“I have already,” said Peter diffidently. “She’s a sorceress, but not much good I think. Has a blast-finger, though.”
“Very good,” grunted Skaldberg. “Very good indeed. How we could have used her against the Insurgents! The hounds had us in a sort of peninsular spot—with only one weak line of supply and communication between us and the main force—and I was holding a hill against a grand piquet of flying carpets that were hurling thunderbolts at our munitions supply. But their sights were away off and they only got a few of our snipers. What a blast-finger would have done to those bloody carpets!”
The engineer showed signs of interest. “You’re right!” he snapped. “Blow ’em out of the sky—menace to life and limb! I have a bill pending at the All Ellil Conference on Communication and Transportation—would you be interested?”
“No,” grunted the general. The engineer, swishing his long black cloak, returned to his throttle muttering about injunctions and fair play.
CHAPTER V
“EASY, now!” whispered the general.
“Yessir,” answered a troll going through obvious mental strain while his hand, seemingly of its own volition, scrawled lines and symbols on a sheet of paper. Peter was watching, fascinated and mystified, as the specialist in military divination was doing his stuff.
“There!” said the troll, relaxing. He looked at the paper curiously and signed it: “Borgenssen, Capt.”
“Well?” asked General Skaldberg. “What was it like?”
The Captain groaned. “You should see for yourself, sir!” he said despondently. “Their air-force is flying dragons and their infantry’s a kind of Kraken squad. What they’re doing out of water I don’t know.”
“Okay,” said the general. He studied the drawing. “How about their mobility?”
“They haven’t got any and they don’t need any,” complained the diviner. “They just sit there waiting for you—in a solid ring. And the air force has a couple of auxiliary rocs that pick up the Krakens and drop them behind your forces. Pincher stuff—very bad.”
“I’ll be the judge of that!” said the general. The captain saluted and stumbled out of the little cave which the general had chosen to designate as GHQ. His men were bivouacked on the bare rock outside. Volcanoes rumbled and spat in the distance. There came one rolling crash that set Peter’s hair on end.
“Think that was for us?” he asked nervously.
“Nope—I picked this spot for lava drainage. I have a hundred men erecting a shut-off at the only exposed point. We’ll be safe enough.” He turned again to the map, frowning. “This is our real worry—what I call impregnable, or damn near it. If we could get them to attack us—but those rocs smash anything along that line. We’d be cut off like a rosebud. And with our short munitions we can’t afford to be discovered and surrounded. Ugh! What a spot for an army man to find himself in!”
A brassy female voice asked, “Somep’n bodderin’ you, shorty?” The general spun around in a fine purple rage. Peter looked in horror and astonishment on the immodest form of a woman who had entered the cave entirely unperceived—presumably by some occult means. She was a slutty creature, her hair dyed a vivid red and her satin skirt an inch or two above the knee. She was violently made up with flame-colored rouge, lipstick and even eye-shadow.
“Well,” she complained stridently, puffing on a red cigaret, “wadda you joiks gawkin’ at? Aincha nevva seen a lady befaw?”
“Madam,” began the general, outraged. “Can dat,” she advised him easily. “I hoid youse guys chewin’ da fat. I wanna help youse out.” She seated herself on an outcropping of rock and adjusted her skirt upward.
“I concede that women,” spluttered the general, “have their place in activities of the military—but that place has little or nothing to do with warfare as such! I demand that you make yourself known—where did you come from?”
“Weh did I come from?” she asked mockingly. “Weh, he wansa know. Lookit dat!” She pointed one of her bright-glazed fingernails at the rocky floor of the cave, which grew liquid in a moment, glowing cherry-red. She leered at the two and spat at the floor. It grew cold in another moment. “Don’t dat mean dothin’ to youse?” she asked.
The general stared at the floor. “You must be a volcano nymph.”
“Good fa you, shorty!” she sneered. “I represent da goils from Local toity-tree. In brief, chums, our demands are dese: one, dat youse clear away from our union hall pronto; two, dat youse hang around in easy reach—in case we want youse fa poiposes of our own. In return fa dese demands we—dats me an’ de goils—will help youse guys out against Almarish. Dat lousy fink don’t give his hands time off no more. Dis place might as well be a desert fa all de men around. Get me?” “These—ah—purposes of your own in clause two,” said the general hesitantly. “What would they be?”
