The Second Reginald Bretnor Megapack

by Reginald Bretnor

  He was no coward. On the time machine he had built for his old friend General Pollard, he had observed the dreadful Mongol invasion of the West and visited the bloody field of Waterloo. With Mama, he had survived his kidnapping by the overbearing women star-travelers of the planet she had christened Beetlegoose Nine, when he had been made aware of the strange inhabitants of other worlds—but none of these adventures had really been by choice. Papa Schimmelhorn was definitely a lover, not a warrior. He had no desire at all to tangle with the Minotaur.

  He gulped again, and said the first thing his subconscious prompted him to say. “But shveetheart, mein Lidtle Philli, first I must go up to der turret und look after mein Gustav-Adolf. He iss a goot cat, ja. Remember how he has killed dot Tvitchgibbet? Und—und—” He reached out to wipe away a tear. “If die Gods, like you haff said, let der Minotaur vin, I vant him to know I haff nodt forgotten him!”

  She gazed at him in admiration. “Even now!” she exclaimed. “Even as you go forth to risk your life for me and for our sons, your thoughts are with your poor cat. How noble! How exalted! It befits you, love. Well, then, go—while I array myself appropriately. But hasten back, for as I said, we start within the hour!”

  Papa Schimmelhorn kissed her with all the passion he could muster, now very much below its normal level, ducked out into the corridor, and quickened his pace to get as far away from there as fast as possible. He had no idea at all of where to run. Driven by one imperative, his mind started offering him alternatives. Should he dash to the sea, plunge in, and swim to Crete where, as a foreign prince, perhaps he could find political asylum? Or should he simply try to find a castle hidey-hole, where not even the Princess would think to look for him? Or hide out in the woods? Or creep into some peasant’s humble stable? None of these seemed very practical, and as he scuttled first down one corridor, then another, he suddenly remembered Humphrey’s plea. Und vhy nodt? he thought. Der hum-uncle-us iss very old und shmart. Maybe he giffs der goot advice!

  He hurried to the topmost story, dashed down a corridor, skidded at its corner—and ran directly into Meister Gansfleisch, who had just closed the door to his own turret stairs behind him.

  As he put on the brakes, the alchemist backed up, bowing profoundly. “Great Prince!” he whined, his voice dripping sincere concern. “What brings you here? Bless me, you look perturbed! Oh, distinctly so! Is there anything I, your devoted servant, your poor disciple, can do to aid you?”

  Papa Schimmelhorn looked at him. Since his public repentance, Meister Gansfleisch had been extremely servile and obliging, going out of his way to perform the most menial tasks, anticipating every little royal wish. Suddenly now, he saw him not as a onetime deadly enemy, but at least as a possible temporary ally. He forgot all about seeking Humphrey’s counsel. Trying to catch his breath, he poured out his tale.

  Meister Gansfleisch listened unbelievingly, scarcely able to keep his hands and features from revealing his delight and his excitement.

  “Und so,” finished Papa Schimmelhorn, “I try to get avay! I do nodt vant to kill der poor Minotaur, und I do nodt vant der Minotaur to kill me! But how—vhere do I go? Iss novhere on der island. My lidtle Philli finds me eferyvhere!”

  “Please, please, Your Highness, Your Serene Highness!” Meister Gansfleisch reached out to touch his arm, and Papa Schimmelhorn didn’t even shrink away. “I know just how you feel. The Minotaur would tear you to shreds.” He narrowed his eyes shrewdly. “But, Highness, you have been kind to me. You have forgiven my envy and my animosity. I can show you where to hide. After all, it would only have to be for a few hours.”

  “Und then?” Papa Schimmelhorn asked dismally. “Vot aboudt vhen die Prinzessin finds oudt?”

  “Why, then it will not matter. She may be annoyed, of course—I’m sure she will be. But don’t forget that she’s in love with you, madly in love! She will forgive you. Then it won’t be till the next full moon before she can offer you to the Minotaur again, and in the meantime perhaps you can persuade her that the Gods don’t want you to confront him. Yes, that’s a splendid notion, indeed it is! You’ll disappear, and come out again when all’s clear, and tell her that the Gods themselves snatched you up—perhaps up to Olympus—and who’ll be the wiser?”

