“Yeah, Swedish."
“Uh-huh, uh-huh. Did your car break down? You don't have a coat, neither. It's cold. Aren't you cold?"
“Jeez, Nunzio, the guy's so big, he don't need nothin'."
“Yeah, hey. What's your name, fella?"
Snowclaw thought about it. The only name he knew was the one his English-speaking friends called him.
“Snowy."
“Snowy. Uh-huh. ‘Cause of your hair, huh? It's white."
“Jeez, he's big, Nunzio."
“Yeah. You lookin’ for a job, fellah? I got one, if y'are. I need a bouncer at my club. The guy I had, one, he was doin’ a number with a waitress of mine—I mean, the little bitch was two-timin’ me, y'know?—two, him and the manager was skimming a thousand a week off the place, bleedin’ me white, and I don't like that, see. But both of ‘em are sleepin’ with the fishes now. You get me? So waddya say, you want the job? You look like you could handle anybody."
Vinny said, “He looks like he could handle the whole Pascagleone family by hisself."
The small one laughed. “Yeah. So whaddya say, pal?"
Snowclaw shrugged. “Okay."
“Good. I'll start you at—four hundred a week. Okay?"
“Okay."
“Fine. There's an apartment above the joint, if you need a place to stay."
“Yeah. Place to stay. Yeah."
“Good. Get in the car, and we'll take a spin down the club, show you around."
Snowclaw got in the front seat. Another human was driving, and this one cringed at the sight of him. Snowclaw smiled at the little fellow.
In the back seat, Vinny whispered, “Jeez, Nunzio, he's big!"
Castle
“He's back?” Linda said in astonishment. “When?"
“Only moments ago, it would seem,” Osmirik said. “He also is of the opinion that something is awry in the castle."
“Well, it's more than an opinion. Something happened at Trent's house, and we don't know what."
Jeremy stopped typing and looked up. Osmirik rose from his chair.
“What is amiss?” Osmirik asked.
“Well, as planned, Sheila and Snowclaw went through to visit Prince Trent. Everything went fine at first. Then all of a sudden the portal disappeared and stayed lost for at least half an hour. When it came back again, it was locked back at Halfway. No sign of Sheila or Snowclaw. Right away we phoned Trent's place—no answer."
“I see,” Osmirik said, nodding solemnly. “Something is indeed awry."
Linda sank into a chair. “Hi, Jeremy,” she said bleakly.
“Hi,” Jeremy said.
“What are you guys doing?"
Osmirik answered, “Apparently nothing to remedy the situation.” He sat down heavily.
“Now we have Sheila and Snowclaw to search for,” Linda said. “And we can't even be sure they're still on Earth."
There was silence for a long moment, which Linda finally broke.
“Did Lord Incarnadine want to see me?"
“I am afraid he did not say,” Osmirik said. “He was preoccupied with matters of even greater moment. Apparently there is some general cosmological disturbance of which these disappearances may be but symptoms."
“Cosmological?"
“He was not entirely specific, but he did speak of an imbalance of energy between the universes. It seems that an ethereal flux has evidenced itself, a leakage of interdimensional ectoplasm which—” Osmirik noticed Linda's blank stare, and added apologetically, “It is difficult for me to put it in layman's terms."
Linda shook her head. “I'm sure I wouldn't understand it in any terms."
“You underestimate yourself. Nevertheless, the upshot of the matter is that the castle may be in some danger, and we with it."
Linda grunted. “More problems, as if we didn't have enough.” She glanced at the screen of Jeremy's computer. “Any luck with this gadget?"
“We have made a beginning,” Osmirik said. “But only a beginning. In so doing, however, we have discovered another adept."
Linda's eyebrows rose. “Jeremy? Really? That was quick."
“Doubtless because his talent is considerable."
“Gee, folks,” Jeremy said, “it was nothin'."
“It's no joke,” Linda told him. “We need all the help we can get. What can you do?"
“It's not much,” Jeremy said. “It's just that I'm running this computer with magic juice."
