The Exotic Enchanter

by L. Sprague Camp

  The Barsoomian threw himself into a lunge that would have spitted Shea had he not, almost unconsciously, drawn his saber and pained. In an instant the twain were at it, tzing, zip, clang!

  Shea found Spor Mopus good but not superlative. Unless he made a stupid mistake, Shea thought, he should be able to handle this assassin. Still, them was an element of luck in these encounters, and what right had he to leave Voglinda fatherless, assuming they rescued her from Malambroso?

  Back and forth they went: double, one-two, beat, and coupé. Spor Mopus was only so-so on attack but very good on defense; Shea could not penetrate his guard. Shea began to fear that Spur Mopus would keep him in play until fatigue laid him open to attack. Tzingg!

  Suddenly, Spor Mopus backed up and lowered his point. crying: “That is not fair! It is unethical, to bring a squad of supporters with you. Withdraw them, or I shall refuse to continue the fight!”

  “What on Earth?” murmured Shea.

  Spor Mopus sheathed his sword and stamped out the open door. At that instant, Belphebe’s bow twanged. While Malambmso’s eyes had been fixed on the combatants, she had stepped aside and quietly strung her bow. The arrow pierced Malambroso’s body. Malambroso swung toward her, striving to bring the big pistol up to bear. The bow twanged again. Malambroso dropped his pistol, which struck the floor with a bright yellow flash and a deafening boom. The magician folded up, joint by joint, on the matting. Ras Thavas moved quickly to kneel over the wounded magician.

  “Mummee!” screamed Voglinda, running to Belphebe.

  “How did you do that?” Shea asked the scientist.

  Ras Thavas looked up. “My mental superiority, that is all, I have told you that all the higher Barsoomian organisms are somewhat telepathic. I simply forced Spot Mopus and Malambroso to see, not one sword-wielding Shea, but six, all advancing upon them at once. Now, let us see about this fellow. He will soon be dead if I cannot render aid.”

  The innkeeper appeared at the door. “What goes on here? Did I not hear a gunshot?”

  “You did,” said Shea, “but it was an accidental discharge, when the magician dropped his pistol.”

  “Find a stretcher and a pair of slaves to carry it,” snapped Ras Thavas, “and get this man to a lazaret!”

  “Why try to save him?” asked Shea.

  “Because I once swore an oath to John Carter himself,” barked Ras Thavas, “that I would thenceforth try to help those who needed it. Besides, if he dies of the lady’s arrows, you would be in trouble with the law, since he did not perish in a proper, legal sword duel.

  “I know that he deserves to be let die, but my oath had no such qualifications. Ah, here come Master Van Larik with a stretcher and a pair of slaves. Be careful, boys. Slide him over; do not attempt to roll him!”

  A man wearing the badges of the constabulary appeared, panting for breath. He said: “Is the fight already over? Was it conducted in proper accord with the laws on homicide? I must make out a report.”

  Ras Thavas assured the constable that all had been done in accordance with the code, and the cop went away satisfied.

  * * *

  Several days later, Shea and Belphebe, with little Voglinda in tow, visited the lazaret. They found Ras Thavas sitting by Malambroso’s bed. On the other side stood plump red Barsoomian nurse. Shea said:

  “Doctor, the shop assures me that the Banth will bc airworthy again tomorrow, with the buoyancy tanks full. From what I saw, I think they are right. Are you ready to go with us?”

  “My patient is virtually ready for his discharge today,” said Ras Thavas. “By tomorrow I am sure it will be safe for me to leave him.”

  “Either of those arrows ought to have killed him,” said Belphebe. “Unless you Barsoomians are tougher than most civilized species.”

  “Either would probably have proved fatal,” said Ras Thavas, “had my patient not had the luck to fall into the hands of the greatest physician and surgeon on Barsoom.”

  Shea cleared his throat meaningfully, at which Thavas looked embarrassed. Shea said:

  “But I can’t go off leaving him loose so long as he pursues that crackpot idea of taking my colleague Chalmers’ wife away from him.”

  “I do not think you need worry on that score,” said Ras Thavas. “How about it, Doctor Malambroso?”

