Ill Met in Lankhmar and Ship of Shadows

by Leiber, Fritz;

  A pot-bellied figure clad in sober black dragged itself along the ratlines from the green hatch. On the aloft side of the bar there appeared a visage in which the blur of white hair and beard almost hid leather-brown flesh, though accentuating the blurs of gray eyes.

  “Doc!” Spar greeted, his misery and unease gone, and instantly handed out a chill pouch of three-star moonbrew. Yet all he could think to say in his excitement was the banal, “A bad Sleepday night, eh, Doc? Vamps and—”

  “—And other doltish superstitions, which wax every sunth, but never wane,” an amiable, cynical old voice cut in. “Yet, I suppose I shouldn’t rob you of your illusions, Spar, even the terrifying ones. You’ve little enough to live by, as it is. And there is viciousness astir in Windrush. Ah, that smacks good against my tonsils.”

  Then Spar remembered the important thing. Reaching deep inside his slopsuit, he brought out, in such a way as to hide it from the brewos below, a small flat narrow black bag.

  “Here, Doc,” he whispered, “you lost it last Playday. I kept it safe for you.”

  “Dammit, I’d lose my jumpers, if I ever took them off,” Doc commented, hushing his voice when Spar put finger to lips. “I suppose I started mixing moonmist with my moonbrew—again?”

  “You did, Doc. But you didn’t lose your bag. Crown or one of his girls lifted it, or snagged it when it sat loose beside you. And then I… I, Doc, lifted it from Crown’s hip pocket. Yes, and kept that secret when Rixende and Crown came in demanding it this morning.”

  “Spar, my boy, I am deeply in your debt,” Doc said. “More than you can know. Another three-star, please. Ah, nectar. Spar, ask any reward of me, and if it lies merely within the realm of the first transfinite infinity, I will grant it.”

  To his own surprise, Spar began to shake—with excitement. Pulling himself forward halfway across the bar, he whispered hoarsely, “Give me good eyes, Doc!” adding impulsively, “and teeth!”

  After what seemed a long while, Doc said in a dreamy, sorrowful voice, “In the Old Days, that would have been easy. They’d perfected eye transplants. They could regenerate cranial nerves, and sometimes restore scanning power to an injured cerebrum. While transplanting tooth buds from a stillborn was intern’s play. But now… Oh, I might be able to do what you ask in an uncomfortable, antique, inorganic fashion, but…” He broke off on a note that spoke of the misery of life and the uselessness of all effort.

  “The Old Days,” one brewo said from the corner of his mouth to the brewo next to him. “Witch talk!”

  “Witch—smitch!” the second brewo replied in like fashion. “The flesh mechanic’s only senile. He dreams all four days, not just Sleepday.”

  The third brewo whistled against the evil eye a tune like the wind.

  Spar tugged at the long-armed sleeve of Doc’s black jumper. “Doc, you promised. I want to see sharp, bite sharp!”

  Doc laid his shrunken hand commiseratingly on Spar’s forearm. “Spar,” he said softly, “seeing sharply would only make you very unhappy. Believe me, I know. Life’s easier to bear when things are blurred, just as it’s best when thoughts are blurred by brew or mist. And while there are people in Windrush who yearn to bite sharply, you are not their kind. Another three-star, if you please.”

  “I quit moonmist this morning, Doc,” Spar said somewhat proudly as he handed over the fresh pouch.

  Doc answered with sad smile, “Many quit moonmist every Workday morning and change their minds when Playday comes around.”

  “Not me, Doc! Besides,” Spar argued, “Keeper and Crown and his girls and even Suzy all see sharply, and they aren’t unhappy.”

  “I’ll tell you a secret, Spar,” Doc replied. “Keeper and Crown and the girls are all zombies. Yes, even Crown with his cunning and power. To them Windrush is the universe.”

  “It isn’t, Doc?”

  Ignoring the interruption, Doc continued, “But you wouldn’t be like that, Spar. You’d want to know more. And that would make you far unhappier than you are.”

  “I don’t care, Doc,” Spar said. He repeated accusingly, “You promised.”