“Great. But what good does that do?"
“Beats the crap out of me, but it's a lot of fun."
“His skill might help us to make some headway in our spellcasting endeavors,” Osmirik said. “The science of adapting these machines to thaumaturgic applications is in its infancy."
Jeremy said, “Incarnadine sounds like he knows his computers. Even said he built one."
Osmirik nodded. “If His Majesty says it, then it is true. I was speaking of the science as it is practiced by mere mortals such as your humble servant.” Osmirik bowed his head, laying a hand against his breast.
“Oh. Well, why don't you ask Incarnadine to help out?"
“It is not my place to do so. I am a servant of His Majesty, not the reverse."
“Uh-huh. Yeah, well, you know best."
“I'm going to Jamin and request an audience,” Linda said. “I simply have to talk to Incarnadine. Did you tell him about Gene?"
“Of course, Linda,” Osmirik said.
“Sorry. I suppose he does have bigger problems on his mind."
“He should be informed about this latest disappearance. But don't see Jamin."
Linda gave Osmirik a puzzled frown. “Why not?"
“I would rather not say at this time. When next I see His Majesty—and he will be back here very shortly to pick up some books he requested—I will intercede in your behalf."
“Thanks. God, I wish I knew what happened to Sheila and Snowy. Trent—” Linda fretfully drummed her fingers against the tabletop. “You don't think ...?"
Osmirik waited.
Linda dismissed it with a wave of her hand. “Oh, it's silly. What would Trent have against Sheila? Unless—"
Suddenly the floor began to shake, and a sound like thunder filled the library. Shelves rocked back and forth, and overhead, the huge wooden chandeliers began gently to sway.
“Quick,” Osmirik shouted, “under the table!"
They all dove for cover.
There came clattering sounds from all over the room as objects fell. Then shelves began collapsing. The floor rocked violently and furniture slid about as if animated. The disturbance lasted for a good minute.
Sounds of crashing peaked, then subsided. The floor finally settled down, the thunder fading.
At length, an uneasy silence fell.
The three came out from under the table, whey-faced but unharmed.
Osmirik made a quick inspection tour of the main floor. Damage was surprisingly limited, despite what the ruckus had sounded like. Only about thirty shelves in all had collapsed, out of the hundreds and hundreds. Even so, the mess was terrible. Books lay scattered everywhere. He returned to the study area.
“That was bad,” Linda said. “I mean, the castle gets shaky now and then, but that was real bad."
“Earthquake?” Jeremy asked, worried.
“No, some kind of instability. You think, Ozzie?"
“I am afraid so. Perhaps caused by the disturbance His Majesty spoke of. If so, it may be of greater proportions than he suspects."
“Things keep going from bad to worse around here,” Linda fretted. “I'm going to see what I can do back at Halfway. Maybe Trent and Sheila went out to lunch and just forgot to tell us. Jeremy, you better come with me."
“Right,” Jeremy said, snapping the computer's carrying case shut. He sure as hell didn't want to stay here. But there was a problem.
As far as he could see, there was no place to run to.
King's Study
“...FIVE ... FOUR ... THREE ... two ... on
e."
On a wooden table in the middle of the chamber, there appeared a strange, feathery glob of golden light. Shifting and shimmering, it neither took shape nor attained substance, but somehow suggested the form of a bird.
Incarnadine approached the phenomenon. Extending his hand, he gently lifted the thing. Actually, “guided it” would be the more accurate description, for the phenomenon seemed somewhat capable of movement.
He moved to a table on which sat a personal computer.
“Reduce to data,” was his command to the thing he bore.
The luminous blob vanished with a flash. The screen of the computer suddenly came to life with a golden snowstorm of numbers and symbols.
He seated himself and studied these, occasionally entering commands on the computer's keyboard.
At long last, he sighed and sat back. He waved his hand, and the golden smear of light exited from the back of the computer. It hovered before him.
“I release you,” he said.
The phenomenon brightened, fluttering and pulsing.
