His Share of Glory The Complete Short Science Fiction

by C. M. Kornbluth

  "What?" demanded Peter indignantly.

  "Usual arrangement. Are you coming or aren't you?"

  "Of course—but it seems strange," complained Peter climbing into the engine. Hugo climbed up into the coal car and curled up emitting short smoky bursts of flame which caused the stranger to keep glancing at him in fear for his fuel.

  "What's in the rest of the train?" asked Peter.

  "Freight. This is the through cannonball to Mal-Tava. I have a special shipment for Almarish. Books and things, furniture, a few cases of liquor—you know?"

  "Yes. Any other passengers?"

  "Not this month. I haven't much trouble with them. They're usually knights and things out to kill sorcerers like Almarish. They take their horses along or send them ahead by carpet. Do you plan to kill Almarish?"

  Peter choked. "Yes," he finally said. "What's it to you?"

  "Nothing—I take your money and leave you where you want to go. A tradesman can't afford opinions. Let's get up some steam, eh?"

  Amateurishly Peter shoveled coal into the little furnace while the stranger in the black cloak juggled with steam-valves and levers. "Don't be worried," he advised Peter. "You'll get the hang of things after a while." He glanced at a watch. "Here we go," he said, yanking the whistle-cord.

  The train started off into its tunnel, sliding smoothly and almost silently along, the only noise being from the driving rods. "Why doesn't it clack against the rails?" asked Peter.

  "Levitation. Didn't you notice? We're an inch off the track. Simple, really."

  "Then why have a track?" asked Peter.

  The stranger smiled and said, "Without—" then stopped abruptly and looked concerned and baffled. And that was all the answer Peter got.

  "Wake up," shouted the stranger nudging Peter. "We're in the war zone!"

  "Zasso?" asked Peter, blinking. He had been napping after hours of steady travel. "What war zone?"

  "Trolls—you know."

  "No, I don't!" snapped Peter. "What side are we on?"

  "Depends on who stops us," said the stranger, speeding the engine.

  They were out of the tunnel now, Peter saw, speeding along a couple of inches above the floor of an immense dim cave. Ahead the glittering double strand of the track stretched into the distance.

  "Oh—oh!" muttered the cloaked stranger. "Trouble ahead!" Peter saw a vague, stirring crowd before them. "Those trolls?" he asked.

  "Yep," answered the engineer resignedly, slowing the train. "What do you want?" he asked a solid looking little man in a ragged uniform. "To get the hell out of here," said the little man. He was about three feet tall, Peter saw. "What happened?" he asked.

  "The lousy Insurgents licked us," said the troll. "Will you let us on the train before they cut us down?"

  "First," said the engineer methodically, "there isn't room. Second, I have to keep friends with the party in power. Third, you know very well that you can't be killed."

  "What if we are immortal?" asked the troll. "Would you like to live forever scattered in little pieces?"

  "Second," said Peter abruptly, "you get out of it as best you can." He was speaking to the engineer. "And first, you can dump all the freight you have for Almarish. He won't want it anyway when I'm through with him." "That right?" asked the troll.

  "Not by me!" exploded the engineer. "Now get your gang off the track before I plough them under!"

  "Hugo," whispered Peter. With a lazy growl the bandur scorched the nape of the engineer's head.

  "All right," said the engineer. "All right. Use force—all right." Then, to the leader of the trolls, "You tell your men they can unload the freight and get as comfortable as they can."

  "Wait!" said Peter. "Inasmuch as I got you out of this scrape—I think—

  would you be willing to help me out in a little affair of honor with Almarish?"

  "Sure!" said the troll. "Anything at all. You know, for a surface-dweller you're not half bad!" With which he began to spread the good news among his army.

  Later, when they were all together in the cab, taking turns with the shovel, the troll introduced himself as General Skaldberg of the Third Loyalist Army.

  Speeding ahead again at full speed the end of the cavern was in sight when another swarm of trolls blocked the path. "Go through them!"

  ordered Peter coldly.

  "For pity's sake," pleaded the stranger. "Think of what this will do to my franchise!"

  "That's your worry," said the General. "You fix it up with the Insurgents.