  The gray blurs of Doc’s eyes almost vanished as he frowned in thought. Then he said, “How would this be, Spar? I know moonmist brings pains and sufferings as well as easings and joys. But suppose that every Workday morning and Loafday noon I should bring you a tiny pill that would give you all the good effects of moonmist and none of the bad. I’ve one in this bag. Try it now and see. And every Playday night I would bring you without fail another sort of pill that would make you sleep soundly with never a nightmare. Much better than eyes and teeth. Think it over.”

  As Spar considered that, Kim drifted up. He eyed Doc with his close-set green blurs. “Resspectfful greetingss, ssir,” he hissed. “Name izz Kim.”

  Doc answered, “The same to you, sir. May mice be ever abundant.” He softly stroked the cat, beginning with Kim’s chin and chest. The dreaminess returned to his voice. “In the Old Days, all cats talked, not just a few sports. The entire feline tribe. And many dogs, too—pardon me, Kim. While as for dolphins and whales and apes…”

  Spar said eagerly, “Answer me one question, Doc. If your pills give happiness without hangover, why do you always drink moonbrew yourself and sometimes spike it with moonmist?”

  “Because for me—” Doc began and then broke off with a grin. “You’ve trapped me, Spar. I never thought you used your mind. Very well, on your own mind be it. Come to my office this Loafday—you know the way? Good!—and we’ll see what we can do about your eyes and teeth. And now a double pouch for the corridor.”

  He paid in bright coins, thrust the big squunchy three-star in a big pocket, said, “See you, Spar. So long, Kim,” and tugged himself toward the green hatch, zig-zagging.

  “Ffarewell, ssir,” Kim hissed after him.

  Spar held out the small black bag. “You forgot it again, Doc.”

  As Doc returned with a weary curse and pocketed it, the scarlet hatch unzipped and Keeper swam out. He looked in a good humor now and whistled the tune of “I’ll Marry the Man on the Bridge” as he began to study certain rounds on scrip-till and moonbrew valves, but when Doc was gone he asked Spar suspiciously, “What was that you handed the old geezer?”

  “His purse,” Spar replied easily. “He just forgot it now.” He shook his loosely fisted hand and it chinked. “Doc paid in coins, Keeper.” Keeper took them eagerly. “Back to sweeping, Spar.”

  As Spar dove toward the scarlet hatch to take up larboard tubes, Suzy emerged and passed him with face averted. She sidled up to the bar and unsmilingly snatched the pouch of moonmist Keeper offered her with mock courtliness.

  Spar felt a brief rage on her behalf, but it was hard for him to keep his mind on anything but his coming appointment with Doc. When Workday night fell swiftly as a hurled knife, he was hardly aware of it and felt none of his customary unease. Keeper turned on full all of the lights in the Bat Rack. They shone brightly while beyond the translucent walls there was a milky churning.

  Business picked up a little. Suzy made off with the first likely mark. Keeper called Spar to take over the torus, while he himself got a much-erased sheet of paper and holding it to a clipboard held against his bent knees, wrote on it laboriously, as if he were thinking out each word, perhaps each letter, often wetting his pencil in his mouth. He became so absorbed in his difficult task that without realizing he drifted off toward the black below hatch, rotating over and over. The paper got dirtier and dirtier with his scrawlings and smudgings, new erasures, saliva and sweat.

  The short night passed more swiftly than Spar dared hope, so that the sudden glare of Loafday dawn startled him. Most of the customers made off to take their siestas.

  Spar wondered what excuse to give Keeper for leaving the Bat Rack, but the problem was solved for him. Keeper folded the grimy sheet and sealed it with hot tape. “Take this to the
Bridge, loafer, to the Exec. Wait.” He took the repacked, orange bag from its nook and pulled on the cords to make sure they were drawn tight. “On your way deliver this at Crown’s Hole. With all courtesy and subservience, Spar! Now, on the jump!”

