Ill Met in Lankhmar and Ship of Shadows

by Leiber, Fritz;

  A blue fuzz-glare, held by a brewo, made everyone in the Bat Rack look more corpse-like than larboard light. A voice commanded, “Okay, folks, break it up. Go home. We’re closing the place.”

  Sleepday dawned, drowning the fuzz-glare. The cold triangle left Spar’s back. There was another snick. Saying, “Bye-bye, baby,” Crown pushed off through the white glare toward four women’s faces and one dog’s. Phanette’s and Doucette’s faintly red-mottled ones were close beside Hellhound’s, as if they might be holding his collar.

  Spar sobbed and began to hunt for Kim. After a while Suzy came to help him. The Bat Rack emptied. Spar and Suzy cornered Kim. Spar grasped the cat around the chest. Kim’s forelegs embraced his wrist, claws pricking. Spar got out the pouch Doc had given him and shoved its mouth between Kim’s jaws. The claws dug deep. Taking no note of that, Spar gently sprayed. Gradually the claws came out and Kim relaxed. Spar hugged him gently. Suzy bound up Spar’s wounded wrist.

  Keeper came up followed by two brewos, one of them Ensign Drake, who said, “My partner and I will watch today by the aft and starboard hatches.” Beyond them the Bat Rack was empty.

  Spar said, “Crown has a knife.” Drake nodded.

  Suzy touched Spar’s hand and said, “Keeper, I want to stay here tonight. I’m scared.”

  Keeper said, “I can offer you a shroud.”

  Drake and his mate dove slowly toward their posts.

  Suzy squeezed Spar’s hand. He said, rather heavily, “I can offer you my shroud, Suzy.”

  Keeper laughed and after looking toward the Bridge men, whispered, “I can offer you mine, which, unlike Spar, I own. And moonmist. Otherwise, the passageways.”

  Suzy sighed, paused, then went off with him.

  Spar miserably made his way to the fore corner. Had Suzy expected him to fight Keeper? The sad thing was that he no longer wanted her, except as a friend. He loved Crown’s new girl. Which was sad too.

  He was very tired. Even the thought of new eyes didn’t interest him. He clipped his ankle to a shroud and tied a rag over his eyes. He gently clasped Kim, who had not spoken. He was asleep at once.

  He dreamed of Almodie. She looked like Virgo, even to the white dress. She held Kim, who looked sleek as polished black leather. She was coming toward him smiling. She kept coming without getting closer.

  Much later—he thought—he woke in the grip of withdrawal. He sweated and shook, but those were minor. His nerves were jumping. Any moment, he was sure, they would twitch all his muscles into a stabbing spasm of sinew-snapping agony. His thoughts were moving so fast he could hardly begin to understand one in ten. It was like speeding through a curving, ill-lit passageway ten times faster than the main drag. If he touched a wall, he would forget even what little Spar knew, forget he was Spar. All around him black shrouds whipped in perpetual sine curves.

  Kim was no longer by him. He tore the rag from his eyes. It was dark as before. Sleepday night. But his body stopped speeding and his thoughts slowed. His nerves still crackled, and he still saw the black snakes whipping, but he knew them for illusion. He even made out the dim glows of three running lights.

  Then he saw two figures floating toward him. He could barely make out their eye-blurs, green in the smaller, violet in the other, whose face was spreadingly haloed by silvery glints. She was pale and whiteness floated around her. And instead of a smile, he could see the white horizontal blur of bared teeth. Kim’s teeth too were bared.

  Suddenly he remembered the golden-haired girl who he’d thought was playing bartender in Crown’s Hole. She was Suzy’s one-time friend Sweetheart, snatched last Sleepday by vamps.

  He screamed, which in Spar was a hoarse, retching bellow, and scrabbled at his clipped ankle.

  The figures vanished. Below, he thought.

  Lights came on. Someone dove and shook Spar’s shoulder. “What happened, gramps?”

  Spar gibbered while he thought what to tell Drake. He loved Almodie and Kim. He said, “Had a nightmare. Vamps attacked me.”

  “Description?”

  “An old lady and a… a… little dog.”

