His Share of Glory The Complete Short Science Fiction

by C. M. Kornbluth

  "Bring her over," said the president, trying to control his voice.

  Almarish realized that there was something in the combination of endemic desirability and smallness which was irresistible. He didn't know it, but that fact was being demonstrated in his own Braintree, Mass., at that very time by a shop which had abandoned full-sized window dummies and was using gorgeous things a little taller than Moira but scarcely as sexy. In the crowds around their windows there were four men to every woman.

  His Moira pirouetted on the desk top, displaying herself. "And," she said, "for some men I'll do a really extraordinary favor."

  "What's that?" asked Hemming, fighting with himself to keep his hands off her. He was plainly terrified of squashing this gorgeous creature.

  "I could make you," she said, "my size. Only a little taller, of course.

  Women like that."

  "You can?" he asked, his voice breaking. "Then go ahead!"

  "I have your full consent?"

  "Yes," he said. "Full consent."

  "Then—" A smile curved her lips as she swept her hands through the air in juggling little patterns.

  A lizard about ten inches long reared up on its hind legs, then frantically skittered across the tabletop. Almarish looked for Hemming; could not see him anywhere. He picked up Moira. In a sleepy, contented voice she was saying:

  "My size. Only a little taller, of course."

  8

  Back in the tube from which they had been shunted into the Halls of the Eternal Eaters, as the ghouls fancied calling themselves, Almarish couldn't get sense out of Moira. She had fallen asleep in his pocket and was snoring quietly, like a kitten that purred in its sleep.

  And more than ever he marveled at this cold-blooded little creature.

  She had had the routine of seduction and transformation down so pat that he was sure she had done it a hundred times—or a thousand. You couldn't tell ages in any of these unreal places; he, who should be a hundred and eight, looked just thirty-five and felt fifteen years younger than that.

  All the same, it would be a good thing not to give Moira full and clear consent to anything at all. That must be an important part of the ceremony.

  He hoped that the ghouls would straighten themselves out now that their president was a ten-inch lizard. But there were probably twenty villainous vice-presidents, assorted as to size, shape and duties, to fill his place. Maybe they'd get to fighting over it, and the ghouls-in-ordinary would be able to toss them all over.

  Just like Ellil. A good thing he'd gotten out of that.

  Not that he liked this way of traveling, he assured himself. It couldn't be anything half so honest as it seemed—a smooth-lined tube slanting down through solid rock. It was actually, of course, God-knew-what tricky path between the planes of existence. That thirteen-hour clock was one way, this was another, but more versatile.

  Lights ahead again—red lights. He took Moira from his pocket and shook her with incredible delicacy.

  "You ox!" she snapped. "Trying to break my back?"

  "Sorry," he said. "Lights—red ones. What about them?"

  "That's it," she said grimly. "Do you feel like a demigod —particularly?"

  "No," he admitted. "Not—particularly."

  "Then that's too damn bad," she snapped. "Remember, you have a job to do. When you get past the first trials and things, wake me up."

  "Trials?"

  "Yes, always. Egyptian, Greek, Roman, Norse—they all have a Weigher of Souls. It's always the same place, of course, but they like the formality. Now let me sleep."

  He put her back into his pocket and tried to brake with his hands and feet. No go. But soon he began to decelerate. Calling up what little he knew of such things, he tried to draw a desperate analogy between molecules standing radially instead of in line and whatever phenomenon this was which made him—who was actually, he knew, not moving at all—not-move more slowly than before, when he had been standing still at an inconceivably rapid pace.

  The lights flared ahead into a bloody brilliance, and he skidded onto another of the delivery tables of sardonyx. A thing with a hawk face took his arm.

  "Stwm stm!" it said irritably.

  "Velly solly," said the sorcerer. "Me no spik—whatever in Hades you're speaking."

  "R khrt sr tf mtht," it said with a clash of its beak. Almarish drew his invincible dirk, and the thing shrugged disarmingly.

  "Chdl nfr," it grinned, sauntering off.

  A Chinese approached, surveying him. "Sholom aleichim," he greeted Almarish, apparently fooled by the beard.

  "Aleichim sholom," replied the enchanter, "but you've made a mistake."