  “But vhere?” pleaded Papa Schimmelhorn.

  “Shh!” Meister Gansfleisch touched a gray finger to his lips. He made a great show of darting precautionary glances one way and another. “I know just the place—a place no one will ever think of looking for you.” He lowered his voice. “It is on the Mound of the Labyrinth itself, on the other side, not very far away. You can easily reach it without being seen if you go quickly along the beach under the cliffs, then climb the path that rises below the little copse. I alone have the key, and I will let you take it.” He hesitated, putting a little extra whine in his voice. “But if I do this, Highness, will you promise never to tell anyone that I have done it? And will you intercede for me with her when you return and she is no longer angry? So that I can again use my laboratory without restriction? Will you do these small things for your servant, Highness?”

  His Highness, who at that moment would have promised anything for a key to a secure hiding place, declared fervently that he would indeed.

  “Then wait a second, just a tiny second!” Meister Gansfleisch, hardly able to contain his glee at the way things were developing, scuttled up his stairs, hurriedly took the bronze key from its strongbox, and—allowing himself only a moment to gloat luxuriously—brought it to Papa Schimmelhorn, who took it with a sigh of gratitude.

  “Yes, yes! We will get you there without being seen! Though the moon has risen, there will be many shadows in which to hide. Highness, go directly to the beach—you do know how?”

  Papa Schimmelhorn did indeed, having gone there more than once with Niki and Emmy. “Ja, ja!” he answered. “Es ist gut! At night iss nefer anybody there.”

  “And you know the path of which I spoke, rising to the copse?”

  “Ja, ja!”

  “Well, at its very top, take a sharp turn to your left, through the thicket, and you’ll see the door immediately in front of you. Unlock it. Let it close behind you. It will be dark—it was once a hermit’s chapel—but you won’t mind that for only a few hours. In the morning, enough light will seep in so that you can see the door and open it again.”

  He handed the key to Papa Schimmelhorn, who took it with tears in his eyes, thinking that Humphrey had been wrong—that this toad did at least vear a precious chewel in der head—and that he would tell him so.

  Two minutes later, slipping quietly out of a back door to the castle, he was on his way.

  The walk took him three-quarters of an hour. Two or three times, he had to seek the shelter of the shadows, once from a pair of lovers too busy with each other to see him anyhow, and once or twice from drunken villagers noisily making their way home. As fast as possible, he climbed the path up to the copse. He pushed his way through the dark thicket. There, as Meister Gansfleisch had promised him, was the door, revealed clearly by the moon. It too was of metal, of brass or bronze, but it was comfortingly smaller than the one for sacrifices. He slipped the key into its hole. He turned it. The lock protested, but it moved. He removed the key. He entered. He pushed the door shut, heard the lock’s heavy click behind him. He took two slow steps forward into the darkness—

  With no warning whatsoever, his feet flew out from under him, and he was plunging down a stone slide, smooth, slippery, and precipitous. Instinctively, he reached out for a handhold, for anything to break his fall. His hands touched nothing but polished limestone. Then, just as abruptly, he hit bottom, slid a dozen feet, and was harshly halted by a wall he could not see. His spear, coming down behind him, hit him in the posterior beneath his goatskin skirt, luckily with its blunt end.

  For a minute or two, he just sat there, letting his eyes get acc
ustomed to the darkness, and gradually he saw that the darkness was by no means absolute. There was a glow ahead of him, faint, nebulous, emanating from the limestone ceiling of the tunnel in which he sat, and he could see the open mouths of other tunnels gaping ahead of him, dark and uninviting. Slowly he stood. In the distance, resounding eerily from the stone walls, came a medley of ungodly noises, moans and screeches, as though Twitchgibbet and all his big and little friends had combined with the most revolting contemporary punk rock groups to strain the limits of disharmony.

  He listened. Still in shock, he looked at his environment. He walked apprehensively to the first gaping tunnel, looked down it, saw that still other tunnels opened into it.

  Suddenly he realized that he had been betrayed—and the dreadful degree of his betrayal. “Lieber Gott!” he cried, in a voice straight out of Greek tragedy. “I am in der Labyrinth!”

