The COMPLEAT Collected SFF Works 1911-1987

by C. L. Moore

  "Aw—" That was Hatton.

  "Stay if you like," Tarbell told him. "It's a straight game, but Barney's got card sense."

  "Always had," Donn said, shuffling. "Even as a kid. Stick around a while, Sam."

  Tarbell drew to a flush, and missed. Donn won. He raked in a few chips as the reporter stood up.

  "That's all, Barney. Let's have the interview, and we'll push off. Or I will, if Hatton wants to stay."

  "Stick around," Donn repeated, his glance meeting Tarbell's.

  "Sorry—"

  "Look, Sam," Donn said argumentatively, "somehow I got a feeling you owe me some money. Now, why not be fair? I hear you're pretty well fixed these days. Don't be a piker, for Pete's sake."

  "You, uh, insist?" Tarbell's voice was strained.

  Donn grinned. He nodded.

  Tarbell sat down again, chewing his lip. He scowled at the deck.

  "Think it's cold?" Donn asked. "Want to deal?"

  "You don't play with marked cards," Tarbell admitted. "Oh, hell! Let's have some chips. What am I worrying about?" He emptied his wallet.

  Fifteen minutes later he said, "Take a check?"

  Half an hour later he was signing I O U's.

  -

  The game was fast, hard, and dangerous. It was straight, too, but no less perilous for that. The laws of chance were consistently kicked in the pants. Some men have a talent for cards, a sixth sense which is partly memory and partly a keen understanding of psychology. Donn had that talent.

  The pendulum swung back and forth. The ante went up. Gradually Tarbell began to win again. He and Donn were the heavy winners, and at the end of an hour and a half, he and Hatton were the only ones left in the game, except, of course, Donn himself.

  Once Tarbell thought Donn was bluffing, and called, but he was wrong. Meantime the stakes mounted. At last Tarbell got what he thought was a good hand, and raised on the strength of it.

  Donn met and raised. Hatton did the same. Tarbell considered his cards—and thrust a stack of blues into the center.

  He wrote another check, bought more chips, and raised again. Hatton dropped out. Donn met and raised.

  As Tarbell pushed his last chips across the table, he realized that this cleaned out his bank account. Simultaneously he felt a curious warmth against his hip.

  The book.

  Was there another page reference on the cover? Tarbell didn't know whether to be glad or sorry. He met Donn's eyes, brown and sparkling with excitement, and saw that the gambler was going to raise again.

  He couldn't meet another raise.

  He stood up abruptly. "Excuse me. Back in a minute," he said, and before Donn could protest, he headed for the bathroom. The door slammed shut behind him, and he jerked the book out of his pocket. The page number, black against luminous white, was 12.

  And the message was: "He's bluffing."

  "I'll be damned," Tarbell said under his breath.

  "That," a low voice remarked, "is inevitable, I'd say. But such perspicacity is rare—eh, Belphegor?"

  "Bah!" was the hoarse reply. "Always talk. Action, I'd say—quick, hard, and bloody."

  Tarbell looked around and saw nothing unusual. He fumbled for the knob behind him, opened the door, and stepped back into the room where he had left Donn and the others.

  Only, he saw as he turned, it wasn't the same room.

  It was not, strictly speaking, a room at all. It was a three-dimensional surrealist landscape come to life. Overhead was empty gray sky, and a flat plain, curiously distorted as to perspective, stretched to a foreshortened horizon. Odd objects were here and there, inanimate, and with no sensible reason for their presence. Most of them were partially melted.

  Three creatures sat in a row facing Tarbell.

  One was a lean man with huge feet and the head of a unicorn. One was a saturnine, naked giant with malformed horns and a lion's tail. One was—ugh! A sad face with a crown regarded Tarbell ill-temperedly. From the bulbous body, with its twelve spider's legs, grew the head of a frog and the head of a cat—an unholy trinity, as it were.

  -

  Tarbell turned around. The door through which he had come was still there, but it was just a door, standing unsupported, with no framework around it. Moreover, it seemed to be locked, as he found after a frantic tug at the knob.

  "Quick, hard, and bloody," said the same hoarse voice, which came from the squinting, saturnine giant with the lion's tail. "Trust me for that."

  "Crudity, always crudity," the anthropomorphic unicorn murmured, clasping its knee between its hands. "You're a relic of the dark ages, Belphegor."