  We gave you the franchise anyway—they have no right of search."

  "Maybe," muttered the engineer. He closed his eyes as they went slapping into the band of trolls under full steam. When it was all over and they were again tearing through the tunnel he looked up. "How many?" he asked brokenly.

  "Only three," said the general regretfully. "Why didn't you do a good job while you were at it?"

  "You should have had your men fire from the freight-cars," said the engineer coldly.

  "Too bad I didn't think of it. Could you turn back and take them in a surprise attack?"

  The engineer cursed violently, giving no direct answer. But for the next half hour he muttered to himself distraitly, groaning "Franchise!" over and over again.

  "How much farther before we get to Mal-Tava?" asked Peter glumly.

  "Very soon now," said the troll. "I was there once. Very broken terrain—

  fine for guerilla work."

  "Got any ideas on how to handle the business of Almarish?"

  The general scratched his head. "As I remember it," he said slowly, "it's a funny tactical problem—practically no fortifications within the citadel—everything lumped outside in a wall of steel. Of course Almarish probably has a lot on the ball personally. All kinds' of direct magic at his fingertips. And that's where I get off with my men. We trolls don't even pretend to know the fine points of thaumaturgy.

  Mostly straight military stuff with us."

  "So I have to face him alone?"

  "More or less," said the general. "I have a couple of guys that majored in Military Divination at Ellil Tech Prep. They can probably give you a complete layout of the citadel, but they won't be responsible for illusions, multiplex apparitions or anything else Almarish might decide to throw in the way. My personal advice to you is—be skeptical."

  "Yes?" asked Peter miserably.

  "Exactly," said Skaldberg. "The real difficulty in handling arcane warfare is in knowing what's there and what ain't. Have you any way of sneaking in a confederate? Not a spy, exactly—we military men don't approve of spying—but a sort of—ah—one-man intelligence unit."

  "I have already," said Peter diffidently. "She's a sorceress, but not much good I think. Has a blast-finger, though."

  "Very good," grunted Skaldberg. "Very good indeed. How we could have used her against the Insurgents! The hounds had us in a sort of peninsular spot—with only one weak line of supply and communication between us and the main force —and I was holding a hill against a grand piquet of flying carpets that were hurling thunderbolts at our munitions supply. But their sights were away off and they only got a few of our snipers. What a blast-finger would have done to those bloody carpets!"

  The engineer showed signs of interest. "You're right!" he snapped.

  "Blow 'em out of the sky—menace to life and limb! I have a bill pending at the All Ellil Conference on Communication and Transportation—

  would you be interested?"

  "No," grunted the general. The engineer, swishing his long black cloak, returned to his throttle muttering about injunctions and fair play.

  V

  "Easy, now!" whispered the general.

  "Yessir," answered a troll going through obvious mental strain while his hand, seemingly of its own volition, scrawled lines and symbols on a sheet of paper. Peter was watching, fascinated and mystified, as the specialist in military divination was doing his stuff.

  "There!" said the troll, relaxing. He looked a
t the paper curiously and signed it: "Borgenssen, Capt."

  "Well?" asked General Skaldberg. "What was it like?"

  The Captain groaned. "You should see for yourself, sir!" he said despondently. "Their air-force is flying dragons and their infantry's a kind of Kraken squad. What they're doing out of water I don't know."

  "Okay," said the general. He studied the drawing. "How about their mobility?"

  "They haven't got any and they don't need any," complained the diviner.

  "They just sit there waiting for you—in a solid ring. And the air force has a couple of auxiliary rocs that pick up the Krakens and drop them behind your forces. Pincher stuff—very bad."

  "I'll be the judge of that!" said the general. The captain saluted and stumbled out of the little cave which the general had chosen to designate as GHQ. His men were bivouacked on the bare rock outside.

  Volcanoes rumbled and spat in the distance. There came one rolling crash that set Peter's hair on end.

  "Think that was for us?" he asked nervously.

  "Nope—I picked this spot for lava drainage. I have a hundred men erecting a shut-off at the only exposed point. We'll be safe enough." He turned again to the map, frowning. "This is our real worry—what I call impregnable, or damn near it. If we could get them to attack us—but those rocs smash anything along that line. We'd be cut off like a rosebud. And with our short munitions we can't afford to be discovered and surrounded. Ugh! What a spot for an army man to find himself in!"

