Worlds

by Eric Flint

  "Good lad," murmured Usher. "You'll like it, I promise. And if the elitism bothers you, just use the plebe word for it. Movies."

  He leaned over, smiling at his wife. "Which one, d'you think?"

  "Casablanca," came the immediate reply.

  "Good choice!" Kevin draped his other arm over Victor. "I do believe this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship."

  Helen

  On the second night of their journey home, her father didn't return to their suite on the yacht. Once she was sure he wasn't going to, Helen made up her bed on the couch in the small salon. It took her a while to settle Lars and Berry for the night, in the stateroom which she was sharing with them. Partly, because something of her own good cheer seemed to infuse them. But mostly it was because they were afraid of sleeping without her.

  "Come on!" she snapped. "We aren't going to be sharing a bed forever, you know." She eyed the huge and luxurious piece of furniture. "Not one like this, anyway. Not with Daddy on half-pay, at best."

  She did not seem noticeably upset at the prospect of future poverty. Lars and Berry, of course, were not upset at all. Their new father's "half" pay was a fortune to them.

  "Get to sleep!" Helen commanded. She turned off the lights. "Tonight belongs to Daddy. And tomorrow morning too."

  In the time which followed, Helen set her clever alarms. She did the work with the same enthusiasm with which she had spent the evening designing them.

  But, in the event, the alarms proved unnecessary. She never managed to sleep herself. So, when she heard her father coming through the outer doors, early in the morning, she had time to disengage them before he entered. She even had time to perch herself back on the couch. Grinning from ear to ear.

  The door to the salon opened and her father tiptoed in. He spotted her and froze. Helen fought to restrain her giggles. Talk about role reversal.

  "So!" she piped. "How was she?"

  Her father flushed. Helen laughed and clapped her hands with glee. She had never managed to do that!

  Her father straightened, glared at her, and then managed a laugh himself.

  "Rascal," he growled. But the growl came with a rueful smile, and he padded over to the couch. The moment he sat down next to her, Helen scrambled into his lap.

  Surprise crossed her father's face. Helen had not sat in his lap for years. Too undignified; too childish.

  The look of surprise vanished, replaced by something very warm. A film of tears came into his eyes. A moment later, Helen felt herself crushed against him, by those powerful wrestler's arms. Her own vision was a bit blurry.

  She wiped away the tears. Whimsy, dammit!

  "I bet she snores." She'd planned that sentence for hours. She thought it came out just right.

  Again, her father growled. "Rascal." Silence, for a moment, while he pressed her close, kissing her hair. Then:

  "Yeah, she does."

  "Oh, good," whispered Helen. The whimsical humor she'd planned for that remark was absent, however. There was nothing in it but satisfaction. "I like that."

  Her father chuckled. "So do I, oddly enough. So do I." He stroked and stroked her hair. "Any problem with it, sugar?"

  Helen shook her head firmly. "Nope. Not any." She pressed her head against her father's chest, as if listening to his heartbeat. "I want you full again."

  "So do I, sugar." Stroked and stroked her hair. "So do I."

  THE JOE'S WORLD SERIES

  Author's note:

  I started the Joe's World series with my friend Richard Roach way back in 1969, over one-third of a century ago, when we were college students. In the decades that followed, both of us got involved in other things and the writing pretty much languished. Now and then, we'd pull out the manuscripts and work on them for a while, but for the most part the material just lay idle in desk drawers and cardboard boxes.

  Then, in 1992, I decided to start writing fiction seriously. The first thing I did was pull out one of the intended episodes for the Greyboar and Ignace sub-plot of the series and rewrite it as a stand-alone short story. I entered the end result, "Entropy and the Strangler," in the Writers of the Future Contest—and it won first place in the contest for the winter quarter of 1992.

  A few years later, after deciding to separate most of this sub-plot and publish it as an independent novel, I included a slightly rewritten version of this story as the Prologue to The Philosophical Strangler, which was published in 2001. That's the version I'm including in this anthology.

  The second story included in this section of the anthology is "The Realm of Words." I wrote this several years ago, intending it to be included as one of the episodes in a later volume of the Joe's World series. Which, indeed, it will be. But, in the meantime—professional writers really, really hate to leave perfectly good stories lying around not earning any money—I sold it as a standalone story to Jim Baen's Universe magazine. It was an easy sale, since I was able to apply the principle of Ultimate Nepotism—seeing as how I'm also the editor of that magazine.

  Cheating, I suppose, but I can't say I feel any guilt over the matter. It really is a very entertaining tale, so who cares?

  For those of you interested in looking into the Joe's World series, the books either published or projected as part of the series are included in the appendix.

  Entropy, and the Strangler

  "To the contrary," demurred Greyboar, toying with his mug, the secret lies entirely in the fingerwork."

  But the bravo wouldn't have it. " 'Tis rather in the main force!" he bellowed, and fell upon the strangler. The table splintered, the mugs went flying in a cloud of ale froth.

  Needless to say, I scrambled aside. Like being a chipmunk caught between two bull moose, don't you know? Besides, there's no profit in this sort of thing.