  "You're a jackass, Amduscias," said Belphegor. The three-headed spidery horror said nothing. It regarded Tarbell unwinkingly.

  "Look, human," Amduscias began, squinting along its horn, "Devil to man, have you any preference?"

  Tarbell croaked inarticulately. He found his voice with some difficulty.

  "P-preference? About what? Where—How'd I get here?"

  "Death hath a thousand something doors and they do open both ways," Amduscias quoted inaccurately.

  "I'm not dead."

  "No," said the demon rather reluctantly. "But you will be. You will be."

  "Tooth, horn, and claw," Belphegor interjected.

  "Where am I, then?"

  "Oh, it's a hinterland," Amduscias said. "Bael made it specially for our rendezvous." He glanced at the silent three-headed creature. "Meg sent us. You know Meg, don't you?"

  "Yeah. Yeah, I know her." Tarbell licked his lips. He remembered the book, and lifted it with unsteady hands. The number on the cover was unchanged—12.

  "Sit down," Amduscias invited. "We have time for a talk before you die."

  "Talk," Belphegor growled, yanking viciously at his tail. "Pah! Fool!"

  The unicorn head bobbed solemnly. "I am a philosopher. There's no need to keep staring at Bael, human. He may strike you as ugly, but I assure you we're a handsome group, as Hell's lords go. If it's Bael's plurality that troubles you, you should see Asmodee. Our Eurynome—the progenitor of the bogeyman. Sit down and let's talk. It's been years since I spoke with a human being outside of Hell. And the ones in Hell can't carry on a lucid conversation," Amduscias went on ruminatively. "I used to talk with Voltaire a great deal, but since around 1850 he's done nothing but laugh. Mad, quite mad," the demon finished.

  Tarbell couldn't keep his eyes off Bael. The petulant, melancholy human face regarded him fixedly. The toad face stared at the sky. The cat face looked at nothing. It wasn't Meg, though. That was something. Or was it? Tarbell's nails dug into his palms.

  "What do you want?"

  "You speak specifically, I assume—of now." Amduscias hunched his shoulders. "Be still, Belphegor," he added irritably. "If you had your way, this human being would be in tattered shreds within seconds. And then what? Back to Hell for us."

  "What's wrong with Hell?" Belphegor demanded, tugging at his tail, as though giving himself some eerie sort of spinal adjustment. "Too crude for your cultivated tastes?" He dug a reddish clot from under a toe claw.

  "Exactly. I don't like this hinterland. Bael's got the damnedest ideas for scenery."

  "Result of a tripartite mind, I suppose," Amduscias said. "Well, human, how do you prefer to be killed?"

  "I don't," Tarbell denied.

  Belphegor grunted. "Stop fooling around. Meg told us to get rid of this human. Let's get it over and go back home."

  -

  "W-wait a minute," Tarbell interrupted then. "Can't we straighten this out somehow?" The feel of the book in his hand gave him an unreasonable confidence. "Meg's only a familiar. What right has she got to tell you what to do?"

  "Courtesies of the trade," Amduscias explained. "Now tell us how you'd prefer to be killed."

  "If you had your way," Belphegor said bitterly, "you'd talk him to death."

  The other rubbed his horn. "It's an intellectual amusement. I don't pretend to be another Scheherazade, but there are ways of driving human
s to insanity through ... um ... conversation. Yes, I vote for that method."

  "My master, how you do run on!" Belphegor exclaimed. "All right, I vote for ripping him apart, cell by cell." His broad gray mouth twitched slightly.

  Amduscias nodded and glanced at Bael. "How would you like to dispose of the human?"

  Bael said nothing, but began to crawl purposefully toward Tarbell, who drew back. Amduscias waved a deprecatory hand.

  "Very well. We're in disagreement. Shall we snatch the human off to Hell and give him to Astoreth or Agaliarept? Or, perhaps, we could leave him here. There's no way out of this hinterland, except through Bael."

  Tarbell tried to speak, and discovered that his throat was dry. "Hold on," he croaked. "I ... I've got something to say about this, haven't I?"

  "Very little. Why?"

  "Well—I've no intention of being eaten."

