A Dragon-Lover's Treasury of the Fantastic

by Margaret Weis

  “You did that on purpose!” she says accusingly after the firemen have left.

  “I didn’t,” I say. “It’s just that my flame seems to be getting bigger every day.”

  “While our bank account is getting smaller,” she says. “Either you get a job, or you’ll have to ask your brother Sidney for a loan.”

  It is an easy choice, because when Sidney dies they will need a crowbar to pry his fingers off the first dollar he ever made, and every subsequent one as well, so I go out to look for work.

  You would be surprised at how difficult it is for an honest, industrious dragon to find work in our neighborhood. Stuart Kominsky puts me on as a sand-blaster, but when I melt the stone he fires me after only half a day on the job. Herbert Baumann says maybe I could give kids rides on my back when he reopens the carnival, but it is closed until next spring. Phil Rosenheim, who has never struck me as a bigot before, says he won’t hire anyone with green skin. Muriel Weinstein tells me she’ll be happy to take me on, just in case some out-of-town dragons come by to look at some of her real estate listings, and she’ll call me the moment that happens, but somehow I know that she won’t.

  Finally I latch on with Milt Fein’s heating company. Winter’s coming on and he’s shorthanded, and when a furnace goes out he pays me thirty dollars an hour to go to the scene and breathe into the vents and keep the building warm until he can get there and solve the problem. The first week I make $562.35, which is more than I have ever made in my life, and the second week we are so busy I get time-and-a-half on the weekend and take home almost seven hundred dollars, and Sylvia is so happy that she buys a new dress and dyes her hair bright red.

  And just when I am thinking that things are too good to last, it turns out that things are too good to last.

  One day I start breathing into the ventilation shaft in an office building, and nothing happens, except that Milt Fein lays me off.

  Two days later I wake up and I have hands again, and the next morning most of my scales are gone.

  “I knew it!” screams Sylvia. “You finally find something you’re good at, and then you decide not to be a dragon any longer!”

  “I didn’t exactly decide,” I say. “It just kind of happened.”

  “Why are you doing this to me, Myron?” she demands.

  “I’m not doing anything,” I say. “I seem to be undoing.”

  “This is terrible,” she says. “Look at you: you’re hardly green at all. Why does God hate me so?”

  Four days later I am the old Myron Blumberg again, which, as you can imagine, is quite a relief to me. Two weeks after that, Sylvia packs up her clothes and the portable TV and the Cuisinart and leaves without so much as a good-bye note. The divorce papers arrive six weeks later.

  I still get cards from her every Yom Kippur and Chanukah. The last time I hear from her she has married a gorgon. Sylvia, who hates snakes and can’t stand to be stared at.

  Boy, do I not envy him.

  ST. DRAGON AND THE GEORGE

  Gordon R. Dickson

  I

  A trifle diffidently, Jim Eckert rapped with his claw on the blue-painted door.

  Silence.

  He knocked again. There was the sound of a hasty step inside the small, oddly peak-roofed house and the door was snatched open. A thin-faced old man with a tall pointed cap and a long, rather dingy-looking white beard peered out, irritably.

  “Sorry, not my day for dragons!” he snapped. “Come back next Tuesday.” He slammed the door.

  It was too much. It was the final straw. Jim Eckert sat down on his haunches with a dazed thump. The little forest clearing with its impossible little pool tinkling away like Chinese glass wind chimes in the background, its well-kept greensward with the white gravel path leading to the door before him, and the riotous flower beds of asters, tulips, zinnias, roses and lilies-of-the-valley all equally impossibly in bloom at the same time about the white fingerpost labeled S. CAROLINUS and pointing at the house—it all whirled about him. It was more than flesh and blood could bear. At any minute now he would go completely insane and imagine he was a peanut or a cocker spaniel. Grottwold Hanson had wrecked them all. Dr. Howells would have to get another teaching assistant for his English Department. Angie…

  Angie!

  Jim pounded on the door again. It was snatched open.

  “Dragon!” cried S. Carolinus, furiously. “How would you like to be a beetle?”

  “But I’m not a dragon,” said Jim, desperately.

