Galvanic. There's a word to conjure with, and whichever fellow in a lab coat chose it knew precisely what he was about.
The Museum of Medieval Relics had a footfall problem, you see, and a relic that merely stands there is a relic nobody pays to look at.
So the copper went down the greaves. The coils went up on either side of the plinth. Somebody threw the great brass knife-switch and held his breath, and the current went in through six centuries of Sir Alaric's second-best plate armor and did what current does.
The gauntlet closed on the axe. The visor came round. And the whole ponderous ensemble stepped down off its little platform with a noise like a cutlery drawer pitched down a stairwell.
There is nobody inside. There has never been anybody inside.
The night watchman has explained this at some length and nobody has believed him yet.
