His Share of Glory The Complete Short Science Fiction

by C. M. Kornbluth

  "And what's this Almarish doing now?" Peter was fascinated.

  Melicent 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," he breathed 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 bad way." 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. He stood 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 sniffing.

  "But it's seeing a 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."

  "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 Melicent nervously, holding up the slender staff. He 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 the individual, removing his sleek black topper. "I am Balthazar Pike. You must be Miss Melicent? And this—

  ah—zombie?" He indicated Peter with a leer.

  "Mr. Packer, Mr. Pike," said the girl. Peter stared in horror while the creature murmured, "Enchanted."

  Melicent drew herself up proudly. "And this, I suppose," she said, "is the end?"

  "I fear so, Miss Melicent," 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 lighting-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—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!"

  "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 Melicent? 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 threshold 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 door and vanished.

  Hastily Peter followed him across the line, but found himself alone outside the house. For which he was grateful. "Third oak from the left 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.

  "Miss Melicent 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," he said 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 on 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.

  III

  "Mahoora City Limits," said the sign. 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.

  Peter 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 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. They were all sorts of people—women and girls, plain and pretty, men and boys, slim, fat, healthy and dissipated. And striding along in lordly indifference Peter saw 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?" Peter 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 Peter 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 h
ere?" 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-philtres 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 those plugs of Almarish. Flying goonsquads that wrecked plants and shops on order; 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 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 tough molls. Then there's a dragon-ranch around there. The owner got careless and showed up missing one day. The dragons broke out and ran wild. Anything else?"

  "No," said Peter, heavy-hearted. "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 manufacturer, "and Mr.—er—ah?"

  "Packer!" Peter shouted. "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, Mayor Almarish. Vote straight 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 judical 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, I rather fancy. You'll like him. 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 hopelessly. "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 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, Melicent."

  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.

  Peter cried, "You can add one more—possession of a bandur without a license! Sic 'em, Hugo!" The monster flashed an affectionate look at him and went on with the good work of clearing the court. The man sprang aside as the trapdoor opened beneath his feet and whirled on a cop who was trying to swarm over him. With a quick one-two he laid him out and proceeded to the rear of the courtroom, where Hugo was standing off a section of the fire-department that was trying to extinguish his throat. Peter snatched an axe from one and mowed away heartily. Resistance melted away in a hurry, and Peter pushed the hair out of his eyes to find that they were alone in the court.

  "Come on, boy," he said. Whistling cheerily he left the building, the bandur at his heels, smoking gently. Peter collared a cop—the same one who had first arrested him. "Now," he snarled. "Where do I find water?"

  Stuttering with fright, and with two popping eyes on the bandur, the officer said, "The harbor's two blocks down the street if you mean—"

  "Never mind what I mean!" Luxuriating in his new-found power Peter strode off pugnaciously, Hugo following.

  IV

  "I beg your pardon—are you looking for water?" asked a tall, dark man over Peter's shoulder. Hugo growled and let loose a tongue of flame at the stranger's foot. "Shuddup, Hugo," said Peter. Then, turning to the stranger, "As a matter of fact I was. Do you—?"

  "I heard about you from them," said the stranger. "You know. The little people."

  "Yes," said Peter. "What do I do now?"

  "Underground Railroad," said the stranger. "Built after the best Civil War model. Neat, speedy and efficient. Transportation at half the usual cost. I hope you weren't planning to go by magic carpet?"

  "No," Pet
er assured him hastily. "I never use them."

  "That's great," said the stranger swishing his long black cloak. "Those carpet people—stifling industry. They spread a whispering campaign that our road was unsafe! Can you imagine it?"

  "Unsafe," scoffed Peter. "I'll bet they wish their carpets were half as safe as your railroad!"

  "Well," said the stranger thoughtfully, "perhaps not half as safe …No; I wouldn't say half as safe …" He seemed likely to go on indefinitely; Peter asked, "Where do I get the Underground?"

  "A little East of here," said the stranger. He looked about apprehensively. "We'd better not be seen together," he muttered out of the corner of his mouth. "Meet you over there by the clock-tower—you can get it there."

  "Okay," said Peter. "But why the secrecy?"

  "We're really underground," said the stranger, walking away.

  Peter rejoined him at the corner of the clock-tower; with an elaborate display of unconcern the stranger walked off, Peter following at some distance. Soon they were again in the forest that seemed to border the city of Mahoora. Once they were past the city-limits sign the stranger turned, smiling.

  "I guess we're safe now," he said. "They could try a raid and drag us back across the line, but they wouldn't like to play with your bandur.

  Here's the station."

  He pressed a section of bark on a huge tree; silently it slid open like a door. Peter saw a row of steps leading down into blackness. "Sort of spooky," he said.

  "Not at all! I have the place ghostproofed once a year." The stranger led the way, taking out what looked like a five-branched electric torch.

  "What's that?" asked Peter, fascinated by the weird blue light it shed.

  "Hand of glory," said the stranger casually. Peter looked closer and shuddered, holding his Stomach. Magic, he thought, was all right up to the point where it became grave-robbery.

  They arrived at a neatly tiled station; Peter was surprised to find that the trains were tiny things. The one pulled up on the tracks was not as high as he was. "You'll have to stoke, of course," said the stranger.