The 34th Golden Age of Science Fiction: C.M. Kornbluth

by C. M. Kornbluth

  Packer winced. “Yes,” he said. “What are the tests?”

  “The usual,” she smiled. “Rosemary and garlic, crucifixes and the secret name of Jehovah. If you get through those you’re okay.”

  “Then get on with it,” the man said confusedly.

  “Hold these.” She passed him a flowery sprig and a clove of garlic. He took them, one in each hand.

  “All right?” he asked.

  “Oh, those, yes. Now take the cross and read this name. You can put the vegetables down now.”

  He followed instructions, stammering over the harsh Hebrew word.

  In a cold fury the girl sprang to her feet and leveled her left index finger at him. “Clever,” she blazed. “But you can’t get away with it! I’ll blow you so wide open—”

  “Wait,” he pleaded. “What did I do?” The girl, though sweet-looking, seemed to be absolutely irresponsible.

  “Mispronounced the name,” she snapped. “Because you can’t say it straight without crumbling into dust!”

  He looked at the paper again, and read aloud, slowly and carefully. “Was that right?” he asked.

  Crestfallen, the girl sat down. “Yes,” she said. “I’m sorry. You seem to be okay. A real human. Now what do you want to know?”

  “Well—who are you?”

  “My name’s Millicent.” She smiled deprecatingly. “I’m a—sort of a sorceress.”

  “I can believe that,” grunted the man. “Now, why should you take me for a demon, or whatever you thought I was?”

  “Doppelgaenger,” she corrected him. “I was sure—well, I’d better begin at the beginning.

  “You see, I haven’t been a sorceress very long—only two years. My mother was a witch—a real one, and pretty first class. I’ve heard it said that she brewed the neatest spells in Ellil. All I know I learned from her—never studied it formally. My mother didn’t die a natural sort of death, you see. Almarish got her.”

  “Who’s Almarish?”

  She wrinkled her mouth with disgust. “That thug!” she spat. “He and his gang of half-breed demons are out to get control of Ellil. My mother wouldn’t stand for it—she told him so, right out flat over a multiplex apparition. And after that he was gunning for her steadily—no letup at all. And believe me, there are mighty few witches who can stand up under much of that, but Mother stood him off for fifteen years. They got my father—he wasn’t much good—a little while after I was born. Vampires.

  “Mother got caught alone in the woods one morning without her tools—unguents, staffs and things—by a whole flock of golems and zombies.” The girl shuddered. “Some of them—well, Mother finished about half before they overwhelmed her and got a stake of myrtle through her heart. That finished her—she lost all her magic, of course, and Almarish sent an ordinary plague of ants against her. Adding insult to injury, I call it!” There were real tears of rage in her eyes.

  “And what’s this Almarish doing now?” asked Peter, fascinated.

  Millicent shrugged. “He’s after me,” she said simply. “The bandur you killed was one of my watchdogs. And I thought he’d sent you. I’m sorry.”

  “I see,” breathed the man slowly. “What powers has he?”

  “The usual, I suppose. But he has no principles about using them. And he has his gang—I can’t afford real retainers. Of course I whip up some simulacra whenever I hold a reception or anything of that sort. Just images to serve and take wraps. They can’t fight.”

  Peter tightened his jaw. “You must be in a pretty bad way,” he volunteered diffidently.

  The girl looked him full in the eye, her lip trembling. She choked out, “I’m in such a hell of a spot!” and then the gates opened and she was weeping as if her heart would break.

  The man stared frozenly, wondering how he could comfort a despondent sorceress. “There, there,” he said tentatively.

  She wiped her eyes and looked at him. “I’m sorry,” she said, sniffling. “But it’s seeing a fairly friendly face again after all these years—no callers but leprechauns and things. You don’t know what it’s like.”

  “I wonder,” said Peter, “how you’d like to live in Braintree.”

  “I don’t know,” she said brightly. “But how could I get there?”

  “There should be at least one way,” reflected the man.

  “But why—What was that?” shot out the girl, snatching up a wand.

  “Knock on the door,” said Peter. “Shall I open it?”