She smiled and half-closed her eyes. “Escort soivice, ya might call it, cap.”
The general stared, too horrified even to resent being called “cap.”
“Well?” demanded the nymph. “Well—yes,” said the general. “Okay, shorty,” she said, crushing out her cigaret against her palm. “Da goils’l be aroun’ at dawn fa de attack. I’ll try to keep ’em off yer army until de battle’s over. So long!” She sank into the earth, leaving behind only a smell of fleur-de-floozy perfume.
“God!” whispered General Skaldberg. “The things I do for the army!”
IN IRREGULAR open formation the trolls advanced, followed closely by the jeering mob of volcano nymphs.
“How about it, General?” asked Peter. He and the old soldier were surveying the field of battle from a hill in advance of their forces; the hideous octopoid forms of the defenders of Almarish could be plainly seen, lumbering onward to meet the trolls with a peculiar sucking gait.
“Any minute now—any second,” said Skaldberg. Then, “Here it comes!” The farthest advanced of the trolls had met with the first of the Krakens. The creature lashed out viciously; Peter saw that its tentacles had been fitted with studded bands and other murderous devices. The troll dodged nimbly and pulled an invincible sword on the octopoid myth. They mixed it; when the struggle went behind an outcropping of rock the troll was in the lead, unharmed, while the slow-moving Kraken was leaking thinly from a score of punctures.
“The dragons,” said Peter, pointing. “Here they are.” In V formation the monsters were landing on a far end of the battlefield, then coming at a scrabbling run.
“If they make it quicker than the nymphs—” breathed the general. Then he sighed relievedly. They had not. The carnage among the dragons was almost funny; at will the nymphs lifted them high in the air on jets of steam and squirted melted rock in their eyes. Squalling in terror the dragons flapped into the air and lumbered off Southward.
“That’s ocean,” grinned the general. “They’ll never come back—trying to find new homes, I suspect.”
In an incredibly short time the field was littered with the flopping chunks that had been hewed from the Krakens. Living still they were, but powerless. The general shook his hand warmly. “You’re on your own now,” he said. “Good luck, boy. For a civilian you’re not a bad egg at all.” He walked away.
Glumly Peter surveyed the colossal fortress of Almarish. He walked aimlessly up to its gate, a huge thing of bronze and silver, and pulled at the silken cord hanging there. A gong sounded and the door swung open. Peter advanced hopelessly in a sort of audience chamber. “So!” thundered a mighty voice.
“So what?” asked Peter despondently. He saw on a throne high above him an imposing figure. “You Almarish?” he asked listlessly.
“I am. And who are you?”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m Peter Packer of Braintree, Mass. I don’t even expect you to believe me. The throne lowered slowly and jerkily, as if on hydraulic pumps. The wizard descended and approached Peter. He was a man of about forty, with a full brown beard reaching almost to his belt.
“Why,” asked the sorcerer, “have yo
u come bearing arms?”
“It’s the only way I could come,” said Peter. “Let me first congratulate you on an efficient, well-oiled set of political machinery. Not even back in the United States have I seen graft carried to such a high degree. Secondly, your choice of assistants is an eye-opener. Your Mr. Pike is the neatest henchman I’ve ever seen. Thirdly, produce the person of Miss Melicent or I’ll have to use force.”
“Is that so?” rumbled Almarish. “Young puppy! I’d like to see you try it. Wrestle with me—two falls out of three. I dare you!”
Peter took off his coat of blue serge. “I never passed up a dare yet,” he said. “How about a mat?”
“Think I’m a sissy?” the sorcerer jeered.