  “Oh,” said the magician in a weak voice. “I now have completely different plans.” He rolled an eye at the Barsoomian nurse, who tittered.

  “Yes,” he said, “I have at last discovered true love. My attachment to Lady Chalmers was just a passing fancy, an infatuation. My affianced bride, here, is Mordalia, the widow of Jan Valos, who was slain last year in one of those ridiculous duels. She has promised to accompany me whithersoever I go. If you see Lady Chalmers, present her my respects and assure her that she has naught to fear from me.”

  “Daddee,” said Voglinda, “when are we going home?”

  “As soon as I can arrange it,” said Shea “Widow Mordalia, I am happy to have met you and wish you luck.” He silently added, you’ll need it!

  “May our departure be soon,” said Belphebe. “My hair’s beginning to show its natural color at the roots. I should soon need another dye job.”

  Ras Thavas said: “Are you flying back to Zodanga? If so, I am going with you.”

  From his bed. Malambroso said: “Could you not save some time by working your sorites here and going directly back to Earth?

  Shea grinned. “No. I must return the Banth to its owners and get our deposit back. Also, we left eight riding thoats there, which I shall want to resell. Besides, we left our Earthside clothes in Zodanga. Can you imagne the sensation if Belphebe and I, nude as we are, materialized on the grounds of the Garaden Institute? We shall have to get used to clothes again, dear.”

  “They’ll seem unnatural for a while,” said Belphebe.

  “Also,” said Ras Thavas, “you promised me another lesson in making friends and influencing people. I have tried out your principles and have been agreeably surprised to find that they actually work. Why, even Malambroso here — whose ethics, I fear, are not up to Barsoomian standards — seems to like me. So let us get to it forthwith!”

  Part IV:

  Harold Sheakspeare

  Tom Wham I

  “Well, Doc, I’m ready for your lecture!” Vaclav Polacek said as he strolled into the room. if I’m gonna be coming and going between parallel universes, I gotta bone up to be a good magician.”

  “It would help a lot, Votsy, if you could do something besides turn yourself into a werewolf every time there’s trouble,” Harold Shea muttered as he shifted in his chair.

  “Gentlemen,” interrupted the bushy-haired man behind the desk. “I’m in full agreement with Vaclav. It wouldn’t hurt any of us to study the principles of ‘magic’ for they are, in reality, the physics of other universes. In my long stay in Faerie and the abortive trip to the Furioso, I believe I finally have a grasp of the measurable qualities of the fourth, fifth, and sixth dimensions. So, beginning tomorrow at this time, we shall commence daily discussions on the subject. There must be more method to our madness.”

  The man speaking was Reed Chalmers, once the director of the psychologists at the Camden Institute, now in charge of the hush-hush, “Interplanar Project.” He had recently returned from a rather protracted stay in several different, parallel universes. Gathered around him were the new director, Walter Bayard, and two psychologists, the outspoken Vaclav Polacek and Harold Shea. The fifth man in the room was the most unlikely member of the group, a police sergeant named Pete Brodsky.

  “As you know,” Chalmers continued, “ever since Harold here, proved that our — uh — ‘syllogismobile’ actually works, we’ve been involved in a series of willy-nily chases from one universe to another, often narrowly escaping with our lives”

  “I can’t say that I found my stay in Xanadu either unpleasant or dangerous,” added a sleepy-eyed Bayard. “Boann’s settling down okay.”

  “That’s beside
the point, Walter,” answered Chalmers. “Although I must admit it was all my fault. I never should have dragged you, Polacek, and Brodsky into that affair in the first place. It’s a perfect example of imperfect science. We have to be aware of the disturbance that our various disappearances have caused here at the Institute. That with the police is something we dare not repeat.”

  “No need to thank me, boys, for squaring things between you guys and the law,” Brodsky said, smiling broadly.

  “Very reassuring, Mr. Brodsky, but we shall not be calling upon you to get us out of any further scrapes with the law. From now on . . . pure science!”

  “So, it’s time we started minding our extra-dimensional P’s and Q’s, eh, Doc?” said Polacek.