  "Sorry," said the Chinese. "We'll put you on the calendar at General Sessions. Take him away!" he called sharply.

  Almarish was hustled into a building and up a flight of stairs by two men in shiny blue uniforms before he had a chance to ask what the charge was. He was hustled through a pen, through innumerable corridors, through a sort of chicken-wire cage, and finally into a courtroom.

  "Hurrah!" yelled thousands of voices. Dazedly he looked over a sea of faces, mostly bloodthirsty.

  "Tough crowd," one of the attendants muttered. "We better stick around to take care of you. They like to collect souvenirs. Arms …

  scalps…."

  "See him?" demanded the other attendant, pointing at the judge. "Used to be a Neminant Divine. This is his punishment. This and dyspepsia.

  Chronic."

  Almarish could read the sour lines in the judge's face like a book. And the book looked as though it had an unhappy ending.

  "Prisoner to the bar," wheezed the justice.

  THE COURT: Prisoner, give your name and occupation.

  PRISONER: Which ones, Your Honor? There are so many. (Laughter and hisses.)

  A VOICE: Heretic—burn him!

  THE COURT: Order! Prisoner, give the ones you like best. And remember—We Know All.

  PRISONER: Yes, Your Honor. Packer, ex-overlord of Ellil.

  THE COURT: Read the accusation, clerk.

  CLERK: (several words lost) did willfully conspire to transform said Hemming into a lizard ten inches long. (Laughter in the court.) THE COURT: Poppycock!

  RECORDING CLERK: How do you spell that, Your Honor?

  THE COURT: Silence! I said Poppycock!

  RECORDING CLERK: Thank you, Your Honor.

  PRISONER'S COUNSEL: Your Honor, (several words lost), known (several words lost) childhood (several words lost).

  THE COURT: Prisoner's counsel is very vague.

  PRISONER: My God—is he my lawyer?

  THE COURT: So it would appear.

  PRISONER: But I never saw the man before, and he's obviously drunk, Your Honor!

  THE COURT: Hic! What of it, prisoner?

  PRISONER: Nothing. Nothing at all. Move to proceed.

  PROSECUTING ATT'Y: I object! Your Honor, I object!

  THE COURT: Sustained.

  (A long silence. Hisses and groans.)

  THE COURT: Mr. Prosecutor, you got us into this—what have you to say for yourself?

  PROSECUTING ATT'Y: Your Honor, I—I—I move to proceed.

  PRISONER: It's my turn, Your Honor. I object.

  THE COURT: Overruled.

  (Cheers and whistles.)

  VOICES: Hang him by the thumbs!

  Cut his face off!

  Heretic—burn him!

  THE COURT: I wish it to go on record that I am much gratified by the intelligent interest which the public is taking in this trial.

  (Cheers and whistles.)

  PROSECUTING ATT'Y: Your Honor, I see no need further to dillydally.

  This is a clear-cut case and the state feels no hesitation in demanding that the Court impose maximum penalty under law—which, if I remember aright, is death per flagitionem extremum, peine forte et dure, crucifictio ultimo and inundation sub aqua regia—in that order.

  (Cheers and screams. Wild demonstration.)

  THE COURT: I SO―

/>   A VOICE: Hey, blue-eyes!

  THE COURT: I SO-

  A VOICE (the same): Hey, you, cutie-pants!

  THE COURT: Prisoner.

  PRISONER: Yes, Your Honor?

  THE COURT: Prisoner, are you aware of what you have in your pocket?

  PRISONER: Oh—her. Cute, isn't she?

  THE COURT: Bring it closer. I shall make it Exhibit A.

  A VOICE (the same): Hey—that tickles!

  THE COURT: Exhibit A, have you any testimony to give?

  (Demonstration, mostly whistles.)

  EXHIBIT A: Yes, Your Honor. Take me away from this horrible man! The things he's done to me

  THE COURT: Yes? Yes?

  EXHIBIT A: You can't imagine. But Your Honor, you're not like him. You know, Your Honor, there are some men (rest of testimony lost).

  THE COURT: (comments lost).

  EXHIBIT A: (testimony lost).