  His eyes darted hither and yon, searching for a possible escape route. There was none.

  And now, in the distance, over the cacophony, he heard a sound far more ominous, infinitely more frightening: the sound of massive footsteps, coming closer, closer, echoing and re-echoing as heavily clawed toes struck the flagstones—and with that sound came another, a terrible roaring, rather like a cross between an enraged lion and a chain saw.

  He turned. He ran a dozen steps. He recognized the utter futility of running. The footsteps and the roaring grew louder, louder, until they filled the entire passageway.

  Papa Schimmelhorn froze. Eyes bugging out, he stared down the limestone tunnel.

  The Minotaur appeared. At first, he simply loomed, his outlines indefinite. Then Papa Schimmelhorn saw that he was indeed more than ten feet tall, that he was horned and horribly fanged, that his enormous arms and hands were raised to seize and clutch. He wore a massive crossbelt, brightly jeweled, and nothing else, and his maleness was appalling in its magnitude.

  Papa Schimmelhorn, with a sob, bethought himself of those Swiss pikemen who, in the old days, had held off the vaunted knights of Austria and Spain. Preparing to sell his life dearly, he tried to remember how they held their spears.

  Roaring, the Minotaur came on.

  Papa Schimmelhorn stared at him again—and his spear fell from his hand.

  X.

  Among the Missing

  Knowing little or nothing of Labyrinths and Minotaurs, and knowing her own husband very well indeed, Mama Schimmelhorn was neither surprised nor frightened at the news of his vanishment; and Sarpedon Mavronides, his wits about him, at once took steps to see that, at least for the time being, she would be tucked away where she could neither lock horns with the Princess nor learn about the perils threatening him.

  He turned to her with a profound bow. “Gracious lady,” he said, “this isle is fraught with dangers. Its cliffs are high and steep, the waters that surround it treacherous. The Prince—that is, er, your esteemed husband has been fond of walking all alone in the moonlight—”

  Mama Schimmelhorn sniffed.

  “—and also of swimming out to sea, and even though he is a powerful man, we naturally have feared for his safety. But at this time there is nothing you yourself can do to help either him or those who seek him. May I escort you to his turret, to the rooms he occupied, where you can refresh yourself after your journey? If you wish, I shall send a servant girl up to you, perhaps with tea and cakes. You can rest there till we have something to report.”

  “I do nodt need to rest,” stated Mama Schimmelhorn.

  “But my dear Frau Schimmelhorn,” put in Dr. Nymphenbourg, catching on, “wouldn’t it really be a good idea? Then when they bring him back, they’ll know just where to take him.”

  She regarded the psychiatrist with distaste, hating to admit that possibly he had a point. Hefting her umbrella, she hesitated.

  “Yes,” said Mavronides, “you will be there to comfort him, especially if he has been injured. One reason we have been so worried is because today he did not feed his cat, something he always does.”

  “You mean Gustav-Adolf iss up inside der turret?” she demanded.

  “Yes, Madame.”

  She tapped the umbrella’s ferrule on the stones decisively. “Dirty old man!” she snapped. “Imachine! Nodt efen feeding poor Gustav-Adolf. An oudraitch! Vell okay, I vill go up and vait for him, und I vould like a lidtle tea, perhaps vith some schnapps inside, und for Gustav-Adolf maybe some raw liffer.”

  “I shall escort you,” said Mavronides. He turned to Dr. Rumpler, who had been fizzing angrily. “Herr Doktor, my apologies. I shall return immediately. Perhaps you and your assistants would do the Princess the favor of helping her to search for him in your fine helicopter?”

  Dr. Rumpler frowned. He said that of course they would be glad to help. He ordered Mavronides to be quick about it.

  “Perhaps also,” Mavronides added, “we first will try to find the Princess herself so that you may speak with her.”

  Mama Schimmelhorn made a rude noise, but when he bowed to her and requested that she follow him, she went without demur.