  Spar slid the sealed message into his only pocket with working zipper and drew that tight. Then he dove slowly toward the aft hatch, where he almost collided with Kim. Recalling Keeper’s talk of getting rid of the cat, he caught hold of him around the slim furry chest under the forelegs and gently thrust him inside his slopsuit, whispering, “You’ll take a trip with me, little Kim.” The cat set his claws in the thin material and steadied himself.

  For Spar, the corridor was a narrow cylinder ending in mist either way and decorated by lengthwise blurs of green and red. He guided himself chiefly by touch and memory, this time remembering that he must pull himself against the light wind hand-over-hand along the centerline. After curving past the larger cylinders of the fore-and-aft gangways, the corridor straightened. Twice he worked his way around centrally slung fans whirring so softly that he recognized them chiefly by the increase in breeze before passing them and the slight suction after.

  Soon he began to smell soil and green stuff growing. With a shiver he passed a black round that was the elastic-curtained door to Hold Three’s big chewer. He met no one—odd even for Loafday. Finally he saw the green of the Gardens of Apollo and beyond it a huge black screen, in which hovered toward the aft side a small, smoky-orange circle that always filled Spar with inexplicable sadness and fear. He wondered in how many black screens that doleful circle was portrayed, especially in the starboard end of Windrush. He had seen it in several.

  So close to the gardens that he could make out wavering green shoots and the silhouette of a floating farmer, the corridor right-angled below. Two dozen pulls along the line and he floated by an open hatch, which both memory for distance and the strong scent of musky, mixed perfumes told him was the entry to Crown’s Hole. Peering in, he could see the intermelting black and silver spirals of the decor of the great globular room. Directly opposite the hatch was another large black screen with the red-mottled dun disk placed similarly off center.

  From under Spar’s chin, Kim hissed very softly, but urgently, “Sstop! Ssilencce, on your liffe!” The cat had poked his head out of the slopsuit’s neck. His ears tickled Spar’s throat. Spar was getting used to Kim’s melodrama, and in any case the warning was hardly needed. He had just seen the half-dozen floating naked bodies and would have held still if only from embarrassment. Not that Spar could see genitals any more than ears at the distance. But he could see that save for hair, each body was of one texture: one very dark brown and the other five—or was it four? no, five—fair. He didn’t recognize the two with platinum and golden hair, who also happened to be the two palest. He wondered which was Crown’s new girl, name of Almodie. He was relieved that none of the bodies were touching.

  There was the glint of metal by the golden-haired girl, and he could just discern the red blur of a slender, five-forked tube which went from the metal to the five other faces. It seemed strange that even with a girl to play bartender, Crown should have moonbrew served in such plebeian fashion in his palatial Hole. Of course the tube might carry moonwine, or even moonmist.

  Or was Crown planning to open a rival bar to the Bat Rack? A poor time, these days, and a worse location, he mused as he tried to think of what to do with the orange bag.

  “Sslink offf !” Kim urged still more softly.

  Spar’s fingers found a snap-ring by the hatch. With the faintest of clicks he secured it around the draw-cords of the pouch and then pulled back the way he had come.

  But faint as the click had been, there was a response from Crown’s Hole—a very deep, long growl.

  Spar pulled faster at the centerline. As he rounded the corner leading inboard, he looked back.

  Jutting out from Crown’s hatch was a big, prick-eared head narrower than a man’s and darker even than Crown’s.

  The growl was repeated.

  It was ridiculous he should be so frightened of Hellhound, Spar told himself as he jerked himself and his passenger along. Why, Crown sometimes even brought the big dog to the Bat Rack.

  Perhaps it was that Hellhound never growled in the Bat Rack, only talked in a hundred or so monosyllables.

  Besides, the dog couldn’t pull himself along the centerline at any speed. He lacked sharp claws. Though he might be able to bound forward, caroming from one side of the corridor to another.

  This time the center=slit black curtains of the big chewer made Spar veer violently. He was a fine one—going to get new eyes today and frightened as a child!

  “Why did you try to scare me back there, Kim?” he asked angrily.

  “I ssaw shsheer evil, isssiot!”

  “You saw five folk sucking moonbrew. And a harmless dog. This time you’re the fool, Kim, you’re the idiot!”

