The First Reginald Bretnor Megapack

by Reginald Bretnor

  Suddenly his fear welled up within him, and the certain outcome, whose certainty he had not fully dared to face, confronted him, and through his mind flowed all those thoughts which come to men who know that they must die. Thoughts of those loved, those lost, those who would never touch his hand again. He tried to tell himself that even though he died his country could not lose. Nor could the world. Feng could not win.

  Oh, God! Were there now only twenty seconds between him and death? Twenty? Or twenty-five? Perhaps fifteen?

  He dropped his eyes. He saw the fingers of Marshal Feng’s left hand, around the fore end of the pointed gun. Five precious seconds passed before he comprehended their significance. Their knuckles were beginning to run white, and on the index finger’s tip stood one small drop of sweat. And there was one thing more.

  Then his own fear fell away, and he raised his eyes again, and looked once more into the eyes of Feng Teh-chih, and smiled.

  “Ten!” called the Uruguayan brigadier.

  Slowly, with the ticking clock, he counted down, while the Marshal and the President measured the death that lay between them. The brigadier’s own voice rising high against his will, he counted down to Six, to Five, to Four…

  And, with four seconds left, Feng very deliberately put his shotgun on the table, and stood up.

  It was an excellent performance. His face, carefully composed, showed only anger and contempt. Even his voice, at first, was thoroughly controlled. “This is an idiocy!” he said. “Did you think that I, Feng Teh-chih, would really sit and play your stupid game?” Then suddenly he yelled, “It can prove nothing, nothing, nothing! I shall not let the Chinese people be cheated by this trick of the imperialists! Never! I—I shall yet defeat you, weak Giroux!”

  Loring Giroux, of course, did not learn what he had said until he heard it translated later—but he divined its meaning. “Well, Marshal Feng,” he answered, “are you leaving us? These shotguns are as nothing compared to H-bombs. Surely you aren’t going to give up so good a chance to prove that I’m a paper tiger?”

  Feng did not wait for a translation. He sent his chair crashing to the floor. He bellowed to his seconds. Without another word, he marched out through the door, and they followed him.

  Loring Giroux knew that death left with them. Gradually his fingers on the shotgun relaxed. Mechanically, he opened the gun, took out the shells. He pushed his own chair back—

  Then there was tumult all around him. Estrada Orde had pulled him to his feet and was embracing him. Major Ouyang was doing his best to shake his hand. Quinton, swearing mightily, was pounding him on the back. Newsmen were swarming in, and the TV crews were practically hysterical. Champagne, as if by magic, had appeared out of nowhere.

  It was not until some hours afterwards, when finally they were relaxing in the plane, that General Quinton said, “My God, that was tight there for a while. Laurie, I would’ve sworn that guy would never chicken out.”

  “He didn’t,” the President replied.

  “Sir?”

  “He didn’t. He’s no coward. He’s just completely practical; he’d never give his life unless he’d win by doing it—undying fame, perhaps. At least a victory. He had me buffaloed for just a minute though—until I saw his hands. He wasn’t keyed up half enough—not for a man who’d put on all those raving acts. His hands were tight, but they weren’t tight enough, and they were steady as a rock. It was then I knew he wouldn’t go the route, that he was waiting for me to back down. He’s not a poker player.”

  “What about that threat that he’d defeat you later?”

  “That was for the home folks. Now he’s going to try and play another hand. He figures he’ll get it all explained away, or if not, he’ll simply polish off the opposition. That was the reason for hinting that he’d planned it. This time, I think he’s wrong. I think he’s done for. His people don’t like losers.”

  * * * *

  A fortnight later, Loring Giroux dismissed a special evening meeting of his Cabinet, and went upstairs to where his wife was waiting. He scratched the sheepdog by the desk. He rubbed Beauregard’s smug whiskers. “That cat’s getting fatter than a pig,” he said. “What you been feeding him?”

  She smiled at him. “Shrimp, liver, and filet mignon.”

  “He has it coming. He’s no paper tiger.” He returned her smile. “You’ve heard the news?”

  “Feng?”