  A brassy female voice asked, "Somep'n bodderin' you, shorty?" The general spun around in a fine purple rage. Peter looked in horror and astonishment on the immodest form of a woman who had entered the cave entirely unperceived— presumably by some occult means. She was a slutty creature, her hair dyed a vivid red and her satin skirt an inch or two above the knee. She was violently made up with flame-colored rouge, lipstick and even eye-shadow.

  "Well," she complained stridently, puffing on a red cigaret, "wadda you joiks gawkin' at? Aincha nevva seen a lady befaw?"

  "Madam," began the general, outraged. "Can dat," she advised him easily. "I hoid youse guys chewin' da fat. I wanna help youse out." She seated herself on an outcropping of rock and adjusted her skirt upward.

  "I concede that women," spluttered the general, "have their place in activities of the military—but that place has little or nothing to do with warfare as such! I demand that you make yourself known—where did you come from?"

  "Weh did I come from?" she asked mockingly. "Weh, he wansa know.

  Lookit dat!" She pointed one of her bright-glazed fingernails at the rocky floor of the cave, which grew liquid in a moment, glowing cherry-red. She leered at the two and spat at the floor. It grew cold in another moment. "Don't dat mean dothin' to youse?" she asked.

  The general stared at the floor. "You must be a volcano nymph."

  "Good fa you, shorty!" she sneered. "I represent da goils from Local toity-tree. In brief, chums, our demands are dese: one, dat youse clear away from our union hall pronto; two, dat youse hang around in easy reach—in case we want youse fa poiposes of our own. In return fa dese demands we—dats me an' de goils—will help youse guys out against Almarish. Dat lousy fink don't give his hands time off no more. Dis place might as well be a desert fa all de men around. Get me?" "These—ah—

  purposes of your own in clause two," said the general hesitantly. "What would they be?"

  She smiled and half-closed her eyes. "Escort soivice, ya might call it, cap."

  The general stared, too horrified even to resent being called "cap."

  "Well?" demanded the nymph. "Well—yes," said the general. "Okay, shorty," she said, crushing out her cigaret against her palm. "Da goils'l be aroun' at dawn fa de attack. I'll try to keep 'em off yer army until de battle's over. So long!" She sank into the earth, leaving behind only a smell of fleur-de-floozy perfume.

  "God!" whispered General Skaldberg. "The things I do for the army!"

  In irregular open formation the trolls advanced, followed closely by the jeering mob of volcano nymphs.

  "How about it, General?" asked Peter. He and the old soldier were surveying the field of battle from a hill in advance of their forces; the hideous octopoid forms of the defenders of Almarish could be plainly seen, lumbering onward to meet the trolls with a peculiar sucking gait.

  "Any minute now—any second," said Skaldberg. Then, "Here it comes!"

  The farthest advanced of the trolls had met with the first of the Krakens. The creature lashed out viciously; Peter saw that its tentacles had been fitted with studded bands and other murderous devices. The troll dodged nimbly and pulled an invincible sword on the octopoid myth. They mixed it; when the struggle went behind an outcropping of rock the troll was in the lead, unharmed, while the slow-moving Kraken was leaking thinly from a score of punctures.

  "The dragons," said Peter, pointing. "Here they are." In V formation the monsters were landing on a far end of the battlefield, then coming at a scrabbling run.

  "If they make it quicker than the nymphs—" breathed the general. Then he sighed relievedly. They had not. The carnage among the dragons was almost funny; at will the nymphs lifted them high in the air on jets of steam and squirted melted rock in their eyes. Squalling in terror the dragons flapped into the air and lumbered off Southward.

  "That's ocean," grinned the general. "They'll never come back—trying to find new homes, I suspect."

  In an incredibly short time the field was littered with the flopping chunks that had been hewed from the Krakens. Living still they were, but powerless. The general shook his hand warmly. "You're on your own now," he said. "Good luck, boy. For a civilian you're not a bad egg at all."

  He walked away.

