by Eric Flint
Morris closes his eyes and starts chanting what sounds like a song they cut out of a show that folded on its pre-Broadway tour, and then he snaps his fingers and says "Abra cadaver" and suddenly Impervious Irving is back in his accustomed position just to the right of Louie's chair.
Irving glares at Milton and says, "If you are going to vanish me to a bathroom again, next time make it one that's got a magazine to read."
"I've hexed it so he can't transport you again," says Morris. He turns to Milton. "You can still make him disappear, of course, but do you really want to be in the same room with an outraged but invisible Irving?"
Milton waves his hands wildly. "Begone!" he says.
"I was just leaving anyway," says Morris, and vanishes.
I notice that Milton is wearing a great big grin on his face, and I ask him why.
"When Morris comes in here he is holding a full house, jacks over sevens," says Milton. "But when he leaves he is holding a pair of fours and nothing else."
"Let us get back down to business," I say. "Bet-a-Hundred McNabb owes me ten thousand dollars."
"I don't deny it," says McNabb. "But even more than I don't deny it, I don't have it. It all resides within Loose Lips Louie's vest pocket, unless some of it has fallen onto the floor."
"This is the truth," confirms Louie. "I am afraid you are too late, Harry."
"I have a prior claim on the money that is in your pocket," I say.
"Then file your claim with Bet-a-Hundred McNabb," says Louie.
"I do not slake my thirst from empty glasses," I say, which I think is a brilliant rejoinder, but I can see that neither Louie nor Irving understand it, so I point out that I could get more blood from a turnip than money from McNabb.
"What the hell," says Louie. "This being Christmas Eve, I will give you a chance to win your money back from me."
"I never bet," I say. "Betting is for suckers."
"Losing is for suckers," says Louie. He flashes some of the money he has rescued from McNabb's clutches. "Winning is for"—he searches for the bon motte—"winners."
I stare at McNabb, who still doesn't know he is a sheep, let alone that he has been fleeced. "All right," I say at last. "What did you have in mind?"
"How about a nice friendly game of five-card stud?" suggests Louie.
"I have lost my trust in this establishment," I answer.
"Oh?" he says. "When?"
"When we still lived in caves," I say.
"What do you suggest then?"
"I am sure you will agree that we are the two most prodigious intellects in Harvey Wallbanger's, if not on the face of the entire planet," I begin.
"Yeah, that seems a reasonable premise," says Louie.
"What if we engage in a mental contest instead of a game of chance?" I say.
"I lost a toe in the war," he says, "so if it's a mathematical question, the answer can't be any higher than nineteen."
"No, you only have to count to eight for this one," I reply.
"I don't want you to think I distrust you, Harry," says Louie. "But I distrust you, Harry. First you tell me what the contest is all about, and then I'll tell you if we have a bet."
I stare at him and say, "I will bet you twenty large—the ten you took from McNabb, and ten more for my trouble—that I can name more of Nick the Saint's reindeer than you can."
"Don't do that, Boss!" says Gently Gently. "You tried it at Joey Chicago's and got it wrong."
"We learn from our mistakes," I tell him.
"Not always," says Gently Gently. "After all, I'm still going out with Sylvia."
"Well, it works in principle," I say.
"I just read the poem about Nick and his reindeer to my nephew," says Louie. "So if you get 'em all right and I get 'em all right, all we've done is waste a bunch of time."
I am waiting for Big-Hearted Milton to catch on, and finally he does, and just like Sandy Koufax or Roger Clemens he hurls his high hard one into Impervious Irving's brain, where it has a lot of breathing room, and Irving says, "I got an idea, Boss."
"I hope it's a small one," says Louie. "You got to take it easy with a new discipline."
"You gonna listen or not?" asks Irving.
Louie looks up at Impervious Irving, who is maybe eight feet tall and almost as wide, and he says, "I am always happy to hear your thoughts on any matter, if for no other reason than that they constitute a considerable rarity. Now, what is your idea?"
"Make him agree that you win on ties," says Irving. "If you each get three right, or six, or all eight, you win."
"It is a wonderful idea, especially for a beginner," says Louie, "but Harry is a sophisticated man of the world. He will never go for it."
"It is late and I want my money," I say. "I accept your conditions."
It is a shame that Louie is not born a hundred and fifty years ago in Tombstone, because Doc Holliday and Johnny Ringo never reach for their guns half as fast as he reaches for my hand to shake it and cement the conditions.
"You all saw that we shook on it," he says. "Now, since I am a generous and genial host and this is my private room, I will allow Harry the Book to go first."
"Okay," I say, clearing my throat. "Here goes. Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Donder, Blitzen, Cupid and Flyaway."
Loose Lips Louie emits a delighted laugh. "I don't even need to invoke Irving's rule. The reindeer are Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Donder, Blitzen, Cupid and Comet."
"Nosir," I say. "They are Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Donder, Blitzen, Cupid and Flyaway."
"You are wrong, Harry," says Louie. "There is no reindeer called Flyaway."
"There most certainly is," I say, "and you owe me twenty large."