  “Yes, he’s down the drain. But, Jen, that isn’t all. The Chinese have just sent a message to the world. They want no cross-the-table shotgun duels; they said exactly that. They want to settle all outstanding differences. It’s just been broadcast.”

  She came to him, and took his hands, and kissed him on the lips. “Oh, God!” she whispered. “Like Cousin Kerby fought the steamboat man—Oh, thank God!”

  Then Loring Giroux put his arm around her, and led her to the doors that gave out on the balcony, and threw them open.

  They stood there together, breathing the clear new air.

  FUNGO THE UNRIGHTEOUS

  It was the great good fortune of the people of the Triple Kingdom of Upper, Middle, and Lower Vuthland that they never experienced the political uncertainty besetting their neighbors, for from the day their sovereign ascended the throne to the day of his (or her) death, the course of the reign was as fixed and determined as the procession of the suns. It was a splendidly simple system. When it came time for the incumbent to die in battle, or (far more commonly) to perish of a surfeit of lampreys, or to be sleeping slain (as was of course right and proper), the royal astrologer would convene the entire membership of the three Royal Vuthlandian Colleges of Astrologers, Diviners, and Soothsayers, and they would solemnly attend a beasting, where they would consult the entrails of a virgin male cwisamp (of the footed variety). Then they would proclaim the name the heir to the throne would bear, the character he would assume, the number of years he would reign, and the date and manner of his death.

  It worked wonderfully. For centuries, the kingdom had been ruled by such memorable figures as Grundius the Ungodly (802-847), Throd Tanglewit (870-879), Hargust the Torturer (1055-1102), Scrandeg the Conqueror (1147-1152), the infamous Waltzing Matilda (1205-1233, about whom a song was written hundreds of years later), Aproprong the Profligate (1256-1286), and Herf the Merciful (August 1314).

  Now it so happened that in the fall of 1388, when Yarskald Throatbiter was all set to die in the third year of his reign, next in line for the crown was a handsome young prince named Fungo. He had every virtue. He was always merry and openhanded, kindly and courteous. He loved to go off for days, dancing and singing with the Gypsies, with whom he was a great favorite. (Their queen, an ancient crone called Mama Gabor, had formally adopted him into her tribe.) He was a great horseman, and a great hunter and swordsman as well. Indeed, if he can be said to have had any fault whatsoever, it was in his extreme naiveté. This deeply distressed the lovely Lady Clysomel, with whom he was madly in love and who loved him dearly, for she was the step-niece of Kostra Karbunkel, the royal astrologer now for more than one reign—a bitter, lecherous, treacherous old man who was also, by a royal edict he had connived for, her legal guardian.

  So, when it became known that Yarskald was on his deathbed, she pleaded with Fungo to take her away, to flee far from the three Vuthlands. “Let’s take swift horses, my love,” she begged. “There are those in your stables none other can catch. We’ll take gold and jewels enough, and our most faithful servants. Even if we cannot be king and queen, we shall be happy.” And she began to weep softly.

  Gently, Fungo smoothed her glistening black tresses, and gently he tried to dissuade her. “Beautiful Clysomel, you shall indeed be a queen. Before the week’s out, you shall be my queen. I cannot believe that your step-uncle, unpleasant as he undoubtedly is, can wish anyone as sweet and charming as you any real harm.”

 
“Harm?” she cried, “Fungo, he not only wishes me harm—he wants me, that vile old man! He wants me for himself. And the Gods only know what he’ll read in that poor cwisamp’s entrails at the beasting.”

  But Fungo was much too innocent to believe her, for it was not in him to think that anyone could be as cruel and as despicable as she had painted her uncle. So, when the old man had departed, she betook herself, escorted only by one trusted groom, to the camp of the Gypsies in a birch forest near Farvath, the capital city, and there she bared her heart to old Mama Gabor.

  Gravely, shaking her head once in a while, the ancient Gypsy listened to her. She read the lines in her right hand and the lines in her left. For perhaps fifteen minutes, she peered intently into a crystal ball that gleamed on the table between them. She consulted a curious and frightening tarot deck known only to the Gypsies of Vuthland. Finally, she clapped her wrinkled hands, and a pretty young Gypsy came in with a smoking samovar on a tray, and teacups, and Mama Gabor showed the Lady Clysomel how to swirl the leaves around after she’d finished her third cup.