  THE COURT: Really! You don't mean it! Well, go ahead.

  EXHIBIT A: Have I your full consent?

  THE COURT: You have—free, clear and legal.

  EXHIBIT A: (gestures with both hands).

  THE COURT: (turns into lizard approx. 10 in. long).

  EXHIBIT A: Come on, whiskers—let's beat it!

  PRISONER: I hear you talkin'!

  PROSECUTING ATT'Y: Go after them, you damfools!

  COURT ATTACHES: Not us, bud. What kind of dopes do we look like to you?

  (Screams, howls, whistles, yells, demonstrations, complete pandemonium.)

  9

  "How will I know," demanded Almarish, "when I'm supposed to turn left?"

  "When the three moons show up as an equilateral triangle," said Moira,

  "will be high time. Now, damn you, let me go to sleep."

  "Why are you always so tired after these little transformation acts of yours?"

  "You, not being a real sorcerer, wouldn't understand. But suffice it to say that any magic-worker would have to do as much. Watch out for ghosts. Good night."

  She was in his pocket again, either purring or snoring. He never could decide which was the right word. And Almarish realized that this little lady had somehow become very dear to him.

  He was walking along a narrow, sullen strip of desert bordered on either side by devil trees that lashed out with poisonous, thorny branches. The things must have had sharp ears, for they would regularly lie in wait for him and lash up as he stepped past. Fortunately, they could not make the extra yard or two of leeway he had.

  Above, the three moons of the present night were shifting in a stately drill, more like dancers than celestial bodies, sometimes drawing near to an equilateral triangle but never quite achieving it. And she had been most specific about it.

  There was still la Bete Joyeux to face, from whose eyes had to be wrung a vial of tears for purpose or purposes unknown to the sorcerer. His French was a little weak, but he surmised that the thing was a happy beast, and that to make it weep would bear looking into. He made a mental note to ask her about it. He was always asking her about things.

  The devil trees were at it again, this time with a new twist. They would snap their tentacles at him like whips, so that one or more of the darts would fly off and whiz past his face. And it was just as well that they did.

  One of those things would drop a rhino in full charge, Moira had told him. Odd name, Moira. Sounded Irish.

  He looked up and drew his breath in sharply. The moons had formed their triangle and held it for a long, long five minutes. Time to turn left.

  The way was blocked, of course, by ill-tempered trees. He drew the invincible dirk, hoping that the trees did not know enough magic to render the thing just an innocent little brand, and deliberately stepped within reach of one of the trees.

  It lashed out beautifully; Almarish did not have to cut at it. The tentacle struck against the blade and lopped itself clean off. The tree uttered a mournful squeal and tried to find and haul in the severed tentacle with the others. They had a way of sticking them back on again.

  He slashed away heartily, counting them as they fell. With each fresh gush of pussy sap the tree wailed more and more weakly. Finally it drooped, seemingly completely done in. Treachery, of course. He flung a lump of sandstone into the nest of arms and saw them close, slowly and with little crushing power, around it. Were it he instead of the stone, he could have hacked himself free before the thing burst into sand.

  Quite boldly, therefore, he picked his way among the oozing tendrils, now and then cutting at one from the wrist. He gum-shoed past the trunk itself and saw the pulsing membranes quiver malevolently at his step. They had things like this back in Ellil; he felt more than competent to deal with them.

  But ghosts, now—ghosts were something else again. He had never seen a ghost, though the rumors did go about. And if ever ghosts were to be seen, it was in this spot.

  Here the moons did not send their light—he didn't know why—and the grass underfoot was fatty, round rods. From shrubs shone a vague, reddish light that frayed on a man's nerves. There was the suggestion of a sound in the air, like the ghost itself of a noise dispersed.

  "Moira," he said softly. "Snap out of it. I'm scared."

  A tiny head peeked over the top of his pocket. "Yellow already?" she insultingly asked. "The master of all Ellil's turning green?"

  "Look," he said. "Just you tell me what we're up against and I'll go ahead. Otherwise, no."