  “Please,” said Millicent nervously, holding up the slender staff.

  The man stood aside and swung the door wide. In walked a curious person of mottled red and white coloring. One eye was small and blue, the other large and savagely red. His teeth were quite normal—except that the four canines protruded two inches each out of his mouth. He walked with a limp; one shoe seemed curiously small. And there was a sort of bulge in the trousers that he wore beneath his formal morning coat.

  “May I introduce myself?” said this individual, removing his sleek black topper. “I am Balthazar Pike. You must be Miss Millicent? And this—ah—zombie?” He indicated Peter with a dirty leer.

  “Mr. Packer, Mr. Pike,” said the girl.

  Peter simply stared in horror while the creature murmured, “Enchanted.”

  Millicent drew herself up proudly. “And this, I suppose,” she said, “is the end?”

  “I fear so, Miss Millicent,” said the creature regretfully. “I have my orders. Your house has been surrounded by picked forces; any attempt to use your blast finger or any other weapon of offense will be construed as resistance. Under the laws of civilized warfare we are empowered to reduce you to ashes should such resistance be forthcoming. May I have your reply?”

  The girl surveyed him haughtily, then, with a lightning-like sweep of her wand, seemed to blot out every light in the room. Peter heard her agitated voice. “We’re in a neutral screen, Mr. Packer. I won’t be able to keep it up for long. Listen! That was one of Almarish’s stinkers—the big cheese. He didn’t expect any trouble from me. He’ll take me captive as soon as they break the screen down. Do you want to help me?”

  “Of course!” exploded the man.

  “Good. Then you find the third oak from the front door on the left and walk widdershins three times. You’ll find out what to do from them.”

  “Walk how?” asked Peter.

  “Widdershins—counterclockwise. Lord, you’re dumb!”

  Then the lights seemed to go on again, and Peter saw that the room was filled with the half-breed creatures. With an expression of injured dignity, the formally attired Balthazar Pike asked, “Are you ready to leave now, Miss Millicent? Quite ready?”

  “Thank you, General, yes,” said the girl coldly. Two of the creatures took her arms and walked her from the room. Peter saw that as they stepped over the threshhold they vanished, all three.

  The last to leave was Pike, who turned and said to the man, “I must remind you, Mister—er—ah—that you are trespassing. This property now belongs to the Almarish Realty Corporation. All offenders will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. Good day, Mister—er—ah—” With which he stepped over the doorsill and vanished.

  Hastily Peter followed him across the line, but found himself alone outside the house. For which he was grateful. “Third oak left from the door,” he repeated. Simple enough. Feeling foolish, he walked widdershins three times around and stopped dead, waiting for something.

  What a sweet, brave kid she had been! He hoped nothing would really happen to her—before he got there.

  He felt a sort of tugging at his serge trousers and stepped back in alarm. “Well?” shrilled a small voice. Peter looked down and winced. The dirtiest, most bedraggled little creature he had ever seen was regarding him with tiny, sharp eyes. There were others, too, squatting on pebbles and toadstools.r />
  “Miss Millicent told me to ask you what I should do,” said Peter. As the little leader of the troop glared at him he added hastily, “If you please.”

  “Likely tale,” piped the voice of the creature. “What’s in it for us?”

  “I dunno,” said the man, bewildered. “What do you want?”

  “Green cloth,” the creature answered promptly. “Lots of it. And if you have any small brass buttons, them, too.”

  Peter hastily conducted an inventory of his person. “I’m sorry,” he said hesitantly. “I haven’t any green. How about blue? I can spare my vest.” He carefully lowered the garment to the ground among the little people.

  “Looks all right,” said the leader. “Jake!” One of the creatures advanced and fingered the cloth. “Hmm—” he said. “Good material.” Then there was a whispered consultation with the leader, who at last shouted up to Peter, “Head east for water. You can’t miss it!”

  “Hey!” said Peter, blinking. But they were already gone. And though he widdershin-walked for the next half hour, and even tried a few incantations remembered from his childhood, they did not come back—nor did his vest.

  So, with his back to the sinking sun, he headed east for water.