  Chalmers leaned forward in his chair. “We’ve done enough playing swashbuckler . . . and I fear I must personally bear a large portion of the responsibility. But no more! Now we begin the application of serious and ordered scientific method, And since were all back here safely in Ohio, there must be no more trips until we analyze the data we now possess.”

  “That’s fine for you. Dr. Chalmers,” Bayard said with annoyance, “you and Harold married dream girls you brought back from the land of Faerie. My Dumyazad was sent back to Xanadu quite without my consent. What about the rest of us?”

  Shea remembered that Walter had actually been quite relieved when the houri, Dumyazad, was accidentally sent back to her world of origin and wondered what old Walter Bayard was really complaining about. He had brought back the stunning red-haired quasi-celt, Boann Ni Colum, Did he want two women at once?

  “Seems to me, you guys have got something here that’s too hot to handle,” said Brodsky. “if word of this gets out, every Tom, Dick, and Harry is gonna want to go off to the world of his dreams. Like some kind of magic carpet almost.”

  “Ahem,” Chalmers cleared his throat meaningfully, “that is precisely the problem!” He turned to Bayard. “Walter, I’m not closing the door to the rest of you, I merely want a temporary halt to interdimensional travel. We’re sitting on the greatest cosmological discovery in history, We must be very, very careful, until we are ready to publish our findings.”

  “I’ll be as meticulous as you will,” said Shea.

  Chalmers stood up, resting his hands on his desk, “Then we all agree. No more trips will be made into parallel universes until further notice.” He looked around the room and stared seriously into each man’s eyes.

  Polacek, who had stopped in a corner, resumed his pacing and opened his mouth to speak. Reed Chalmers beat the Czech to the punch and continued: “I want all of you, including Brodsky here, to prepare written reports on your recent — uh — experiences.” There was a general groan from those present. “I want you to note every detail about the acts of magic you saw or experienced. We must leave no stone unturned. We must determine exactly what we have done to transport ourselves and others to parallel worlds. Our formulae must be refined and made more accurate.”

  “Not to mention the fact that we’ve seldom gotten back to this universe without help from the locals,” added Shea.

  There was a murmur of agreement Chalmers continued. “Vaclav, I’m putting you in charge of correlating our experiences with the magic or more accurately, the physics of the various worlds we have visited . . . with my assistance and guidance, of course.” The Czech beamed with obvious pleasure.

  “Don’t look so smug, Votsy,” Shea admonished, “the only way we’ll ever be able to trust you with magic is to make you an expert on the subject.”

  The Czech shot Harold a hostile glance as Reed Chalmers closed the meeting. “Ahem. Yes, well, then, I think that will be enough for today. And remember, gentlemen. be careful what you say, and no experimenting on your own.”

  * * *

  Harold Shea stopped typing and leaned back in his chair. Two weeks had passed since Doc Chalmers had asked for the reports which he had still not finished. Of course, some of his experiences were months old. . . . His eyes drifted across the room to his wife, Belphebe, seated at a table in the den, busily fletching arrows for her bow, Not everybody. he thought to himself, can be married to a red-haired, freckle-faced huntress. The main problem with being married to a huntress from the woods of Faerie was that she was not too happy with the city life of a modem American psychologist.

  He had solved part of the problem by moving out of his town house in the city. Together, they had picked out a lovely place in the woods at the edge of the city limits. It wasn’t perfect. Their backyard was a giant cornfield, But oaks and maples bordered them on both sides.

  Harold and Belphebe had made a pact: if it wasn’t raining and the babysitter was available, they would sleep outside in the trees on even dates. Otherwise, she would join him in the bedroom. He looked out the window into the gray drizzle and smiled. It had rained every day since they moved in.

  He stared down at the page in his typewriter, and his mind drifted back to mythological Ireland and his adventure with the Sidhe of Connacht. Harold’s conversations with the Druid Miach in Tir na n-Og, in mythical Ireland had seemed to explain a lot.

  The old man had, in effect, said that it was not possible to be released from a world without doing something to alter the pattern of that world. It appeared to be Harold Shea’s personal geas. Was it his own? Or had it applied to all of those from the Institute who had traveled to another continuum? He made a mental note to discuss this concept with Doc Chalmers.

  The clock in the hall chimed six, and Shea was startled to see Belphebe standing before him.