  "Eaten! Why—Oh!" Amduscias looked at Belphegor's bared fangs and laughed softly. "We've no intention of eating you, I can say definitely. Demons can't eat. There's catabolism, but no metabolism. I wish humans took a broader outlook toward the universe," he finished, with a little shrug.

  "I wish supernatural beings wouldn't talk so damn much," Tarbell said, with a flash of irritation. "If you're going to kill me, go ahead and do it. I'm sick of this, anyway."

  Amduscias shook his head. "We can't decide on how to dispose of you, so I suppose ... eh? ... we'll just leave you here. After a while you'll starve. That all right, Belphegor? Bael?"

  It seemed to be all right. Belphegor and Bael vanished. Amduscias stood up, stretching. "I'll say good-by," he remarked. "No use your trying to escape. That door's locked for good. You can't get out through it. Farewell." He disappeared.

  Tarbell waited for a while, but nothing further happened. He looked down at the book. It still said Page 12.

  "He's bluffing." About what? Who? Amduscias?

  The door?

  Tarbell tried it again, but could not stir the knob, which seemed to have frozen motionless. He shoved the book back into his pocket and considered. What next?

  It was utterly silent. The ambiguous melting objects here and there on the plain did not move. Tarbell walked toward the nearest and examined it. He could make nothing of the blobby outline.

  The horizon—

  He had a feeling that he was in the Looking Glass garden, and that if he walked far enough, he would suddenly find himself back where he had started. Shading his eyes under his palm, Tarbell swept the unearthly landscape with a searching stare.

  Nothing.

  He was in danger, or else the book wouldn't have a page number on its cover. Again he referred to Page 12. Somebody was still bluffing. Amduscias, apparently. But bluffing about what?

  Why, Tarbell wondered, hadn't the demons killed him? Their tactics reminded him of a war of nerves. They had wanted to destroy him—at least, Belphegor and Bael had; there was no doubt about that. Yet they had refrained.

  Maybe they couldn't kill him. They had taken the next best course—imprisoned him in this—this hinterland. What had Amduscias said at parting? "No use your trying to escape. That door's locked for good."

  Was Amduscias bluffing?

  -

  The door loomed surrealistically in the distance. Tarbell hurried back toward it and tried it again. The knob didn't move. He took out his pocketknife and tried to unscrew the lock, but couldn't. He succeeded only in breaking a blade. Some sort of stasis held the entire lock frozen motionless.

  He kicked the door, but it was solid as iron. Meanwhile, the book still said Page 12. And the book was never wrong.

  There had to be some way out. Tarbell stood glaring at the door. He had walked out of the bathroom into this alien world. If he could only reopen the door, he could walk right back into that hotel bathroom. Or—

  "Oh, hell," Tarbell said, and walked around to the other side of the door, turned the knob easily enough, and stepped back into the room where Barney Donn, Tim Hatton, and the two other men were sitting around a table, cards in their hands.

  Donn nodded. "You weren't long," he said. "Ready to call me now?"

  Tarbell hurriedly closed the door behind him. The book had not failed him, then. There were obviously two sides to every problem—and the demons had not expected Tarbell to think of the logical solution. Or, rather, the illogical one.

  His experiences in the hinterland had not been measured by earthly time, either. Apparently he had left the room for only a minute or so. At least, the chips were in the pot, and Donn was holding his cards close to his chest, grinning encouragingly.

  "Come on," he said impatiently. "Let's get going."

  Tarbell still held the book in one hand, and a glance at it, as he slid the volume in his pocket, told him that Page 12 was still trumps. He took a deep breath and sat down opposite Donn. Hell, he'd play the game to the limit now. He had no doubt at all but that Barney Donn, like Amduscias, was bluffing.

  "I'm raising," he said. "But you'll have to take a check."

  "Sure," Donn nodded. His eyes widened at sight of the amount. "Wait a minute, Tarbell. This game's for cash. Checks are O.K.—if you've got the money to cover them."

  "I've got it," Tarbell lied. "I'm in the chips, Barney. Didn't I tell you?"

  "Hm-m-m. It'll be unfortunate if you can't pay."

  Tarbell said, "The hell with it," and took more of the blue chips. Hatton's eyes widened. This was big money.

  Donn raised.

  Tarbell did the same.

  Donn said, "Mind taking my I O U?"

  "Not a bit."