  Safe at a distance, I stuck my head between two cheering onlookers and saw that my client was in his assailant's grasp. The lout's great biceps, triceps, deltoids, pectoids and whatnot bulged and rippled as he worked at Greyboar's throat. Couldn't find it, of course.

  They're a low lot, these tavern rowdies, not given to temperate debate.

  Stupid, to boot. What I mean is, the outcome was never in doubt. "Professional fingerwork," as Greyboar calls it, is simply beyond the ken of hurlyburlies who lounge about the alehouses, until they encounter it firsthand.

  For this particular clown, personal experience had now arrived. Casually, Greyboar sank his hands into his opponent's belly, kneading and squeezing. It must be like eating ten cucumbers at once. An astonished grimace came over the goon's face.

  "Fouled our breeches, have we?" chuckled the chokester. A good lad, Greyboar, but his humor runs in a low vein.

  His jest made, the strangler proceeded to more serious business. A quick flip of the thumbs popped the bullyboy's kneecaps. His victim now at eye level, Greyboar leaned back in his chair and shrugged off the hands which were still groping in the vicinity of where his neck would be if he had one.

  "As I said," he concluded, "it's all in the fingerwork."

  Then, just as I thought we'd gotten out of the silly affair with no harm, wouldn't you know it but that the barkeep had to go pour oil on the flames.

  "And who's going to pay for all this broken furniture?" he demanded. The barkeep's voice was shrill, in keeping with his sour face. He looked down at the bullyboy, now writhing on the floor.

  "Not Lothar, that's for sure," he whined. "Not much money to be made by a loan enforcer on crutches."

  That's done it! I thought.

  "Him?" exclaimed Greyboar. "A shark's tooth?" His good humor vanished like the dew.

  "And here it is," I grumbled, "there'll be lawsuits, damages, weeping widow and wailing tots, and the Old Geister knows what else." I squirmed my way through the crowd.

  "Greyboar, let's be off!" There's nothing worse than a usurer's lawyers.

  "Not quite yet," growled the strangler, reaching for the doomee's neck. But luck was with us. At that very moment the porkers arrived, a whole
squad of them.

  "What's the disturbance here?" demanded the sergeant in charge, flattening the nearest patron with his bullystick. "You're all under arrest!"

  If we'd been in our usual haunts, quaffing our ale at The Sign of the Trough in the Flankn, the porkers wouldn't have dared come in—not with less than a battalion, at any rate. Of course, if we'd been in the Flankn, where Greyboar's well known, no bullyboy would have picked a fight with him in the first place. But I'll give the patrons in that grimy little alehouse this much, they didn't hesitate but a second before the benches were flying and the fracas was afoot.

  I seized the propitious moment. "Out!" I hissed, grabbing the strangler's elbow. "There's no money to be made here."

  "Money, money, that's all you think about," grumbled Greyboar. "What then of ethics, and the meaning of life?"

  "Save it for later." I pulled him toward the rear exit. Fortunately, the strangler was willing to leave. He's not the sort one drags from a tavern against his will, don't you know. On our way out, a beefy porker blocked the route, leering and twirling his club, but Greyboar removed his face and that was that. Fingerwork, he calls it.

  Once in the back alley, Greyboar returned to the matter, like a dog chewing a bone.

  "Yet there must be a logic to it all," he complained. "Surely there's more to life than this aimless collision of bodies in space." His thick brows knotted over his eyes.

  "Wine, women and song!" I retorted. "There's sufficient purpose for a strangler and his agent. And it all takes money, my man, which you can't get rousting bravos in alehouses."

  That last was a bit unfair. It had been my idea to go into the alehouse, to celebrate the completion of a nice little job with a pot or two. Bad idea, of course. The job had taken us to a grimy little suburb of the city, where we'd never been before. And there's something about Greyboar—his size, maybe, or just an aura of implacable certainty—that inevitably seems to arouse the local strong man to belligerence. As the wise man says: "Big frogs in little ponds are prone to suicide."

  But it was just so exasperating!

  "Still and all," continued Greyboar, like a glacier on its course, "I'm convinced there's more to it. 'Wine, women and song,' you say, and that's fine for you. You're a sybarite of the epicurean persuasion. But I, it is clear to me, incline rather to the stoic, perhaps even the ascetic."

  "You're driving me mad with this philosophical foolishness!" I exclaimed. "And will you please curl up your hands?"

  "Sorry." He has long arms, Greyboar, it's an asset in his line of work. But the sound of fingernails clittery-clattering along the cobblestones gets on my nerves.

  By now we had reached the end of the alley and were onto a main street. I looked around and spotted a hansom not far away. I whistled, and it was but a minute later that we clambered aboard. It was an extravagance, to be sure, but we were flush with cash and I'd no desire to walk all the way back into the city.

  "Take us to The Sign of the Trough," I told the driver. "It's in the Flankn, right off—"

  "I know where it is," grumbled the cabbie. "It'll cost you extra, you know?"