“Go on, beat it."
The light shot off, darting about the room in a frenzy of rediscovered freedom. It bounced off the walls, did an Immelmann turn, then rocketed ceilingward and continued straight through the stone, disappearing.
He rose and crossed the room. Against a far wall stood a collection of strange contraptions, some of them resembling grandfather clocks. He consulted the dials on a number of these, his brow knitting as he did so.
“Damn. What in the name of all the gods do they think they're doing?"
He shook his head, peering at more meters and gauges.
“Strange, strange,” he murmured, recrossing to the desk.
He entered some commands and punched Return. The screen swam with blurred images. He waved his hands and chanted something in an exotic tongue.
Annoyed, he banged a fist on the top of the device. “Drat. What's wrong now?"
He tried different commands, to no avail.
“Trent? Trent, can you hear me? Come in."
The screen was devoid of anything recognizable. Then a garbled voice could be heard.
“...Inky?... you?"
“Trent!” he answered. “Speak up! I'm having trouble receiving you."
More unidentifiable noise, clearing up for a second or two. “...trouble ... the hell this is, but it's ... get us out? ..."
He waited, but there was no more.
“Going to have to do this the old-fashioned way,” he complained.
The old-fashioned way turned out to be a large crystal globe sitting on a table in a far corner of the cluttered room. The thing was covered with dust, so he took a chamois cloth to it and soon had it acceptably clear.
He closed his eyes, then opened them suddenly. “Damned if I haven't forgot the riffs. Ye gods..."
After rummaging through stacks of old books, he finally discovered the one he wanted, then found out it wasn't. More rummaging, and much annoyed throwing of things.
He chuckled. “I'm losing my grip. Here it is."
The right tome, the right passage, the right incantation. He read through it, moving his lips.
He slammed the book closed. “That's it.” As he passed the desktop computer, he shook his head ruefully at it. “Technology. Makes a cripple of you, it does."
Standing once again before the crystal globe, he struck a proper wizardly pose arms wide, thumbs and first fingers touching. He commenced a monotonous chanting.
Again, he stopped.
“No, not Trent,” he decided.
He resumed his stance and the incantation.
The globe grew milky. Motile shadows writhed within it, and fuzzy images flew hither and yon.
A face appeared; less a face than a contorted mask of pain, a horrific caricature of a face he knew.
“Ferne!” he called, dismayed.
The answer was a moan. Flecks of bloody foam dribbled from the lips.
“Ferne!” This time he shouted at the top of his lungs. “Ferne, where are you?"
The face of his sister changed. The eyes opened, a glimmer of desperate hope in them.
“Who ...?"
“Incarnadine, your brother. Where are you, Ferne? Tell me! Who has done this to you?"
Her face tightened again, the eyes became tiny wrinkled slits. She screamed hideously.
He shouted her name again, beads of sweat appearing on his brow.
“In the name of the gods, Ferne, speak to me! Tell me where you are!"
She spoke in Haplan, the traditional tongue of the Haplodites; her milk tongue, and Incarnadine's. “In Hell. In deepest ... darkest ... Hell.” She screamed again.
“They're hurting me. Inky.” Her voice was like a child's. “Tell them to stop."
“Steady on, woman. I will come and help thee."
“Please.” The voice was a rasp. “Help me."
“I swear on my life. The gods strike me dead an I fail thee."
There was a long, ragged breath, then coughing.
This now in English: “Hurry, Inky dear. Hurry."
The globe grew milky again, and the image faded. Soon the crystal cleared.
He lowered his arms. He staggered to an easy chair and collapsed into it.
He was a long time recovering. When he had composed himself, he got up and moved purposefully toward the door of the study, but stopped in midstride. He turned, pondered, then made a motion toward the bank of instruments, but again came to a halt.
What to do?
So many things. He needed help. Trent, it seems, had problems of his own. But Trent would have to fend for himself. There was no time for him, at least for now.
Who, then? Deems was gone, poor, dear, dead brother. Victim of his own venality.