  The other officer dove in. “The black hatch is open.”

  Drake said, “Keeper told us that was always locked. Follow through, Fenner.” As the other dove below, “You’re sure this was a nightmare, gramps? A little dog? And an old woman?”

  Spar said, “Yes,” and Drake dove after his comrade, out through the black hatch.

  Workday dawned. Spar felt sick and confused, but he set about his usual routine. He tried to talk to Kim, but the cat was as silent as yesterday afternoon. Keeper bullied and found many tasks—the place was a mess from Playday. Suzy got away quickly. She didn’t want to talk about Sweetheart or anything else. Drake and Fenner didn’t come back.

  Spar swept and Kim patrolled, out of touch. In the afternoon Crown came in and talked with Keeper while Spar and Kim were out of earshot. They mightn’t have been there for all notice Crown took of them.

  Spar wondered about what he had seen last night. It might really have been a dream, he decided. He was no longer impressed by his memory-identification of Sweetheart. Stupid of him to have thought that Almodie and Kim, dream or reality, were vamps. Doc had said vamps were superstitions. But he didn’t think much. He still had withdrawal symptoms, only less violent.

  When Loafday dawned, Keeper gave Spar permission to leave the Bat Rack without his usual prying questions. Spar looked around for Kim, but couldn’t see his black blob. Besides, he didn’t really want to take the cat.

  He went straight to Doc’s office. The passageways weren’t as lonely as last Loafday. For a third time he passed the bent figure croaking, “Seagull, Kestrel, Cathedral…”

  Doc’s hatch was unzipped, but Doc wasn’t there. Kim waited a long while, uneasy in the corpse-light. It wasn’t like Doc to leave his office unzipped and unattended. And he hadn’t turned up at the Bat Rack last night, as he’d half promised.

  Finally Spar began to look around. One of the first things he noticed was that the big black bag, which Doc had said contained his treasure, was missing.

  Then he noticed that the gleaming pliofilm bag in which Doc had put the mold of Spar’s gums, now held something different. He unclipped it from its shroud. There were two items in it.

  He cut a finger on the first, which was half circle, half pink and half gleaming. He felt out its shape more cautiously then, ignoring the tiny red blobs welling from his finger. It had irregular depressions in its pink top and bottom. He put it in his mouth. His gums mated with the depressions. He opened his mouth; then closed it, careful to keep his tongue back. There was a snick and a dull click. He had teeth!

  His hands were shaking, not just from withdrawal, as he felt the second item.

  It was two thick rounds joined by a short bar and with a thicker long bar ending in a semicircle going back from each.

  He thrust a finger into one of the rounds. It tickled, just as the tube had tickled his eyes, only more intensely, almost painfully.

  Hands shaking worse than ever, he fitted the contraption to his face. The semicircles went around his ears, the rounds circled his eyes, not closely enough to tickle.

  He could see sharply! Everything had edges, even his spread-fingered hands and the… clot of blood on one finger. He cried out—a low, wondering wail—and scanned the office. At first the scores and dozens of sharp-edged objects, each as distinct as the pictures of Capricorn and Virgo had been, were too much for him. He closed his eyes.

  When his breathing was a little evener and his shaking less, he opened them cautiously and began to inspect the objects clipped to the shrouds. Each one was a wonder. He didn’t know the purpose of half of them. Some of them with which he was familiar by use or blurred sight startled him greatly in their appearance—a comb, a brush, a book with pages (that infinitude of ranked black marks), a wrist watch ( the
tiny pictures around the circular margin of Capricorn and Virgo, and of the Bull and the Fishes, and so on, and the narrow bars radiating from the center and swinging swiftly or slowly or not at all—and pointing to the signs of the zodiac).

  Before he knew it, he was at the corpse-glow wall. He faced it with a new courage, though it forced from his lips another wondering wail.

  The corpse-glow didn’t come from everywhere, though it took up the central quarter of his field of vision. His fingers touched taut, transparent pliofilm. What he saw beyond—a great way beyond, he began to think—was utter blackness with a great many tiny… points of bright light in it. Points were even harder to believe in than edges, but he had to believe what he saw.