  Glumly Peter surveyed the colossal fortress of Almarish. He walked aimlessly up to its gate, a huge thing of bronze and silver, and pulled at the silken cord hanging there. A gong sounded and the door swung open. Peter advanced hopelessly in a sort of audience chamber. "So!"

  thundered a mighty voice.

  "So what?" asked Peter despondently. He saw on a throne high above him an imposing figure. "You Almarish?" he asked listlessly.

  "I am. And who are you?"

  "It doesn't matter. I'm Peter Packer of Braintree, Mass. I don't even expect you to believe me. The throne lowered slowly and jerkily, as if on hydraulic pumps. The wizard descended and approached Peter. He was a man of about forty, with a full brown beard reaching almost to his belt.

  "Why," asked the sorcerer, "have you come bearing arms?"

  "It's the only way I could come," said Peter. "Let me first congratulate you on an efficient, well-oiled set of political machinery. Not even back in the United States have I seen graft carried to such a high degree.

  Secondly, your choice of assistants is an eye-opener. Your Mr. Pike is the neatest henchman I've ever seen. Thirdly, produce the person of Miss Melicent or I'll have to use force."

  "Is that so?" rumbled Almarish. "Young puppy! I'd like to see you try it.

  Wrestle with me—two falls out of three. I dare you!"

  Peter took off his coat of blue serge. "I never passed up a dare yet," he said. "How about a mat?"

  "Think I'm a sissy?" the sorcerer jeered.

  Peter was stripped for action. "Okay," he said. Slowly Almarish advanced on him, grappling for a hold. Peter let him take his forearm, then shifted his weight so as to hurl the magician over his shoulder. A moment later Peter was astonished to find himself on the floor underneath the wizard. "Haw!" grunted Almarish, rising. "You still game?" He braced himself. "Yep!" snapped Peter. He hurled himself in a flying tackle that began ten feet away from the wizard and ended in a bone-crushing grip about the knees. Peter swarmed up his trunk and cruelly twisted an arm across his chest. The magician yelped in sudden agony, and let himself fall against the floor. Peter rose, grinning. "One all," he said cheerfully.

  Almarish grappled for the third fall; Peter cagily backed away. The wizard hurled himself in a bruising body-block ag
ainst Peter, battering him off his feet and falling on the young man. Instinctively Peter bridged his body, arcing it off the floor. Almarish, grunting fiercely, gripped his arm and turned it slowly, as though he were winding a clock. Peter snapped over, rolling on the wizard's own body as a fulcrum. He had his toe in his hand, and closed his fist with every ounce of muscle he had. The sorcerer screamed and fell over on his face. Peter jammed his knee in the wizard's inside socket and bore down terribly.

  He could feel the bones bend in his grip.

  "Enough!" gasped the wizard. Peter let him loose.

  "You made it," said Almarish. "Two out of three."

  Peter studied his face curiously. Take off that beard and you had—

  "You said it, Grandfather Packer," said Peter, grinning.

  Almarish groaned. "It's a wise child that knows its own father—

  grandfather, in this case," he said. "How could you tell?"

  "Everything just clicked," said Peter simply. "You disappearing—that clock—somebody applying American methods in Ellil—and then I shaved you mentally and there you were. Simple?"

  "Sure is. But how do you think I made out here, boy?"

  "Shamefully. That kind of thing isn't tolerated any more. It's gangsterism—you'll have to cut it out, gramp."

  "Gangsterism be damned!" snorted the wizard. "It's business. Business and common sense."

  "Business maybe, certainly not common sense. My boys wiped out your guard and I might have wiped out you if I had magic stronger than yours."

  Grandfather Packer chuckled in glee. "Magic? I'll begin at the beginning. When I got that dad-blamed clock back in '63 I dropped right into Ellil—onto the head of an assassin who was going for a real magician. Getting the set-up I pinned the killer with a half-nelson and the magician dispatched him. Then he got grateful, said he was retiring from public life and gave me a kind of token, good for any three wishes.

  "So I took it, thanking him kindly, and wished for a palace and bunch of gutty retainers. It was in my mind to run Ellil like a business, and I did it the only way I knew how—force. And from that day to this I used only one wish and I haven't a dab of magic more than that!"