  Kim shut up, drawing in his head, and refused to say another word. Spar remembered about the vanity and touchiness of all cats. But by now he had other worries. What if the orange bag were stolen by a passerby before Crown noticed it? And if Crown did find it, wouldn’t he know Spar, forever Keeper’s errand boy, had been peeping? That all this should happen on the most important day of his life! His verbal victory over Kim was small consolation.

  Also, although the platinum-haired girl had interested him most of the two strange ones, something began to bother him about the girl who’d been playing bartender, the one with golden hair like Suzy’s, but much slimmer and paler—he had the feeling he’d seen her before. And something about her had frightened him.

  When he reached the central gangways, he was tempted to go to Doc’s office before the Bridge. But he wanted to be able to relax at Doc’s and take as much time as needed, knowing all errands were done.

  Reluctantly he entered the windy violet gangway and dove at a fore angle for the first empty space on the central gang-line, so that his palms were only burned a little before he had firm hold of it and was being sped fore at about the same speed as the wind. Keeper was a miser, not to buy him handgloves, let alone footgloves!—but he had to pay sharp attention to passing the shroud-slung roller bearings that kept the thick, moving line centered in the big corridor. It was an easy trick to catch hold of the line ahead of the bearing and then get one’s other hand out of the way, but it demanded watchfulness.

  There were few figures traveling on the line and fewer still being blown along the corridor. He overtook a doubled-up one tumbling over and over and crying out in an old cracked voice, “Jacob’s Ladder, Tree of Life, Marriage Lines…”

  He passed the squeeze in the gangway marking the division between the Third and Second Holds without being stopped by the guard there and then he almost missed the big blue corridor leading aloft. Again he slightly burned his palms making the transfer from one moving gang-line to another. His fretfulness increased.

  “Sspar, you isssiot—!” Kim began.

  “Ssh!—we’re in officers’ territory,” Spar cut him off, glad to have that excuse for once more putting down the impudent cat. And true enough, the blue spaces of Windrush always did fill him with awe and dread.

  Almost too soon to suit him, he found himself swinging from the gang-line to a stationary monkey jungle of tubular metal just below the deck of the Bridge. He worked his way to the aloft-most bars and floated there, waiting to be spoken to.

  Much metal, in many strange shapes, gleamed in the Bridge, and there were irregularly pulsing rainbow surfaces, the closest of which sometimes seemed ranks of files of tiny lights going on and off—red, green, all colors. Aloft of everything was an endless velvet-black expanse very faintly blotched by churning, milky glintings.

  Among the metal objects and the rainbows floated figures all clad in the midnight blue of officers. They sometimes gestured to each other, but never spoke a word. To Spar, ea
ch of their movements was freighted with profound significance. These were the gods of Windrush, who guided everything, if there were gods at all. He felt reduced in importance to a mouse, which would be chased off chittering if it once broke silence.

  After a particularly tense flurry of gestures, there came a brief distant roar and a familiar creaking and crackling. Spar was amazed, yet at the same time realized he should have known that the Captain, the Navigator, and the rest were responsible for the familiar diurnal phenomena.

  It also marked Loafday noon. Spar began to fret. His errands were taking too long. He began to lift his hand tentatively toward each passing figure in midnight blue. None took the least note of him.

  Finally he whispered, “Kim—?”

  The cat did not reply. He could hear a purring that might be a snore. He gently shook the cat. “Kim, let’s talk.”

  “Shshut offf! I ssleep! Ssh!” Kim resettled himself and his claws and recommenced his purring snore—whether natural or feigned, Spar could not tell. He felt very despondent.

  The lunths crept by. He grew desperate and weary. He must not miss his appointment with Doc! He was nerving himself to move farther aloft and speak, when a pleasant, young voice said, “Hello, grandpa, what’s on your mind?”

  Spar realized that he had been raising his hand automatically and that a person as dark-skinned as Crown, but clad in midnight blue, had at last taken notice. He unzipped the note and handed it over. “For the Exec.”

  “That’s my department.” A trilled crackle—fingernail slitting the note? A larger crackle—note being opened. A brief wait. Then, “Who’s Keeper?”