"Pfah," muttered Xax. "A myth."
"Myths are simply memories carried down from generation to generation. No, no, Xax. Where mankind has a myth, there is usually some truth behind it, no matter how distorted by time and innumerable retellings. It is the smoke that hints of the fire. I just wonder if this machine is the one that began that particular myth."
Kortha squatted and ran exploring fingers over wires and coils, making positive attachments and strengthening connections. He squinted up at the rings, motionless, rigid in the air, between the magnetizers. He grunted.
"Must get its power from the air. Maybe it feeds on oxygen or hydrogen. Or argon. Hell, I'm just guessing at this point. See if it works first. Then analyze it."
He looked around for an object; found a loose panel of carven wood on a perilously old table. Ripping off a section of the wood, he placed it before the machine. His fingers turned a knob.
A beam of shivering green light pulsed from the coils and hung motionless to a yard outward. Kortha kicked the block of wood into the beam.
"Zut!" he breathed softly.
The wood changed: grew red and warm, shimmering a brilliant crimson, pulsating as though from inner fires. It became opalescent, almost fluid in scarlet brilliance. Slowly the red became green, and then yellow. The bar hardened, the liquidity of its structure tensing into solidity.
Kortha stared with wide eyes at the bar, whispering, "Gold!"
"Gold," echoed Xax, awed.