Impossible Places

by Alan Dean Foster

  “I heartily concur, and we’ll make Ms. Fox and her well-coached little schemers look that way in court.” As if by magic more papers appeared.

  “Is there much of this?” Earth Spirit regarded the phone book–sized pile with growing trepidation.

  “Depends on your definition of much. A Mr. Colin Hvarty is suing you for medical expenses pursuant to a broken leg and sprained back, plus possible concussion.”

  “I never broke anybody’s leg, not even one of the robbers’!” the green-clad man protested.

  French looked up and smiled regretfully. “Apparently Mr. Hvarty was standing in the street opposite Vaan Pelsen’s when he was struck by a flying crook. Did you happen, in the course of your work, to perhaps fling one or more of the miscreants in that direction?”

  “I didn’t mean to hit anybody.”

  “Well, you did.” French adjusted his glasses. “We’ll have to see about getting you some liability insurance, though after the business at Vaan Pelsen’s you’d better be prepared to deal with an outrageous monthly premium.”

  “Superheroes don’t need liability insurance.”

  French peered over the top of his glasses. “Is that so? You want to perform good deeds in this country, you’d better make sure you’re fully covered before you start.

  “The owner of the parking lot behind Pelsen’s has presented a bill for the following: to wit, expenses directly related to removing a large oak tree and a number of smaller growths from his property, and repaving the damaged area. The owner of the restaurant where Ms. Fox and her offspring suffered their purported trauma is suing for damage to eight tables and chairs, shade umbrellas, decorative railing, landscaping, and assorted crockery, glassware, and utensils.

  “A Mr. Loemann and a Mr. Kelly are suing for damage to their respective vehicles. Those are the two cars you unfortunately hit with the getaway truck. Or rather, their insurance companies are suing you. A local nature organization has filed a writ to prevent you from utilizing any vegetation of any species whatsoever in your crimefighting activities until you can present them with an acceptable environmental impact report demonstrating beyond reasonable doubt that your work does not involve the use of dangerous chemicals, stimulants, or scientifically unapproved bioengineering. The regional office of the Food and Drug Administration wants to talk to you about essentially the same thing.”

  “Go on.” Earth Spirit’s expression was grim.

  “Thank you. The municipal police have a warrant out for your arrest for interfering with police activities. I don’t think we have to worry about this one. They don’t want to jail you; just co-opt you.”

  “I don’t work for anybody. I’m independent.”

  “Then you’re going to be butting heads with the local law enforcement bureaucracy from now till doomsday. Bureaucrats don’t like outsiders poaching their turf. They’re afraid you might apply for and get a government grant intended for them.”

  “But I’m helping them in their work, fighting evildoers.”

  “You’re not going to have enough time to fight the local school bully. See these?” French waved another entire sheaf of papers. “Subpoenas. Calling you as a witness in the Vaan Pelsen case. Each robber has requested and been granted an independent trial, so you’ll have to give testimony in all of them. Also, at least two members of Vaan Pelsen’s gang are suing you, including Krieger. They claim that since you’re not a member of any recognized law enforcement department, you had no right to interfere, and that they’ve suffered irreparable mental and physical damage as a result of your unauthorized activities.”

  “I was making a citizen’s arrest.”

  “They claim use of excessive force. Among other things.”

  “That’s outrageous! They had explosives and automatic weapons.”

  “Maybe we can cut a deal. I’ll speak to their people.” The green man’s chest expanded proudly. “I don’t have to belong to an official organization. I represent the Earth.”

  “Not in this county you don’t. And don’t go on boasting that you’re some kind of foreigner. This is a conservative community.” He murmured half to himself. “We can use temporary insanity in at least half these cases, if we have to. I mean, just look at you.”

  Earth Spirit blinked down at himself. “What’s wrong with me?”

  “Grown man living alone in a cave atop a mountain? Talking to plants? Running around in green spandex?”

  “It’s not spandex,” Earth Spirit protested, a mite defensively.

  “Whatever. So long as there’s no brand-name infringement involved.” French sighed tiredly. “Then there’s the government.”

  “What about the government?” Earth Spirit said darkly. “I’m trying to help them.”

