyed. Already have I slain several who I discerned to be spies. But it is here I must remain, beneath the earth, until I have triumphed. And then I shall rise again and take my rightful place upon the throne of England.’