  “Harold, darling, is it not time we were leaving for this place you call the theater? Sir Reed and Lady Florimel will be awaiting.”

  “What . . . ? Oh, of course, dear,” answered Shea. “Just give me a minute to change. Is the sitter here? You are going to wear the long green dress, aren’t you?”

  “Voglinda is in her care, and I shall wear the dress if you insist,” his wife said reluctantly.

  “I insist!” After he had lost her favorite dress in the frozen wastes of the Finnish Kalevala, Belphebe had accepted his gifts of twentieth-century clothing only with persuasion. Tonight was a special occasion — the psychologists had been given complimentary tickets to a Shakespeare festival and Shea had picked out a lovely formal dress and matching high-heeled shoes for his wife.

  “Then I drive!” she stated flatly.

  He hesitated, “Uh . . . yes, dearest,” Belphebe at the wheel of their Chevrolet was something that required nerves of steel. But she had agreed to wear the dress.

  * * *

  They arrived at the theater intact. At no time was Shea ever in fear for his life; the lightning reflexes of his wife served her well on the streets of the city, though the driver of the Ford they passed on the hill would probably never be the same again.

  The first act of The Tempest had come to an end, and now Harold stood in the crowded lobby talking to Reed Chalmers.

  “Y’know, I hadn’t really thought much about it before, but the world described in this play looks like a target for our explorations.”

  Chalmers frowned. “If it were based more on myth and legend. I should agree with you, but I do not believe it to be a systematic attainable universe. Shakespeare drew his material from a confusion of Greek and Roman mythology, sixteenth-century Italian pastoral drama, and God only knows what else.”

  “Think a minute, Doc! Spenser’s Faerie Queene is the same sort of thing. It was based on Ariosto’s Orlando Furioso, and we managed to travel to both places.” Shea sensed that he had won his point and smiled. “A trip to Prospero’s magical island shouldn’t be difficult. It may be a Shakespearean romance, but it describes a valid parallel universe.”

  A worried expression came to Chalmers’ face as he glanced furtively from side to side. “That, I fear, is exactly what worries me, Harold. In spite of my protestations, I’m sure it would be possible. Ever since the Furioso, Vaclav’s been dropping little hints. I think he might be up to something. Did
you notice what he’s wearing tonight?”

  “Is he here?” asked Shea.

  “Indeed! Sitting two rows behind you. He looks like . . . uh . . . a fourteenth-century Italian courtier. We must have a talk with him.”

  Shea nodded in agreement.

  Polacek had found his dream girl in the world of Orlando Furioso, all right. True to form, however, the Czech had found two of them. And one of them had a jealous innkeeper for a husband.

  Just then the lights dimmed, and Florimel and Belphebe appeared before them, stunning in their strapless gowns. The matter of Vaclav Polacek and his medieval garb would have to wait.

  When they had reached their seats, Shea turned to look at the audience. Almost directly behind him, dressed in a gaudy orange silk jacket with puffy brown shoulder pads, sat the Czech. Vaclav noticed him, nodded, and smiled. Harold was not sure he liked that smile.

  The play resumed, and Shea allowed himself to become immersed in the trials and tribulations of the shipwrecked king of Naples. Alonso was just saying “Prithee peace” for the second time, when the hairs on the back of Shea’s neck began to tingle.

  Belphebe tugged at his arm and whispered, “My, how this play doth excite me.”

  Harold began to worry. The play wasn’t that exciting, and he had felt this way before . . . Vaclav! Shea craned his neck to get a look at Polacek, but even as he turned, the crowd around him began to fade to a foggy gray. Desperately, he grabbed Belphebe’s hand and —

  Pmf!

  Harold and Belphebe plopped to the ground in a field of green grass.

  “Oof!” remarked Belphebe. Shea looked around. They were in a broad green field surrounded by low, tree-covered hills. A fresh breeze whispered past. He shook his head in disbelief. The characters had just been talking about this place in the play.

  “Shea! Belphebe!” a distressed voice cried out behind them, “what are you guys doing here? I — I had no idea . . .”

  Harold climbed to his feet. There, sprawled in the grass, was Vaclav Polacek in his ludicrous costume.