  “Why do you think the local police bureaucracy is so afraid of you? If some superhero starts dropping out of the sky on local criminals and the crime rate falls to zero, what do you think happens to their budget? Not to mention their jobs. They’re terrified you’ll stick around.

  “As to helping the government, the spin on the street is good, but they’re wary. Nobody knows which party you belong to.”

  “I belong to no party. I belong to—”

  “The Earth—yeah, yeah, you told me, already. Even worse. A third-party iconoclast. They want to know your name.”

  “I am Earth Spirit!”

  “Right, sure, okay.” French made pacifying gestures. “But they can’t find anybody named ‘Earth Spirit’ anywhere. You’re not on the tax rolls, so they want to know if you’ve filed any returns. You may be ‘of the Earth,’ but if you want to practice your profession in the U.S. you’d better be able to prove that you’re a citizen. Or else have, you should pardon me, a green card. Do you even have a Social Security number?”

  Earth Spirit looked away, clearly uneasy. “If I give up that kind of information I’ll have to reveal my true identity. I can’t do that. Criminals could threaten me and my work through family and friends.”

  “There’s always the witness protection program, but I don’t think it would work very well for superheroes. Eventually you’d forget yourself, make a redwood sprout in a mall or something.”

  “This is all that Krieger’s fault,” Earth Spirit growled.

  “Could be. You can’t do anything about him, though. He’s had a restraining order put out against you. You can’t go near him.”

  “Why would I want to go near him? He’s in jail, where his kind belong.”

  “Are you kidding? His lawyers had him out of the hospital and back on the street in forty-eight hours. Bail.”

  Earth Spirit rubbed at his forehead, above the mask. “Is there much more of this?”

  “Cheer up. It’s not all bad news.” French inspected fresh paper. “Mattel wants to start a line of ‘Earth Spirit’ toys. Two major fashion houses want to license your costume as the basis for new lines of men’s clothing. Oprah, Jay, Conan, Jerry, and ‘Blind Date’—not to mention CNN and the networks—all want you for interviews. Time and Newsweek are preparing features—you can’t buy that kind of publicity. CAA and William Morris are vying to represent you on the Coast, and each claims to have multipicture deals already cut and waiting for your signature. Personally I’d go with CAA. They already have De Niro committed to play Krieger.

  “There are book offers all over the place, and I think that with your okay I can get this incipient Kitty Kelly exposé nipped in the bud. We’ll also make arrangements to protect you from the people at ‘Hard Copy,’ ‘Inside Edition,’ and ‘Geraldo,’ though even I can’t do much about the tabloids. Have you seen the Enquirer or the Star this week? No, of course you haven’t.”

  Earth Spirit looked up. “That’s the good news?”

  “Impressive, isn’t it? You stand to make millions. Of course, there’s the matter of my firm’s fee, but I’m sure we can come to an equitable arrangement. Oh, one other thing.”

  “I can’t imagine.”

  “The FAA wants you to cease and
desist all this flying about. They’re worried about your influence on air traffic patterns. Better you should take a cab.”

  “To fight crime?”

  “Why not? The cabbies in this state can get around pretty good.”

  “What about the government? Why should I have to worry about tax returns? I have no income.”

  “You’re going to. You might as well cash the checks as they come in, because nobody’ll believe you don’t have any income anyway. It’s un-American. Don’t worry. The accountancy firm that’s associated with us will make it effortless for you. And you can use the leftover money to fight crime in whatever way you wish. If there is any.”

  “Crime?” Earth Spirit murmured uncertainly.

  “No. Leftover money.”

  The green one rose dynamically from his chair and began to pace, fingers flexing like questing stems behind his back. “All I wanted was to help people and battle the forces of evil.”

  “And you can, you can,” French insisted soothingly. “It’s just a question of going about it in a careful, intelligent, sensible way—and making sure all the proper forms are filled out and filed beforehand.”

  Earth Spirit halted abruptly, and French flinched. After all, the fellow did have superpowers—and was doubtless a few cards short of a full deck to boot. That bizarre outfit . . .