  The magician stared at him for a long minute, then threw up his beard with both hands in a gesture of despair, caught some of it in his teeth as it fell down and began to chew on it fiercely.

  “Now where,” he demanded, “did a dragon acquire the brains to develop the imagination to entertain the illusion that he is not a dragon? Answer me, O Ye Powers!”

  “The information is psychically, though not physiologically correct,” replied a deep base voice out of thin air beside them and some five feet off the ground. Jim, who had taken the question to be rhetorical, started convulsively.

  “Is that so?” S. Carolinus peered at Jim with new interest. “Hmm.” He spat out a hair or two. “Come in, Anomaly—or whatever you call yourself.”

  Jim squeezed in through the door and found himself in a large single room. It was a clutter of mismatched furniture and odd bits of alchemical equipment.

  “Hmm,” said S. Carolinus, closing the door and walking once around Jim, thoughtfully. “If you aren’t a dragon, what are you?”

  “Well, my real name’s Jim Eckert,” said Jim. “But I seem to be in the body of a dragon named Gorbash.”

  “And this disturbs you. So you’ve come to me. How nice,” said the magician, bitterly. He winced, massaged his stomach and closed his eyes. “Do you know anything that’s good for a perpetual stomach-ache? Of course not. Go on.”

  “Well, I want to get back to my real body. And take Angie with me. She’s my fiancée and I can send her back but I can’t send myself back at the same time. You see, this Grottwold Hanson—well, maybe I better start from the beginning.”

  “Brilliant suggestion, Gorbash,” said Carolinus. “Or whatever your name is,” he added

  “Well,” said Jim. Carolinus winced. Jim hurried on. “I teach at a place called Riveroak College in the United States—you’ve never heard of it—”

  “Go on, go on,” said Carolinus.

  “That is, I’m a teaching assistant. Dr. Howells, who heads the English Department, promised me an instructorship over a year ago. But he’s never come through with it; and Angie—Angie Gilman, my fiancée—”

  “You mentioned her.”

  “Yes—well, we were having a little fight. That is, we were arguing about my going to ask Howells whether he was going to give me the instructor’s rating for next year or not. I didn’t think I should; and she didn’t think we could get married—well, anyway, in came Grottwold Hanson.”

  “In where came who?”

  “Into the Campus Bar and Grille. We were having a drink there. Hanson used to go with Angie. He’s a graduate student in psychology. A long, thin geek that’s just as crazy as he looks. He’s always getting wound up in some new odd-ball organization or other—”

  “Dictionary!” interrupted Carolinus, suddenly. He opened his eyes as an enormous volume appeared suddenly poised in the air before him. He massaged his stomach. “Ouch,” he said. The pages of the volume began to flip rapidly back and forth before his eyes. “Don’t mind me,” he said to Jim. “Go on.”

  “—This time it was the Bridey Murphy craze. Hypnotism. Well—”

  “Not so fast,” said Carolinus. “Bridey Murphy…Hypnotism…yes…”

  “Oh, he talked about the ego wandering, planes of reality, on and on like that. He offered to hypnotize one of us and show us how it worked. Angie was mad at me, so she said yes. I went off to the bar. I was mad. When I turned around, Angie was gone. Disappeared.”

  “Vanished?” said Carolin
us.

  “Vanished. I blew my top at Hanson. She must have wandered, he said, not merely the ego, but all of her. Bring her back, I said. I can’t, he said. It seemed she wanted to go back to the time of St. George and the Dragon. When men were men and would speak up to their bosses about promotions. Hanson’d have to send someone else back to rehypnotize her and send her back home. Like an idiot I said I’d go. Ha! I might’ve known he’d goof. He couldn’t do anything right if he was paid for it. I landed in the body of this dragon.”

  “And the maiden?”

  “Oh, she landed here, too. Centuries off the mark. A place where there actually were such things as dragons—fantastic.”

  “Why?” said Carolinus.

  “Well, I mean—anyway,” said Jim, hurriedly. “The point is, they’d already got her—the dragons, I mean. A big brute named Anark had found her wandering around and put her in a cage. They were having a meeting in a cave about deciding what to do with her. Anark wanted to stake her out for a decoy, so they could capture a lot of the local people—only the dragons called people georges—”

  “They’re quite stupid, you know,” said Carolinus, severely, looking up from the dictionary. “There’s only room for one name in their head at a time. After the Saint made such an impression on them his name stuck.”