  But centrally, looking much bigger than all the blackness, was a vast corpse-white round pocked with faint circles and scored by bright lines and mottled with slightly darker areas.

  It didn’t look as if it were wired for electricity, and it certainly didn’t look afire. After a while Spar got the weird idea that its light was reflected from something much brighter behind Windrush.

  It was infinitely strange to think of so much space around Windrush. Like thinking of a reality containing reality.

  And if Windrush were between the hypothetical brighter light and the pocked white round, its shadow ought to be on the latter. Unless Windrush were almost infinitely small. Really these speculations were utterly too fantastic to deal with.

  Yet could anything be too fantastic? Werewolves, witches, points, edges, size and space beyond any but the most insane belief.

  When he had first looked at the corpse-white object, it had been round. And he had heard and felt the creakings of Loafday noon, without being conscious of it at the time. But now the round had its fore edge evenly sliced off, so that it was lopsided. Spar wondered if the hypothetical incandescence behind Windrush were moving, or the white round rotating, or Windrush itself revolving around the white round. Such thoughts, especially the last, were dizzying almost beyond endurance.

  He made for the open door, wondering if he should zip it behind him, decided not to. The passageway was another amazement, going off and off and off, and narrowing as it went. Its walls bore… arrows, the red pointing to larboard, the way from which he’d come, the green pointing starboard, the way he was going. The arrows were what he’d always seen as dash—shaped blurs. As he pulled himself along the strangely definite drag—line, the passageway stayed the same diameter, all the way to the violet main-drag.

  He wanted to jerk himself as fast as the green arrows to the starboard end of Windrush to verify the hypothetical incandescence and see the details of the orange-dun round that always depressed him.

  But he decided he ought first to report Doc’s disappearance to the Bridge. He might find Drake there. And report the loss of Doc’s treasure too, he reminded himself.

  Passing faces fascinated him. Such a welter of noses and ears! He overtook the croaking, bent shape. It was that of an old woman whose nose almost met her chin. She was doing something twitchy with her fingers to two narrow sticks and a roll of slender, fuzzy line. He impulsively dove off the drag-line and caught hold of her, whirling them around.

  “What are you doing, grandma?” he asked.

  She puffed with anger. “Knitting,” she answered indignantly.

  “What are the words you keep saying?”

  “Names of knitting patterns,” she replied, jerking loose from him and blowing on. “Sand Dunes, Lightning, Soldiers Marching…”

  He started to swim for the drag-line, then saw he was already at the blue shaft leading aloft. He grabbed hold of its speeding centerline, not minding the burn, and speeded to the Bridge.

  When he got there, he saw there was a multitude of stars aloft. The oblong rainbows were all banks of multi—colored lights winking on and off. But the silent officers—they looked very old, their faces stared as if they were sleep—swimming, their gestured orders were mechanical, he wondered if they knew where Windrush was going—or anything at all, beyond the Bridge of Windrush.

  A dark, young officer with tightly curly hair floated to him. It wasn’t until he spoke that Spar knew he was Ensign Drake.

  “Hello, gramps. Say, you look younger. What are those things around your eyes?”

  “Field glasses. They help me see sharp.”

  “But field glasses have tubes. They’re a sort of binocular telescope.”

  Spar shrugged and told about the disappearance of Doc and his big, black treasure bag.

  “But you say he drank a lot and he told you his treasures were dreams? Sounds like he was wacky and wandered off to do his drinking somewhere else.”

  “But Doc was a regular drinker. He always came to the Bat Rack.”

  “Well, I’ll do what I can. Say, I’ve been pulled off the Bat Rack investigation. I think that character Crown got at someone higher up. The old ones are easy to get at—not so much greed as going by custom, taking the easiest course. Fenner and I never did find the old woman and the little dog, or any female and animal… or anything.”

  Spar told about Crown’s earlier attempt to steal Doc’s little black bag.

  “So you think the two cases might be connected. Well, as I say, I’ll do what I can.”

  Spar went back to the Bat Rack. It was very strange to see Keeper’s face in detail. It looked old and its pink target center was a big red nose crisscrossed by veins. His brown eyes were not so much curious as avid. He asked about the things around Spar’s eyes. Spar decided it wouldn’t be wise to tell Keeper about seeing sharply.