  “All right,” the verdant one responded finally. “I’ll hire your firm. On a per-case contingency basis. Get me clear of this Vaan Pelsen business, and then we’ll see.”

  “That’s fair enough.” French rose and they shook hands.

  “Would you like me to have my friends help you down the mountain?” Earth Spirit offered in parting. “It’s kind of a rough hike.”

  “Tell me about it,” French grumbled. “I’ll walk, thanks. Even though I think I shook the couple of paparazzi who followed me from the city, you’ll be safer if I don’t draw attention to myself. You needn’t apologize for your naivete. It’ll be much easier now that I know you’re not some nut and that you understand what it means to have to work within the system.”

  Earth Spirit waved. “Oh I do, Mr. French, I do. Now.”

  Six months later the first deposition arrived on Tonga, advance scout of an irresistible media army, but by that time Earth Spirit had already moved on once again, to a land where lawyers were less numerous still.

  Passport problems were already beginning to dog him, though, and in Singapore he barely escaped having his suit and mask garnished for nonpayment of one claim. He made his escape, though, always keeping one step ahead of the media. No matter what else happened, one thing he had resolved.

  There was no way they were going to tree him.

  THE KISS

  When this was submitted to the redoubtable Jane Yolen for an anthology she was editing, she rejected it, referring to it as a horrible little story. Despite the turndown, I took that as high praise for a low tale. Remember what I said earlier about not doing the obvious? About trying to make old ideas contemporary? That doesn’t necessarily mean making them nice.

  There are lots of things in this world that aren’t nice. Why should fantasy be any different? This story is for all the women out there who have kissed frogs—and had them turn out to be something other than a prince.

  Crisp small memories of autumn, a few leaves clung to the naked branches of the trees, dry and brown as stale oats. Whiteness blanketed the park, silent snow dancing in tiny pinwheels across the shoveled walkways like tenebrous toys exhaled from some spectral workshop. Tapered icicles parasitized the bright, hard metal of a water fountain, bearding chrome. Over everything the first week of January lay, pregnant with chill.

  Jenny blinked away the snowflakes that swirled about her like stoned white mosquitoes as she sighted a path through the open places, taking the shortcut home from work and disdaining the bus stop immediately outside the office. The short walk would allow her to avoid having to make a connection in a less-congenial section of town. After eight hours in the limpid atmosphere of the sterile cavern in which she worked, the air outside was rejuvenating to her lungs as well as her legs.

  This morning the weather pundits had proclaimed that the storm had arrived, but it had taunted them by stalling just outside the metroplex, teasing the inner city with wild gusts and cold laughter. Just for me, she thought. Just to save me fifteen minutes I don’t have to spend now waiting in a bus shelter rank with the scent of slept-upon newspapers and clotted urine. Grateful for the respite, she lengthened her stride, not wanting to miss the cross-town bus. Bucking the wind, trifles of ice as beautiful as they were capricious tickled her rosy, exposed cheeks, only to be turned to simulacra of tears as they were instantly metamorphosed by the bundled furnace of her body.

  A little louder the squall sang, urgently warning. She shielded her eyes as she searched for the pedestrian bridge that spanned the central pond, blinking against the bite of the incoming blizzard. There it was; a russet arch of brick and mortar spanning the gray, half-frozen water, solid and familiar. Careful there on the tricky rise lest she slip in her slick, shiny black boots, whose tops were feathered with damp fake fur.

  She had only just started across when she heard the soft croaking.

  Why she paused she never knew, but pause she did, to shove snow from the railing with a gloved hand as she turned to peer over the side. Nothing to be seen below but liquid as hard and gray as old slate shingles. Frowning, she started to turn, to continue on her way, when the rough noise came again.

  She hesitated. There was nothing nearby save snow and trees stark as tombstones, looking like brown lightning rammed into the earth. Uncertainly, she retraced her steps from bridge to pond’s edge, her boots leaving behind in the snow deep, oval echoes of her passing.

  A small shape crouched on an exposed, ribbed slab of weathered granite that protruded out of the slushy surface. Curious, she bent, then crouched closer still.

  “Why you poor thing, what are you doing out this time of year? You’re shivering!”