  “Anyway, they were all yelling at once. They’ve got tremendous voices.”

  “Yes, you have,” said Carolinus, pointedly.

  “Oh, sorry,” said Jim. He lowered his voice. “I tried to argue that we ought to hold Angie for ransom—” He broke off suddenly. “Say,” he said. “I never thought of that. Was I talking dragon, then? What am I talking now? Dragons don’t talk English, do they?”

  “Why not?” demanded Carolinus, grumpily. “If they’re British dragons?”

  “But I’m not a dragon—I mean—”

  “But you are here!” snapped Carolinus. “You and this maiden of yours. Since all the rest of you was translated here, don’t you suppose your ability to speak understandably was translated, too? Continue.”

  “There’s not much more,” said Jim, gloomily. “I was losing the argument and then this very big, old dragon spoke up on my side. Hold Angie for ransom, he said. And they listened to him. It seems he swings a lot of weight among them. He’s a great-uncle of me—of this Gorbash who’s body I’m in—and I’m his only surviving relative. They penned Angie up in a cave and he sent me off to the Tinkling Water here, to find you and have you open negotiations for ransom. Actually, on the side he told me to tell you to make the terms easy on the georges—I mean humans; he wants the dragons to work toward good relations with them. He’s afraid the dragons are in danger of being wiped out. I had a chance to double back and talk to Angie alone. We thought you might be able to send us both back.”

  He stopped rather out of breath, and looked hopefully at Carolinus. The magician was chewing thoughtfully on his beard.

  “Smrgol,” he muttered. “Now there’s an exception to the rule. Very bright for a dragon. Also experienced. Hmm.”

  “Can you help us?” demanded Jim. “Look, I can show you—”

  Carolinus sighed, closed his eyes, winced and opened them again.

  “Let me see if I’ve got this straight,” he said. “You had a dispute with this maiden to whom you’re betrothed. To spite you, she turned to this third-rate practitioner, who mistakenly exorcized her from the United States (whenever in the cosmos that is) to here, further compounding his error by sending you back in spirit only to inhabit the body of Gorbash. The maiden is in the hands of the dragons and you have been sent to me by your great-uncle Smrgol.”

  “That’s sort of it,” said Jim dubiously, “only—”

  “You wouldn’t,” said Carolinus, “care to change your story to something simpler and more reasonable—like being a prince changed into a dragon by some wicked fairy stepmother? Oh, my poor stomach! No?” He sighed. “All right, that’ll be five hundred pounds of gold, or five pounds of rubies, in advance.”

  “B-but—” Jim goggled at him. “But I don’t have any gold—or rubies.”

  “What? What kind of a dragon are you?” cried Carolinus, glaring at him. “Where’s your hoard?”

  “I suppose this Gorbash has one,” stammered Jim, unhappily. “But I don’t know anything about it.”

  “Another charity patient!” muttered Carolinus, furiously. He shook his fist at empty space. “What’s wrong with that auditing department? Well?”

  “Sorry,” said the invisible bass voice.

  “That’s the third in two weeks. See it doesn’t happen again for another ten days.” He turned to Jim. “No means of payment?”

  “No. Wait—” said Jim. “This stomach-ache of yours. It might be an ulcer. Does it go away between meals?”

  “As a matter of fact, it does. Ulcer?”

  “High-strung people working under nervous tension get them back where I come from.”

  “People?” inquired Carolinus suspiciously. “Or dragons?”

  “There aren’t any dragons where I come from.”

  “All right, all right, I believe you,” said Carolinus, testily. “You don’t have to stretch the truth like that. How do you exorcize them?”

  “Milk,” said Jim. “A glass every hour for a month or two.”

  “Milk,” said Carolinus. He held out his hand to the open air and received a small tankard of it. He drank it off, making a face. After a moment, the face relaxed into a smile.

  “By the Powers!” he said. “By the Powers!” He turned to Jim, beaming. “Congratulations, Gorbash, I’m beginning to believe you about that college business after all. The bovine nature of the milk quite smothers the ulcer-demon. Consider me paid.”