Peter was stripped for action. “Okay,” he said. Slowly Almarish advanced on him, grappling for a hold. Peter let him take his forearm, then shifted his weight so as to hurl the magician over his shoulder. A moment later Peter was astonished to find himself on the floor underneath the wizard. “Haw!” grunted Almarish, rising. “You still game?” He braced himself. “Yep!” snapped Peter. He hurled himself in a flying tackle that began ten feet away from the wizard and ended in a bone-crushing grip about the knees. Peter swarmed up his trunk and cruelly twisted an arm across his chest. The magician yelped in sudden agony, and let himself fall against the floor. Peter rose, grinning. “One all,” he said cheerfully.
ALMARISH grappled for the third fall; Peter cagily backed away. The wizard hurled himself in a bruising body-block against Peter, battering him off his feet and falling on the young man. Instinctively Peter bridged his body, arcing it off the floor. Almarish, grunting fiercely, gripped his arm and turned it slowly, as though he were winding a clock. Peter snapped over, rolling on the wizard’s own body as a fulcrum. He had his toe in his hand, and closed his fist with every ounce of muscle he had. The sorcerer screamed and fell over on his face. Peter jammed his knee in the wizard’s inside socket and bore down terribly. He could feel the bones bend in his grip.
“Enough!” gasped the wizard. Peter let him loose.
“You made it,” said Almarish. “Two out of three.”
Peter studied his face curiously. Take off that beard and you had—
“You said it, Grandfather Packer,” said Peter, grinning.
Almarish groaned. “It’s a wise child that knows its own father—grandfather, in this case,” he said. “How could you tell?”
“Everything just clicked,” said Peter simply. “You disappearing—that clock—somebody applying American methods in Ellil—and then I shaved you mentally and there you were. Simple?”
“Sure is. But how do you think I made out here, boy?”
“Shamefully. That kind of thing isn’t tolerated any more. It’s gangsterism—you’ll have to cut it out, gramp.”
“Gangsterism be damned!” snorted the wizard. “It’s business. Business and common sense.”
“Business maybe, certainly not common sense. My boys wiped out your guard and I might have wiped out you if I had magic stronger than yours.”^
Grandfather Packer chuckled in glee. “Magic? I’ll begin at the beginning. When I got that dad-blamed clock back in ’63 I dropped right into Ellil—onto the head of an assassin who was going for a real magician. Getting the set-up I pinned the killer with a half-nelson and the magician dispatched him. Then he got grateful, said he was retiring from public life and gave me a kind of token, good for any three wishes.
“So I took it, thanking him kindly, and wished for a palace and bunch of gutty retainers. It was in my mind to run Ellil like a business, and I did it the only way I knew how—force. And from that day to this I used only one wish and I haven’t a dab of magic more than that!”
“I’ll be damned!” whispered Peter.
“And you know what I’m going to do with those other two wishes? I’m going to take you and me right back into the good ole U.S.A.!”
“Will it only send two people?”
“So the magician said.”
“Grandfather Packer,” said Peter earnestly, “I am about to ask a very great sacrifice of you. It is also your duty to undo the damage which you have done.”
“Oh,” said Almarish glumly. “The girl? All right.”
“You don’t mind?” asked Peter incredulously.
“Far be it from me to stand in the way of young love,” grunted the wizard sourly. “She’s up there.”
Peter entered timidly; the girl was alternately reading a copy of the Braintree Informer and staring passionately at a photograph of Peter.
“Darling,” said Peter.
“Dearest!” said Melicent, catching on almost immediately.
A short while later Peter was asking her: “Do you mind, dearest if I ask one favor of you—a very great sacrifice?” He produced a small, sharp pen-knife.
AND ALL THE GOSSIP for a month in Braintree was of Peter Packer’s stunning young wife, though some people wondered how it was that she had only nine fingers.
The Psychological Regulator
It was the doctor’s, fault—leaving the power on too long!
THE nurse at the desk of Floor 24, Ward 5, flexed a smooth, tan arm and looked at the hall chronometer. She sighed inaudibly. 20:13:09, said the dial. Two more hours on duty for Miss Markett Travenor, F-2849464-23a-10-256W-26. Which was to say that her file was Female number 2349464 in the Register of Persons, that she lived in apartment 23 on floor 10 in building 256 on the West side of parkzone 26. Examination of her face and figure would have convinced you that one as lovely as she could have existed by accident only in the Twentieth Century. Happily, however, by the year 2046 (in which she was born), scientific mating was no dream of a few forward-looking visionaries, but a reality: she was the lovely offspring of a couple carefully paired.