I wait for Milton to hurl a second idea to Impervious Irving.
"Boss," says Irving, "Nick the Saint's in the next room. Why don't we just pull him in here and ask him?"
"I'll get him," says Benny.
"I do not trust any of Harry's toadies anywhere near him," says Louie. "Irving, go get him and bring him back."
"I am not a toady," says Benny heatedly as Irving leaves the room.
"Oh?" says Louie. "And what are you, then?"
"I am one of Harry's flunkies," replies Benny with a note of pride.
Irving is back a minute later. He has Nick the Saint in tow, and Nick has his young lady in tow.
"What can I do for you gents, ho ho ho?" asks Nick.
"We need you to settle a disagreement," answers Louie.
"Okay, but it's got to be quick," says Nick. "I'm already late getting started on my rounds."
"It won't take long," says Louie. "What are the names of your reindeer?"
"Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Donder, Blitzen, Cupid and Flyaway," says Nick. "I thought everyone knew that."
"Morris!" screams Louie, and Morris the Mage appears a few seconds later. "Morris, he says one of his reindeer is named Flyaway. Is he lying?"
Morris stares at Nick for a minute, mutters a spell, snaps his fingers, and nibbles a breath mint.
"He's telling the truth," says Morris.
"Well, if that's all," says Nick, "Elmer here and I have to be going."
"Elmer?" says Gently Gently, kind of blinking and staring at the girl.
Nick nods. "She's my newest elf," he says. "And this way if I happen to drop her name in front of you-know-who, there won't be one of her usual scenes. Well, Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night."
He and Elmer leave, Morris vanishes, and Loose Lips Louie glares at me.
"I don't know how you did it, Harry, but I'm going to find out."
"I wish you as much luck as you wish McNabb," I say. "And now, my twenty large, please?"
He mutters such a complex curse that Morris pops into existence and Milton vanishes for a moment, and finally he shoves the money across the table to me.
"So am I off the hook, Harry?" asks McNabb.
"At least until you're Bet-a-Thousand McNabb," I say. "Come on back to Joey Chicago's w
ith us. I'm buying."
McNabb joins us as we walk to the exit, which was the entrance on the way in, and we pick up Dead End Dugan, who still has a puzzled expression on his face, and I know he has not yet thought of any dead things to do, and a few minutes later we're all standing at the bar at Joey Chicago's, sharing a bottle of Comrade Terrorist vodka, and Big-Hearted Milton explains to everyone in the place how I do a favor for Nick the Saint and in exchange he changes Comet's name to Flyaway, and everyone seems to be having a good time, until I hear Benny Fifth Street start yelling and a minute later Gently Gently Dawkins is yelling back.
"What's the problem?" I ask, when they finally pause for breath.
"We are having an argument about the Seven Dwarfs," says Gently Gently. "Benny says they are Bashful, Sleepy, Sneezy, Dumbo, Doc, Grumpy, and Marvin, and I say . . ."
I find myself wondering if Nick has room for one more oversized elf on his sleigh.
Fossilized Gods
Written by J. Simon
Illustrated by Chantelle Thorne
Henry Goss smiled coldly. His father thought he lacked ambition. The old fool, wallowing in his wealth, as if money were the only power. There were far vaster worlds than boardrooms and banks to hold under one's dominion. People, too, could be owned. Like Professor Harrington, the world's foremost expert on fossilized gods, who had no idea what power lay under his fingertips. That prissy graduate assistant, Walter something, from whom he'd copied most of his work. Even the professor's daughter. She'd been cold so far, but power could change a great many things—voluntarily or not. Henry Goss did not lack for ambition. He simply aimed for a total solution.
The Royal Museum was deserted at this hour, as it always was. Henry's key (stolen from prissy Walter) got him through every door. The back rooms were jammed to the rafters with old gods, or what was left of them. An African mask captured Henry's gaze and held it, filling him with an unreasoning rush of awe and dread. Oh yes, there was power here! He hurried down the aisle, struggling to ignore the magnetic pull of ancient idols, massive stone figures, painted icons. Mounted animals seemed to watch him with their dead eyes. Even the great brass bottles, forever bound by Solomon's seal, radiated an eerie sense of presence. Far in the back he found it—an unnaturally cold obelisk of black stone, carved with the merest suggestion of tentacles and eyes. All he'd needed was a note forged in the professor's handwriting to have Walter locate it for him: An elder god, a force of raw fear and wonderment from the dawn of humanity, yet one empowered and nearly awakened by the famed author and his following. That was quite good enough for Henry Goss.
Henry didn't bother with black candles or inane ritual. He made a small cut in his wrist, allowed a few drops to fall, then closed off the bleeding with a handkerchief.
"There's more where that came from," he said. "But make no mistake—you exist at my sufferance. You want worship? You can have it—on my terms and under my control. I can be very generous with those who understand their . . . place . . ."
Henry's pocket felt heavy and wet. In fact, it seemed to have gotten filled up with a faintly greenish jelly. Stepping back, he felt his shoes squish with a similar clammy wetness.