  The stakes mounted till Hatton got dizzy. In the end, Tarbell called and Donn laid down. The reporter had two kings and three queens. Donn had a royal flush—almost. He had drawn to fill the flush, but hadn't made it.

  He had been bluffing.

  Tarbell said, "You're lucky at stud, Barney, but I guess draw poker's my game."

  Donn grinned. "I like excitement. Give me a pen, somebody." He wrote a check. "Money's easy for me to make. So I figure I have to pay out to make it come in. Here you are, Sam."

  "Thanks." Tarbell took the check and collected his own scrip. He shook hands with Donn and led the dazed Hatton from the room.

  In the lobby the photographer woke up sufficiently to say, "Hey! I forgot to snap the pictures."

  "Let it wait," Tarbell advised. "I want to get to the bank before it closes."

  "Yeah. I should think so. How much did you take Donn for?"

  "Not quite enough," Tarbell said, scowling. The check was in five figures, but what the hell! Five figures, with the magic book in his possession, were peanuts. He had muffed a chance by aiming too low. And now there were only six chances left.

  Maybe only five! Those two crises might have counted individually. Damn again. If he used up all his chances, and Meg still survived, it would be just too bad. Somehow, he had to get rid of the familiar. But how?

  How could he maneuver her into a situation where the book would tell him how to destroy Meg? The enchanted volume told him only how to protect himself.

  Ergo—a situation where only Meg's destruction would save his own life. That was what was needed.

  "Just like that," Tarbell grunted, his long strides carrying him toward the bank. Halfway there he changed his mind and hailed a taxi. "Sorry, Hatton. I thought of something important. See you later."

  "Sure." The photographer stood on the curb, looking after the cab. "What a man! Maybe he don't care about money—I dunno. I only wish I had my pink little paws on some of that dough!"

  -

  Tarbell went to his broker's office, asked astute questions, and watched the ticker. He was playing for high stakes, and was willing, now, to take somewhat more than a gambler's risk. He put his entire fortune on AGM Consolidated, though he had to argue briefly with the broker.

  "Mr. Tarbell! AGM? It's—Look! Four points while we've been talking. The bottom's dropping out of it."

  "Buy it, please. All you can. On margin." />
  "Margin? Mr. Tarbell ... look, have you got some inside tip?"

  "Buy it, please."

  "But—look at that ticker!"

  "Go ahead and buy it."

  "Well, all right. It's your funeral."

  "Right," Tarbell said, with every appearance of satisfaction. "It's my funeral. Looks like I'll be flat broke in a day or so."

  "I'll be asking you for more margin by morning."

  Tarbell retired and watched AGM drop steadily. It was, as he well knew, one of the most worthless stocks in existence, and the bottom had dropped out of it only a day or so after the company's formation. He was on a toboggan rushing rapidly down to pauperism.

  He took the book from his pocket and stared at it. There was a new numeral on the cover. That meant a new crisis, which he himself had precipitated. Swell!

  Page 2 said: "A fortune in oil lies beneath your feet."

  Tarbell's eyes widened. He looked down at the deep-napped claret carpet. Five stories down was the substrata of Los Angeles—oil? Here?

  Impossible. In the Kettleman Hills, out at San Pedro—anywhere but in the heart of downtown Los Angeles. There couldn't be oil in this ground. If, by any fantastic chance, there was, it was manifestly useless to Tarbell. He couldn't buy the land and sink a well.

  But the book said, "A fortune in oil lies beneath your feet."

  Tarbell stood up hesitantly. He nodded at the broker and went out to the elevator. A small bribe enabled him to visit the basement, which was of no help whatsoever. The janitor, in answer to guarded questions, said that the Hill Street subway ran under the building.

  Tarbell came out and stood in the lobby, chewing his lip, conscious that his money was rapidly being dissipated in the worthless AGM Consolidated. The book couldn't be wrong. It gave the answer to every human problem.

  His eyes fell on the building directory. His broker's office was 501.

  "Beneath your feet—" Oh-oh! The book might be very literal indeed. What was in Office 401?

  A photographic supply company—but 301 gave the right answer. Pan-Argyle Oil, Ltd.

  -

  Tarbell paused long enough to check 201 and 101, but his original guess had been accurate. He didn't wait for the elevator. He ran up the stairs and burst gasping into the broker's office.