  3

  The sign said: MAHOORA CITY LIMITS.

  Peter scratched his head and passed it. He had hit the stretch of highway a few miles back, once he had got out of the forest, and it seemed to be leading straight into a city of some kind. There was a glow ahead in the sky—a glow which abruptly became a glare.

  “Jeepers!” the man gasped. “Buildings—skyscrapers!” Before him reared a sort of triple Wall Street with which were combined the most spectacular features of Rockefeller Center. In the sudden way in which things happened in Ellil, he turned a sort of blind corner in the road and found himself in the thick of it.

  A taxi roared past him; with a muttered imprecation he jumped out of the way. The bustling people on the sidewalks ignored him completely. It was about six o’clock; they were probably going home from their offices. There were all sorts of people—women and girls, plain and pretty, men and boys, slim, fat, healthy and dissipated. And there, Peter saw striding along in lordly indifference, was a cop.

  “Excuse me,” said Peter, elbowing his way through the crowd to the member of Mahoora’s finest. “Can you tell me where I can find water?” That was, he realized, putting it a bit crudely. But he was hopelessly confused by the traffic and swarms of pedestrians.

  The cop turned on him with a glassy stare. “Water?” he rumbled. “Would yez be wantin’ tap, ditch, fire—or cologne?”

  The man hesitated. He didn’t know, he realized in a sudden panic. The elves, or whatever they had been, hadn’t specified. Cagily he raised his hand to his brow and muttered, “’Scuse me—previous engagement—made the appointment for today—just forgot—” He was edging away from the cop when he felt a hand on his arm.

  “What was that about water?” asked the cop hoarsely, putting his face near Peter’s.

  Desperately the man blurted, “The water I have to find to lick Almarish!” Who could tell? Maybe the cop would help him.

  “What?” thundered M.P.D. Shield No. 2435957607. “And me a loyal supporter of the Mayor Almarish Freedom, Peace and Progress Reform Administration?” He frowned. “You look subversive to me—come on!” He raised his nightstick suggestively, and Peter meekly followed him through the crowds.

  * * * *

  “How’d they get you in here?” asked Peter’s cellmate.

  Peter inspected him. He was a short, dark sort of person with a pair of disconcertingly bright eyes. “Suspicion,” said Peter evasively. “How about you?”

  “Practicing mancy without a license, theoretically. Actually because I tried to buck the Almarish machine. You know how it is.”

  “Can’t say I do,” answered Peter. “I’m a stranger here.”

  “Yeah? Well—like this. Few years ago we had a neat little hamlet here. Mahoora was the biggest little city in these parts of Ellil, though I say it myself. A little industry—magic chalices for export, sandals of swiftness, invisibility cloaks, invincible weapons—you know?”

  “Um,” said Peter noncommittally.

  “Well, I had a factory—modest little chemical works. We turned out love philters from my own prescription. It’s what I call a neat dodge—eliminates the balneum mariae entirely from the processing, cuts down drying time—maybe you aren’t familiar with the latest things in the line?”

  “Sorry, no.”

  “Oh—well, then, in came these plugs of Almarish’s. Flying goon squads that wrecked plants and shops on order, labor spies, provocateurs, everything. Soon they’d run out every racketeer in the place and hijacked them lock, stock and barrel. Then they went into politics. There was a little scandal about buying votes with fairy gold—people kicked when it turned into ashes. But they smoothed that over when they got in.

  “And then—! Graft right and left, patronage, unemployment, rotten-food scandals, bribery, inefficiency—everything that’s on the list. And this is their fifth term. How do you like that?”

  “Lord,” said Peter, shocked. “But how do they stay in office?”

  “Oh,” grinned his friend. “The first thing they did was to run up some pretty imposing public works—tall buildings, bridges, highways and monuments. Then they let it out that they were partly made of half-stuff. You know what that is?”

  “No,” said Peter. “What is it?”

  “Well—it’s a little hard to describe. But it isn’t really there and it isn’t really not there. You can walk on it and pick it up and things, but—well, it’s a little hard to describe. The kicker is this: half-stuff is there only as long as you—the one who prepared a batch of it, that is—keep the formula going. So if we voted those leeches out of office they’d relax their formula and the half-stuff would vanish and the rest of the buildings and bridges and highways and monuments would fall with a helluva noise and damage. How do you like that?”