"Listen up," he said sharply, "you don't seem to understand your position here. Cross me and I'll personally wipe your name from every book that hack's ever written. If you . . . guh . . ."
Henry gagged as more of the greenish jelly oozed out of his mouth. Choking, he grabbed for the obelisk—and stared, despite himself, as a little worm of a tendril emerged from the cut on his wrist and waved around.
The obelisk cracked with a sound like thunder. Something was emerging. Something was very much coming back into the world. Henry tried to run, but by then there wasn't much left to run with.
* * *
Professor Harrington dressed immaculately, expected total obedience, and ruled his students with the terror they deserved. Take that fellow, Walter something, who thought he knew so much. Five attempts to publish papers! He'd put a stop to that. Professor Harrington wasn't sure which were worse, the papers that disagreed with him and were therefore wrong, or the ones that agreed with him and were therefore stolen from his own work. He preferred his students frightened and a little obsequious. Take Henry Goss—handsome, intelligent, well-spoken. Now there was a fellow who understood fossilized gods, who agreed with all the professor's many ideas! What a shame Samantha hadn't taken to him yet. Well, in time . . .
The cafe didn't do much business in the early afternoon, which was fine with Professor Harrington. A cup of coffee, a bit of quiet, notes for his next monograph on chronodeific encephalization. Actually writing tests . . . administering them . . . grading them . . . he left to Walter. Let the lad be useful for something. Professor Harrington sipped his coffee. A bit odd that it was so dark out all of a sudden. Where had all those storm clouds come from, anyway? For that matter, why was a gigantic, well-dressed slug oozing away from the Royal Museum on a trail of greenish jelly? And why did it remind him of Henry Goss?
"Professor!" someone shouted. At that moment, a mighty flash of lightning struck, momentarily illuminating the clouds. There was something in them. Something huge. Alien. Beyond description, though it gave the flash impression of a daisy chain of monstrous squid.
"Professor!" came the cry—Walter, of course, come to invade even this sanctum of caffeinated peace. "Someone let out a re-energized Ur-deity exapted to a horror/destruction/grotesquerie axis by means of literary pseudo-worship!"
Professor Harrington blew air out his cheeks. "Always grandstanding, aren't you, boy?"
"But sir!"
The professor fixed the lad with a gimlet stare. "I've seen the like plenty of times. It's no more than some bored housewife's bad dream, possibly aided by special mushrooms and obsessive re-reading of Revelation. An altered-consciousness reflexiplexor quasi-power. Stop believing in it and it'll stop believing in you."
"But sir!" Walter insisted. Professor Harrington sighed. The boy wanted so badly to be important, but he just didn't have a sense of perspective. Chasing after South American kachina-spirits, trying to bottle them in dolls before the coyotes could mass to attack, that was a challenge. Baiting an angry hippo so you could collect the Golden Tic-Bird of Naraiba riding in its mouth, that was science. Carefully arranging ropes to let three hundred natives simultaneously open Chirontep's tomb and dilute the death-curse to a mere three-hundredth strength head cold, that was intellect. Still, if the boy was going to go around believing in some pathetic, paper-thin deity, it might just gain substance.
"Fine," the professor said. "I'll gather a couple dozen frat boys into the stadium and get them to unbelieve the new god out of existence. A free keg of beer ought to do it."
"But sir!"
"That will be all, Walter." Paying for his coffee, Professor Harrington shook his head and headed toward Frat Row.
* * *
Walter Hittenmiller knew that what he lacked in looks, physique, and breeding were more than made up for by a total lack of charm. He was invisible. Exploited, perhaps, but also free to pursue his own interests with practically no outside interference. He took the threat of the elder gods seriously. Not the gods themselves: The idiot authors who had to romanticize eldritch forces of inexplicable horror and creeping madness and thereby both shaped them and gave them power. This had been coming for a long time.
Too bad he still didn't have any idea what to do about it.
Walter dashed back to the museum, almost falling on an inexplicable trail of jelly. He spent half an hour making calls, leaving messages for anyone who might be even vaguely helpful. That done, he hurried back downstairs. Fighting the god seemed impossible, at least directly: Perhaps he'd find inspiration among the collections.
Leering idols mocked him, but told no secrets. Shimmering blobs of coalesced metaphysics just sat there, waiting for someone to believe in them. Petrified saints proudly displayed their agonies, but none rose to bless him. Struggling to keep calm, Walter decided on a mo
re systematic search, working his way up through the ages. Stone age, bronze age, Sumerian, Egyptian . . .
Samantha Harrington was hanging around the Egyptian collections, as she so often did, her green eyes dancing with amusement above a catty smile. Walter despaired, as he always did, of getting the professor's daughter to notice him—all the more so because that smile aroused a pesky flutter of hope in his breast. "No" is absolute. It's "maybe" that keeps hurting.
"Hullo, Wally," she purred.
"Hi, Sammy. You got any way to kill off a real bitch of an elder god?"
"You should call Zelazny. He's tops on man-god relations."