  I sighed, but didn't argue the point. Cabbies always charged extra for going into the Thieves' Quarter. Can't say as I blamed them. It was one of the disadvantages of living in the Flankn. But the advantages made it worth the while—hardly any porkers to bother you, hidey-holes galore, a friendly neighborhood (certainly no pestersome bullyboys!), a vast network of information, customers always knew where to find you, etc.

  As the hansom made its way back into New Sfinctr, Greyboar continued to drone on about philosophy's central place in human existence. I struggled manfully to control my temper, but at one point I couldn't resist taking a dig.

  "You're only doing this philosophy nonsense because of Gwendolyn," I grumbled.

  Of course, that made him furious. This is not, by the way, a stunt I recommend for the amateur—infuriating Greyboar, that is. But I'm the world's expert on the subject, and I know exactly when I can get away with it.

  His jaws clamped shut, his face turned red, he bestowed a ferocious glare on me.

  "What's my sister got to do with it?" he demanded.

  I glared right back at him.

  "It's obvious! You never gave a second thought—you never gave a first thought!—to this philosophy crap until Gwendolyn said you had the philosophy of a weasel."

  He looked away from me, his face like a stone. I felt bad, then. He was such a formidable monster, that I forgot sometimes he had feelings just like other people. And before their fight, he and his sister had been very close.

  Still, it shut him up. The rest of the ride into the Flankn took place in a cold silence. Uncomfortable, yes, but it was a damned sight better than having to listen to him prattling on about epistemology and ontology and whatnot.

  The cabbie dropped us off in front of our lodgings. We had some small rooms on the top floor of a typical Flankn flophouse. I paid the cabbie and we headed for the door.

  Just as we started up the steps to the landing, a voice sounded behind us.

  "Hold there, sirrahs!"

  We turned and beheld a bizarre sight, even for the Flankn. A small man stood before us, clad in the most ridiculous costume: billowing green cloak, baggy yellow pants tied up at the ankles, tasseled slippers curling up at the toes, his head bound in a bright red strip of cloth. A "turban," it's called.

  "Who're you?" I demanded.

  The fellow glanced about. "Please, lower your voice! My business is confidential."

  "Confidential, is it?" boomed Greyboar. "Well, out with it!"

  The man hissed his agitation. "Quietly, please! It is not to be discussed on the public thoroughfares!" He cupped his ear.

  Greyboar snorted. "It's as good a place as any. There's none to listen but the urchins of the street, who're loyal to their own." The strangler gazed benignly over the refuse, debris and tottering tenements that encompassed a typical street of the Flankn. His eyes fell upon a ne'er-do-well lounging against a wall some steps beyond. "And the occasional idler, of course." Greyboar cracked his knuckles; it sounded like a coal mine caving in. The layabout found urgent business elsewhere.

  "Nevertheless," continued the turbaned one, "I must insist on privacy. I represent a most important individual, who demands the utmost discretion."

  Left to his own, Greyboar would have quitted the fellow with no further ado. But that's why he needed an agent.

  "Important individual, you say? No doubt he's prepared to pay handsomely for our services?" I spoke softly, since there was no reason to aggravate a potential client. Strangler's customers were always a twitchy lot.

  "He can be quite generous. But come, let us arrange a meeting elsewhere."

  "Done!" I said, cutting Greyboar off. "In three hours, in the back room of the Lucky Lady. Know where it is?"

  "I shall find it. Until then."

  "It'll be twenty quid for the meeting—whether or not we take the job." For a moment, I thought he would protest. But he thought better of it, and scurried around the corner.

  And that's how the whole thing started. It was bad enough when Greyboar was wasting his time (and my patience) searching for a philosophy of life. But now that he's found one, he's impossible. If I'd known in advance what was going to happen, I wouldn't have touched the job for all the gold in Ozar. But there it is—I was an agent, not a fortune-teller. And even though we were flush at the moment, I always had an eye out for a lucrative job. "Folly ever comes cloaked in opportunity," as the wise man says.

  Three hours later we were in the back room of the Lucky Lady. The tavern was in the Flankn, in that section where the upper crust went slumming. Greyboar didn't like the place, claimed it was too snooty for his taste. I wasn't too fond of it myself, actually. Much rather have been swilling my suds at The Trough, surrounded by proper lowlifes. But there was no place like the Lucky Lady for a quiet business transaction. Especially since almost all our clients were your hoity-toity types, who'd di
e of shock in The Trough.

  Mind you, my discretion was all in vain. The man was there, all right, accompanied by a fat, frog-faced lad barely old enough to shave. And both of them were clad in the same manner, except that the youth's costume was even more extravagant. Customers. As the wise man says: "Wherefore profit it a man to be learned, if he remains stupid in his mind?"

  "You could have worn something less conspicuous," I grumbled, after we took our seats across the table from them.

  The stripling took offense. "I am the Prince of the Sundjhab! The Prince of the Sundjhab does not scurry about in barbarian rags!" Typical. Sixteen years old, at the most, and he was already speaking in ukases.