  "Ghosts," she said. "This place is a den of them. I suppose you've heard all the stories about them and don't quite believe. Well, the stories are true. Just forget about the whimsy a la John Kendrick Bangs. Ghosts aren't funny; they're the most frightening things that ever were. There's nothing you can do about them; none of the magical formulas work because they aren't even magical. They are distilled essence of terror in tactile form. There's absolutely nothing you can do with, to, or about them. I can't give you a word of advice. You know what you have to do, whiskers. We're after that vial of tears."

  "Right," he said. "Keep your head out—here we go."

  He—they—walked into a vast glob of darkness that saturated their minds, seeped between their molecules and into their lungs and hearts.

  "Oh my God!" wailed a voice. "Oh, my God!"

  Almarish didn't turn his head; kept walking straight on.

  "Stranger—help me—here they come—" the voice shrilled. There was a sickening sound of crackling, then a mushy voice that spoke a few indistinguishable words.

  "They're at it," said Moira tremulously. "Don't let it get you down."

  "A big man like you," said the sweet voice of a young girl, "consorting with that evil little creature! You ought to be ashamed of yourself. I'm ever so much nicer…."

  In the gooey blackness appeared a figure—wispy, luminous—of a charming maiden whose head was a skull and whose hair was a convolution of pink, writhing worms. Gently they hissed in chorus:

  "Bold, big master,

  Come to terms;

  Feed the dainty Maid of Worms."

  The last line of the ditty echoed from all sides in a variety of voices, ranging from a new-born wail to the hoarseness of a death rattle.

  Almarish shut his eyes and walked ahead as the Maid reached out her arms. He walked into her and felt a clammy, gelid coldness, the tightness of arms around him, and ropy things fumbling on his face.

  Repressing a shriek, breathing heavily, he strode on, finally opening his eyes. Again he—they—were in the blackness, without a sound or light.

  Fumbling for a handkerchief, he swabbed at his brow and cheeks, dripping with cold sweat. As he thought of the Maid again, his back rose into little prickles of ice.

  "It was me," he said, trembling violently, "who could never stand mice and roaches, Moira."

  "Keep going," she snapped coldly. "This isn't a picnic." The little creature was upset again. Almarish walked on, missed his footing and fell, sprawling grotesquely. Slowly he drifted down through unimaginable depths of blackness, reaching out f
rantically for holds, and there were none.

  "Stop it!" shrilled Moira. "Stop struggling!"

  Obediently he relaxed. His fall ended with a bump, on a twilit road sloping gently downward as far as the eye could see. There was a vague, rumbling noise underfoot, as if there were heavy carts on the road.

  He looked up along the road. Something was coming, and it was brutally big. Legless, it rolled along on iron wheels, coming at him. The thing was a flattened ovoid of dark, sharkish gray, and like a shark it had a gruesome, toothy slit of mouth. Growing bigger and bigger, it thundered down the road as he watched, petrified, his own mouth open in childish alarm.

  A shrill scream from his pocket brought him to. "Jump, you dummy!"

  shrieked Moira. "Jump!" He leaped into the air as the thing, its triangular mouth snapping savagely teeth clashing, thundered beneath him.

  He watched it go on down the road, still cold with terror "Can it come back?" he asked.

  "Of course not," said Moira. "Could you roll uphill?"

  "You're right," he said. "Quite right. But what do we do now?" He mopped his brow again.

  "Look," said the little creature kindly. "I know how you feel, but don't worry. You're doing a lot better than you think you are. We'll be out of this in a minute, if you don't break down." She looked sharply into his face.

  "Maybe I won't," he said. "I'm not making promises, the way I feel.

  What—what in Hades—?"

  He—they—were snatched up by a gigantic wind and were sucked through the air like flies in an air-conditioning plant.

  "Close your eyes," said Moira. "Close them tight and think of something—anything—except what's going to happen to you. Because if you think of something else, it won't happen."

  Almarish squeezed his eyes tight shut as a thunderous droning noise filled his ears. "Ex sub one sub two," he gabbled, "equals ei square plus two ei plus the square root of bee plus and minus ei square minus two ei bee over two ei." The droning roar was louder; he jammed his thumbs into his ears.

  He felt a hideous impulse to open his eyes. Little, stinging particles of dust struck against his neck.