  “They’re a new kind of costume jewelry, Keeper. Blasted Earth, I don’t have any hair on my head, ought to have something.”

  “Language, Spar! It’s like a drunk to spend precious scrip on such a grotesque bauble.”

  Spar neither reminded Keeper that all the scrip he’d earned at the Bat Rack amounted to no more than a wad as big as his thumb-joint, nor that he’d quit drinking. Nor did he tell him about his teeth, but kept them hidden behind his lips.

  Kim was nowhere in sight. Keeper shrugged. “Gone off somewhere. You know the way of strays, Spar.”

  Yes, thought Spar, this one’s stayed put too long.

  He kept being amazed that he could see all of the Bat Rack sharply. It was an octahedron crisscrossed by shrouds and made up of two pyramids put together square base to square base. The apexes of the pyramids were the violet fore and dark red aft corners. The four other corners were the starboard green, the black below, the larboard scarlet, and the blue aloft, if you named them from aft in the way the hands of a watch move.

  Suzy drifted in early Playday. Spar was shocked by her blowzy appearance and bloodshot eyes. But he was touched by her signs of affection and he felt the strong friendship between them. Twice when Keeper wasn’t looking he switched her nearly empty pouch of dark for a full one. She told him that, yes, she’d once known Sweetheart and that, yes, she’d heard people say Mabel had seen Sweetheart snatched by vamps.

  Business was slow for Playday. There were no strange brewos. Hoping against fearful, gut-level certainty, Spar kept waiting for Doc to come in zigzagging along the ratlines and comment on the new gadgets he’d given Spar and spout about the Old Days and his strange philosophy.

  Playday night Crown came in with his girls, all except Almodie. Doucette said she’d had a headache and stayed at the Hole. Once again, all of them ordered coffee, though to Spar all of them seemed high.

  Spar covertly studied their faces. Though nervous and alive, they all had something in their stares akin to those he’d seen in most of the officers on the Bridge. Doc had said they were all zombies. It was interesting to find out that Phanette’s and Doucette’s red-mottled appearance was due to… freckles, tiny reddish star-clusters on their white skins.

  “Where’s that famous talking cat?” Crown asked Spar.

  Spar sh
rugged. Keeper said, “Strayed. For which I’m glad. Don’t want a little feline who makes fights like last night.”

  Keeping his yellow-brown irised eyes on Spar, Crown said, “We believe it was that fight last Playday gave Almodie her headache, so she didn’t want to come back tonight. We’ll tell her you got rid of the witch cat.”

  “I’d have got rid of the beast if Spar hadn’t,” Keeper put in. “So you think it was a witch cat, Coroner?”

  “We’re certain. What’s that stuff on Spar’s face?”

  “A new sort of cheap eye-jewelry, Coroner, such as attracts drunks.”

  Spar got the feeling that this conversation had been prearranged, that there was a new agreement between Crown and Keeper. But he just shrugged again. Suzy was looking angry, but she said nothing.

  Yet she stayed behind again after the Bat Rack closed. Keeper put no claim on her, though he leered knowingly before disappearing with a yawn and a stretch through the scarlet hatch. Spar checked that all six hatches were locked and shut off the lights, though that made no difference in the morning glare, before returning to Suzy, who had gone to his sleeping shroud.

  Suzy asked, “You didn’t get rid of Kim?”

  Spar answered, “No, he just strayed, as Keeper said at first. I don’t know where Kim is.”

  Suzy smiled and put her arms around him. “I think your new eye-things are beautiful,” she said.

  Spar said, “Suzy, did you know that Windrush isn’t the Universe? That’s it’s a ship going through space around a white round marked with circles, a round much bigger than all Windrush?”

  Suzy replied, “I know Windrush is sometimes called the Ship. I’ve seen that round—in pictures. Forget all wild thoughts, Spar, and lose yourself in me.”

  Spar did so, chiefly from friendship. He forgot to clip his ankle to the shroud. Suzy’s body didn’t attract him. He was thinking of Almodie.