Markett looked down from her chronometer, her green eyes darkly thoughtful. Dr. Ward Alfreed (M-2536478-13a-20-358E-22) was late. She looked down the white-enameled corridor, then at the indicating finger of an elevator. It had not moved. Easily she pressed a communicator attached to a strap of her uniform. Immediately a voice spoke:
“Entrance hall speaking—Central Information Desk.”
Markett snapped a button. “Lee?” she asked. “Is the hotter down there yet?”
“Hotter,” in the year 2066, meant boy-friend.
“Ur. Alfreed,” replied the voice, “is going up now with Patient—just a moment—Patient sixty-six twenty-five.”
“Thanks,” replied Markett, snapping off the contact. She picked a card from the full-view files before her. Patient sixty-six-twenty-five, Psycho Clinic. “Marked degeneration,” read the card. “Cowardly tendencies—fear of falling, fear of floating, fear of slipping, fear of standing still. Three attempted suicides unsuccessful due to lack of creative technique. Prognosis: doubtful. Use of Psychological Regulator suggested. E.B.” All that, and the date for the operation—today.
She rose and faced the elevator as sharp-tuned ears caught the almost imperceptible hum of doors opening. Dr. Alfreed nodded cheerfully to her, twitched his head for her benefit toward the man whose arm he was grasping. Patient sixty-six twenty-five, no doubt, she thought, glancing again at his card. Name was dark Stevens (M-3972677-234a-150N-190), she saw. Tall, too, and well-built. But, somehow, his posture and bearing were almost utterly lacking in masculinity; at the moment he looked the role of a weak, vacillating subject of a rehabilitation test, and he shocked Markett’s sense of what was right and decent with his overclad body. He wore a shirt and trousers, seemingly improvised from a number of the one-piece, short-sleeved suits worn by the world as fashion and comfort decreed. Yet there was something about him—? She wrenched her eyes back to the figure of the doctor, small, compact, and natty in leatheret bandolier. Pity, she thought with professional coldness, must not interfere with her operative functions. However, the sight of Stevens could not help but make her think of pictures she had seen of nurses in the old days, hideously overclad, their freedom of movement hampered. She,
as all nurses of this enlightened era, wore only a bandolier, to which was attached a harness carrying the various items which must always be on her person, regulation shorts, and shoes.
Dr. Alfreed took the patient’s card from her and scribbled notations. She turned to take the patient’s arm, but, with a cry of fear, he cowered from her.
“Now,” she said soothingly. “Let’s come along and not have—” she was backing him into the arms of the doctor, of course. He pinioned the patient, and winked at Markett. “Sorry,” he said. “He’s afraid of women too. Forgot to tell you. Let’s take him in.” And the little doctor lifted the big-boned patient easily to his shoulders, holding him helplessly balanced, and trotted down the enameled corridor into a high-walled, darkish room. He dumped the psychotic into one of many deep, padded chairs, and Markett promptly slapped thick, strong bands of a tough plastic across the man’s knees and chest. Patient sixty-six-twenty-five began to weep.
The doctor busied himself with a little projector and screen that constituted the equipment of the room. “What reel?” he called to Markett.
She wrinkled her nose. “Are you going to do it in one shot or work him up to it?” she asked.
“One shot. Might kill him, of course. But if it doesn’t, we’ll have reclaimed a citizen—and from all accounts a good one. He used to be an organizer for a coal-mine before this happened to him. Pathetic, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” agreed Markett, busy fastening meshes of pure copper about the limbs and head of the now quiet patient. “But how about these—these swathings of his? Do the bus-bars have to contact his skin?”
“No,” said the doctor. “We’ll just turn the stuff on and see what happens. It’s as strong as they come—you wouldn’t understand it; I’ve studied ancient history, so it’s a little clearer to me.”
Collected Short Fiction Page 26