  Ordinarily she would have walked on, would have ignored the small, insignificant blob of drab olive-hued flesh. The sticky, moist mass, resembling a sock soaked in cold phlegm, repulsed her. But she had on gloves thick with plastic and fleece, fashionable artificial skins that would keep her fingers inviolate. She plucked the baseball-sized creature from its cold, hard perch and cradled it in one palm, sheltering it from the wind with the other.

  Bulbous eyes visceral with anger rose to meet her own and so startled her she almost dropped it. After that, the voice itself was almost anticlimactic.

  “I am a prince, real and true. If you will but kiss me I will whole again become.”

  Snow flecked her cheeks, sought crevices to chill within her layers of protective clothing, pinked her cheeks and nose.

  Looking around, she saw that she was still alone. Sensible citizens had gone to cover. Twilight served notice on the approaching storm. Perhaps, she thought, she was not quite alone.

  This is ridiculous, she told herself. Ridiculous and absurd!

  Within her cupped, sheltering fingers the amphibious lump lurched clumsily forward. “A single kiss and you will see the reality that is me.”

  Kiss that blob of mucousy flesh? Press her own sensitive lips against that thin blubbery slit of a mouth? Still, she had on heavy lipstick, a wind-prophylactic that had been applied prior to leaving the office. What better time and place than here and now, isolated and unobserved, to indulge just once in a brief, lunatic folly?

  Suppressing the rationality that normally mapped her waking hours, she leaned impulsively forward and touched her lips to the flabby face, withdrawing almost immediately and wrinkling her mouth. Enough of a witless winter’s dream! If she didn’t hurry she was going to miss her bus. Not ungently, she returned the creature to its rock and turned to leave.

  In the center of the bridge, at the apex of its arch, a twinkling made her turn—a tempest glow silhouetting a presence that was now solid where a moment before ha
d been nothing. Flakes of black silver, tarnished by time and circumstance, shaped a massive figure behind her. It had arms and legs, and it moved with purpose in her direction, clad in thick coat and pants, heavy shoes laced with dead snakes, and a wide-brimmed hat that shadowed the downturned face.

  Her mouth opened when she saw the knife, long and lean as its master. Edge keener than her deepest fears, blade brighter than the luminant snow that fell anxiously now as if embarrassed at its delay, it rose toward her like a live, twisting, animate being. A coldness that was not of isobars and pressure fronts congealed within her gut, a ball of frozen jelly heavy as hopelessness.

  Thick and gnarled and powerful, his hands were upon her, freezing her as effectively as if she’d been overrun by and entombed in a glacier. The knife described a Gothic arc, and blood bright as pomegranate juice shocked the pristine snowbank in which the two of them stood locked in unholy embrace. She blinked and expelled a querulous trauma.

  “Why . . . ?”

  His gaze and expression were as one, as cold-clammy and pigmentless as the greasy flesh of a cave salamander wrenched up suddenly from the abyss and left to shrivel in the sun.

  “Someone of your age and experience should know by now,” the voice croaked. “Before you embrace it, make sure you know what kind of prince you’re kissing.”

  Later, when he was done and fresh snow tenderly went about blotting up the crimson bloom, he abandoned the park and headed purposefully deeper into the city, knowing there would be other princesses. Princesses who would also be searching for him. Real and true.

  THE IMPOSSIBLE PLACE

  The first World Science Fiction Convention I ever attended was in Berkeley, California, in 1968. I was a senior at UCLA and looking forward to meeting, actually meeting, some of the writers whose stories I had grown up reading. My first day, I climbed onto one of the minibuses that were used to shuttle fans from the several convention hotels to the main venue, only to find myself sitting next to Fritz Leiber.

  Now, if you’ve never seen a picture of Fritz Leiber, he was one of the few writers of SF who actually looked the part. His father was a well-known actor (viz the chief inquisitor in The Hunchback of Notre Dame, 1939), and Fritz had inherited his father’s looks. I recall mumbling something inconsequential, to which Mr. Leiber replied pleasantly enough, whereupon I did my level best to squeeze down into the crack between the cushion and the back of the seat.