  “Efficiency plus,” said Peter. “Where’s this Almarish hang out?”

  “The mayor?” asked his cellmate sourly. “You don’t think he’d be seen in the city, do you? Some disgruntled citizen might sic a flock of vampires on His Honor. He was elected in absentia. I hear he lives around Mal-Tava way.”

  “Where’s that?” asked Peter eagerly.

  “You don’t know? Say, you’re as green as they come! That’s a pretty nasty corner of Ellil—the nastiest anywhere, I guess. It’s a volcanic region, and those lava nymphs are pretty tough molls. Then there’s a dragon ranch down there. The owner got careless and showed up missing one day. The dragons broke out and ran wild; they’re the killingest you could hope to see. Anything else?”

  “No,” said Peter, heavyhearted. “I guess not.”

  “That’s good. Because I think we’re going to trial right now.”

  A guard was opening the door, club poised. “His Honor, Judge Balthazar Pike, will see you now,” said the warden. Peter groaned.

  The half-breed demon, his sartorial splendor of the preceding afternoon replaced by judiciary black silk, smiled grimly on the two prisoners. “Mr. Morden,” he said, indicating the erstwhile love-philter manufacturer, “and Mister—er—ah—?”

  “Packer!” exploded the man. “What are you doing here?”

  “Haw!” laughed the judge. “That’s what I was going to ask you. But first we have this matter of Mr. Morden to dispose of. Excuse me a moment? Clerk, read the charges.”

  A cowed-looking little man picked an index card from a stack and read, “Whereas Mr. Percival Morden of Mahoora has been apprehended in the act of practicing mancy and whereas this Mr. Morden does not possess an approved license for such practice it is directed that His Honor Chief Judge Balthazar Pike declare him guilty of the practice of mancy without a license. Signed, Mayo
r Almarish. Vote straight Freedom Peace and Progress Reform Party for a clean and efficient administration.” He paused for a moment and looked timidly at the judge, who was cleaning his talons. “That’s it, Your Honor,” he said.

  “Oh—thank you. Now, Morden—guilty or not guilty?”

  “What’s the difference?” asked the manufacturer sourly. “Not guilty, I guess.”

  “Thank you.” The judge took a coin from his pocket. “Heads or tails?” he asked.

  “Tails,” answered Morden. Then, aside to Peter, “It’s magic, of course. You can’t win.”

  The half-breed demon spun the coin dexterously on the judicial bench; it wobbled, slowed, and fell with a tinkle. The judge glanced at it. “Sorry, old man,” he said sympathetically. “You seem to be guilty. Imprisonment for life in an oak tree. You’ll find Merlin de Bleys in there with you. You’ll like him, I rather fancy. Next case,” he called sharply as Morden fell through a trapdoor in the floor.

  Peter advanced before the bar of justice. “Can’t we reason this thing out?” he asked agitatedly. “I mean, I’m a stranger here and if I’ve done anything I’m sorry—”

  “Tut!” exclaimed the demon. He had torn the cuticle of his left index talon, and it was bleeding. He stanched the green liquid with a handkerchief and looked down at the man. “Done anything?” he asked mildly. “Oh—dear me, no! Except for a few trifles like felonious impediment of an officer in the course of his duty, indecent display, seditious publication, high treason and unlawful possession of military and naval secrets—done anything?” His two odd eyes looked reproachfully down on the man.

  Peter felt something flimsy in his hand. Covertly he looked down and saw a slip of blue paper on which was written in green ink: This is Hugo, my other watchdog. Feed him once a day on green vegetables. He does not like tobacco. In haste, Millicent.

  There was a stir in the back of the courtroom, and Peter turned to see one of the fire-breathing horrors which had first attacked him in the forest tearing down the aisle, lashing out to right and left, incinerating a troop of officers with one blast of its terrible breath. Balthazar Pike was crawling around under his desk, bawling for more police.