Dorcas? A good heart, but not much talent. As for the other relatives...
No, he must avail himself of the resources of the castle, human and otherwise. But who—?
He had the answer. He would be taking a risk in relying on one so young and inexperienced, but raw talent was the requirement here....
At that moment the quaking began. He looked off, sensing, judging the magnitude of the disturbance. The effects were minimized here, protective spells shielding this section of the castle. He checked his guesses on the banks of measuring instruments.
When it had passed, he nodded his head.
“On schedule. I wonder if they know they're bound to destroy themselves as well."
He moved toward the door.
“Probably do, the insane bastards."
New Barsoom
Across a wide dusty plain, Gene rode for his life.
His mount was a voort (which Gene privately called a “thoat"), a six-legged cross between a camel and a knock-kneed llama. The sun was high and hot, but hotter still were Gene's pursuers, mounted ape-men bestride huge beasts that resembled Brahma bulls. They were riding hell-bent for leather and closing fast.
Gene called them ape-men, but didn't really know what animal stock they had been created from. They were likely some hybrid breed. Humanoid, exorbitantly muscular, their skin color a cadaverous blue, the hrunt were real mean sorts. The Umoi had created them for heavy labor, reserving the yalim for domestic and other semiskilled tasks.
The ape-men's mounts were generally faster than voort though not as surefooted in hilly country. But these were the lowlands, hruntan lands.
Gene skirted a shallow depression, then came upon another one, this one wider, which he thought better to cut across than ride around. The hrunt disagreed, and, as it turned out, made the wiser decision. Slowed by rough ground, Gene's mount scrambled out of the depression a bare six lengths ahead of the pursuit, its six spindly legs working in a complicated cadence, producing a rocking, seasickly gait.
A lance whistled by Gene's ear. Legs tightening around the saddle's girth, Gene took an arrow from his quiver, cocked his bow, pivoted his torso, took aim, and let fly. The arrow went wide of its mark, but the lead hrunt cautiously r
eined up and eased off the pace.
Gene followed up with another arrow to keep him honest, then turned forward and concentrated on whipping more speed out of the voort. But the beast was simply not built for speed.
Ahead were rocky foothills, leading to stark mountains beyond. Up there a voort would have the advantage, being a surefooted expert on the trails that wound over boulder-strewn slopes. Gene simply had to make it out of flat country and into the hills.
But that was the problem. He wouldn't make it in time.
Having certainly done a bang-up job of locating the enemy, it could be said that in a certain sense his reconnaissance mission was a success. But he was fairly new to the scouting business and apparently had much to learn about keeping a low profile. Well, live and learn.
If he could live. He hoped there would be future opportunities for learning and growth and all the rest of that good stuff, but prospects weren't exactly rosy at the moment.
Maybe he did have a chance. Hills rose up at either hand and the way narrowed between them. Just another quarter mile or so and he'd be among rocks, and his pursuers’ mounts tended to be gall-footed over anything but the packed sand of the plains.
Maybe —
The voort bleated and collapsed under him, sending him flying over its head and into the dirt. Shaken, he was slow getting to his feet, but managed it, sword already drawn. He saw the lance sticking out of the voort's backside. Merely flesh-wounded, the animal struggled to its feet and limped off, bleating piteously.
The hrunt leader, its huge scimitarlike weapon raised, bore down on him. Gene stood his ground until the last second, then leaped away. Another rider followed close behind, and Gene dodged one lance, then a second. He dashed up the rise, making for a stand of boulders halfway up.
The riders dismounted and followed him.
Hrunt were fleet-footed, and Gene, still feeling the effects of the spill, had to turn and make a stand. The leader reached him first.
Up close, the hrunt was ugly as advertised, pinhole eyes, no neck, bulging upper body, and short fat legs. Its long greasy hair was blue black, its lolling tongue a liver brown. The thing snarled at him, wide thin lips curling into some thing resembling a victorious sneer. Then it spat.
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