  Once in the turret, Mavronides phoned the kitchens, found one serving maid still on the job, and ordered tea, little cakes, schnapps, and raw liver. Mama Schimmelhorn, busy petting Gustav-Adolf and letting him tell her how he and his pretty calico had been abandoned, scarcely said good-bye to him; and she devoted the next few minutes partly to the cats and partly to a minute examination of the turret, looking for evidences of feminine occupancy. In the courtyard, the helicopter’s rotors boomed again as it took off.

  The tea came, and she had the girl put it on the little table where Papa Schimmelhorn had been in the habit of having his discussions with the homunculus. She sipped, ate her small cakes, fed Gustav-Adolf and his purring girlfriend, and discoursed at length on her husband’s unnumbered misdeeds.

  So preoccupied was she that some time passed before she noticed that a tiny, feeble voice was calling to her.

  “Vot iss?” she asked, wrinkling her brows. “Papa has maybe somevhere left der radio on, oder der TV?”

  She listened attentively. It was indeed a voice, a very little voice, and it was calling out quite clearly, “Help! Help! Help!”

  “Vhere are you?” she demanded.

  The voice had sounded as though it were coming from behind the fireplace, so from her black handbag she took her hearing aid, an instrument she needed only occasionally, to listen to her husband through a door or floor. She pressed it against the marble.

  “Pray help me, gentle lady!” the tiny voice was pleading. “By God’s grace, I do implore you! I thirst and hunger and grow faint. The Prince, who whilom always treated me with kindness, now has fled away and left me here!”

  “Ach, so!” growled Mama Schimmelhorn. “Iss nodt bad enough he forgets to feed die katzen. Now ve find somevun else!”

  “My name is Humphrey, gentle lady,” said the tiny voice, “and I am trapped behind this fireplace, where he has left me.”

  “Okay,” said Mama Schimmelhorn, “ve try to get you oudt. Maybe I can get somevun vith der hammer oder der crowbar und break it down.”

  “No breaking will be needed, praise God!” the voice informed her. “I am here in a secret orifice. If thou wilt press with thy two fingers two spots upon the marble to the right, it all will swing away and reveal my hiding place.”

  There were two spots, and two only, visible on the marble slab. She pressed each with an index finger, and abruptly the slab swung back.

  Peering inside, she saw a large glass jar of obvious antiquity. Then, in it, she saw Humphrey. The poor homunculus, standing on his chair, was doing his best to cling to the jar’s rim.

  “Vell,” she remarked, “a lidtle man! Shmaller efen than on Beetlegoose. Vot next?”

  “Pray take me out!” the little man was saying. “This fluid I live in will not injur
e you, nor will it soil your hands. Oh, take me out and seat me on my chair, for I have much to tell you!”

  “Okay,” said Mama Schimmelhorn. “Keep die britches on.” She wrestled out the jar. She placed it on the table. Reaching into the fluid, she lifted Humphrey out, fished out his chair, seated him.

  Humphrey leaned forward. Ever so gently, he touched one of her fingers with his little hands. “Before we speak—oh, do not waste a moment, I implore you!—pray lock and bolt the door. No one here, in this pagan keep where the Black Arts are practiced and she rules, must know about me. I would be in mortal peril!”

  “Already I haff locked und bolted,” she replied. “Alvays in foreign countries I do first.”

  Humphrey emitted a small sigh. “It was your brave and generous husband who protected me,” he told her, “just as your noble cat first saved me from that cursed rat-fiend, Twitchgibbet—”

  “Vait a minute! Hold die horses!” she broke in. “Begin in der beginning. Nefer in all mein life I see a man so shmall. Vhere vere you born?”

  He sighed again. “Alas!” he said. “Gentle lady, I came into existence without being born. This wretched body was created by process magical four hundred years ago, as a trap for me, and I shall not offend your tender sensibilities by telling how ’twas done. I am what necromancers and the like term a homunculus…”

  And he went on to tell her his whole story, very much as he had already told it to Papa Schimmelhorn.

  She was enchanted by him, by his faded doublet, his worn, patched hose and rumpled ruff, his miniature beard. At first she listened to him incredulously, but his sincerity—and indeed the very fact of his existence—convinced her. When he informed her that honeyed brandy was his sole sustenance, she hurried to find the brandy bottle and the honey jar, and filled his thimble for him twice.