  “Oh, fine. I’ll go get Angie and you can hypnotize—”

  “What?” cried Carolinus. “Teach your grandmother to suck eggs. Hypnotize! Ha! And what about the First Law of Magic, eh?”

  “The what?” said Jim.

  “The First Law—the First Law—didn’t they teach you anything in that college? Forgotten it already, I see. Oh, this younger generation! The First Law: for every use of the Art and Science, there is required a corresponding price. Why do I live by my fees instead of by conjurations? Why does a magic potion have a bad taste? Why did this Hanson-amateur of yours get you all into so much trouble?”

  “I don’t know,” said Jim. “Why?”

  “No credit! No credit!” barked Carolinus, flinging his skinny arms wide. “Why, I wouldn’t have tried what he did without ten years credit with the auditing department, and I am a Master of the Arts. As it was, he couldn’t get anything more than your spirit back, after sending the maiden complete. And the fabric of Chance and History is all warped and ready to spring back and cause all kinds of trouble. We’ll have to give a little, take a little—”

  “GORBASH!” A loud thud outside competed with the dragon-bellow.

  “And here we go,” said Carolinus dourly. “It’s already starting.” He led the way outside. Sitting on the greensward just beyond the flower beds was an enormous old dragon Jim recognized as the great-uncle of the body he was in—Smrgol.

  “Greetings, Mage!” boomed the old dragon, dropping his head to the ground in salute. “You may not remember me. Name’s Smrgol—you remember the business about that ogre I fought at Gormely Keep? I see my grandnephew got to you all right.”

  “Ah, Smrgol—I remember,” said Carolinus. “That was a good job you did.”

  “He had a habit of dropping his club head after a swing,” said Smrgol. “I noticed it along about the fourth hour of battle and the next time he tried it, went in over his guard. Tore up the biceps of his right arm. Then—”

  “I remember,” Carolinus said. “So this is your nephew.”

  “Grandnephew,” corrected Smrgol. “Little thick-headed and all that,” he added apologetically, “but my own flesh and blood, you know.”

  “You may notice some slight improvement in him,” said Carolinus,
dryly.

  “I hope so,” said Smrgol, brightening. “Any change, a change for the better, you know. But I’ve bad news, Mage. You know that inch-worm of an Anark?”

  “The one that found the maiden in the first place?”

  “That’s right. Well, he’s stolen her again and run off.”

  “What?” cried Jim.

  He had forgotten the capabilities of a dragon’s voice. Carolinus tottered, the flowers and grass lay flat, and even Smrgol winced.

  “My boy,” said the old dragon reproachfully. “How many times must I tell you not to shout. I said, Anark stole the george.”

  “He means Angie!” cried Jim desperately to Carolinus.

  “I know,” said Carolinus, with his hands over his ears.

  “You’re sneezing again,” said Smrgol, proudly. He turned to Carolinus. “You wouldn’t believe it. A dragon hasn’t sneezed in a hundred and ninety years. This boy did it the first moment he set eyes on the george. The others couldn’t believe it. Sign of brains, I said. Busy brains make the nose itch. Our side of the family—”

  “Angie.!”

  “See there? All right now, boy, you’ve shown us you can do it. Let’s get down to business. How much to locate Anark and the george, Mage?”

  They dickered like rug-pedlars for several minutes, finally settling on a price of four pounds of gold, one of silver, and a flawed emerald. Carolinus got a small vial of water from the Tinkling Spring and searched among the grass until he found a small sandy open spot. He bent over it and the two dragons sat down to watch.

  “Quiet now,” he warned. “I’m going to try a watch-beetle. Don’t alarm it.”

  Jim held his breath. Carolinus tilted the vial in his hand and the crystal water fell in three drops—Tink! Tink! And again—Tink! The sand darkened with the moisture and began to work as if something was digging from below. A hole widened, black insect legs busily in action flickered, and an odd-looking beetle popped itself halfway out of the hole. Its forelimbs waved in the air and a little squeaky voice, like a cracked phonograph record repeating itself far away over a bad telephone connection, came to Jim’s ears.