  Then, staring at the pattern of the leaves, she spoke. “Soon, soon,” she said, “you, dear child, you and your good Prince will suffer distress which you will think you cannot survive. The old man whom you fear will part you. He is determined on a terrible destiny for Prince Fungo, and one even more terrible for you. What he is even now reading in the entrails is what his own twisted mind dictates, and he will proclaim it tomorrow at the enthronement. … Hush, hush, my dear!” She soothed as Clysomel burst into tears. “Though you are facing something unspeakable, you must not lose heart. No, no! You must hasten back to the Palace with this message from Mama Gabor for Prince Fungo. Listen well! Tell him I say that when he is ordered to do evil, as he will be, he must not follow his true nature and refuse. Instead, he must wait till we Gypsies come up to kneel at the throne, for that is when he must ask me one question, which I have written on this piece of paper. Tell him, and tell him again, my Lady—for all will then depend upon him. But he must not unfold the paper until that very moment!”

  So the Lady Clysomel, somewhat heartened, hastened back to the Palace, sought out the Prince, and told him all that had occurred. He, of course, took little notice of it, but simply to set her mind at ease he took Mama Gabor’s message and promised faithfully that he would ask the question written in it when the time came.

  Yarskald Throatbiter died at seven of the evening, exactly on schedule, and at once bells began tolling and trumpets and conchs started braying all through the land, informing the folk that the king was duly dead and they would have a new king on the morrow.

  Naturally, they had already assembled by tens of thousands: rough, surly Lower Vuthlanders in their hairy goatskin breeks; sleek Mid-Vuthian silk and spice merchants and subtle artisans; gangling, boastful mountaineers from Upper Vuthland all swaggering in cwisamp-hide capes and bragging in coarse nasal voices. Everyone who could possibly get away was there, for the enthronement of the new king was the most exciting event of many a year, and till it was accomplished no plans could be made, no courses of action decided upon either in business or agriculture or even in matters of romance. But the crowds were in excellent spirits, for they all knew that Fungo was heir to the throne, and all wished him well.

  Immediately after the death of the king, Prince Fungo was ceremonially taken in charge by, among others, the Lord Chamberlain, and solemnly invested with the regalia and raiment of Majesty: the Great Necklace heavy with beautifully polished cwisamp gizzard-stones, the mace, the sword of power (which had, incidentally, been used to end four previous reigns), the three crowns symbolizing each of the realms, and the enormously heavy robes of the sovereign.

  Encumbered with these, Fungo presided at the ritual banquet, at which any number of dignitaries devoured the late king’s funereal meats. He would much rather have been with his Clysomel, but he did what he knew was his duty, telling himself that next day, right after his enthronement, he and she would be united in marriage.

  He slept well that night, breakfasted cheerfully, and shortly afterwards suffered himself to be escorted to the great square facing the palace, where it seems the entire population of the country had assembled, cheering themselves hoarse. The throne stood on a dais which had three levels, surrounded by a squadron of Royal Guard cavalry and a battalion of Royal Guard infantry. On its lowest level stood the Lord Mayor of Farvuth, many members of the petty nobility, and the more worshipful sort of civil servants. On the next level up, the great nobles were proudly arrayed, all in their picturesque regional costume and gaudy with decorations and gems. But on the highest level of all, besides the generals of the Royal Guard (of whom there were several), there was only Kostra Karbunkel and a score of his most important fellow astrologers, diviners, and soothsayers.

  Fungo ascended the steps to the throne, pausing occasionally to acknowledge a bow or a curtsey, or allow his hand to be kissed, but doing so very abstractedly, for his mind was on Clysomel, who was nowhere in sight.

  “Pray seat yourself, Majesty,” said the royal astrologer, his voice like a crow’s caw, and his dry, narrow face a mask of unconcealed triumph. Fungo, looking at him, saw that on an ivory table at his side was a silver salver bearing the cwisamp entrails that had decided his fate. They smelled dreadful, and he wrinkled his nose. “Where is Clysomel?” he demanded.

  Karbunkel leered. “She’s been told to stay home, Sire, for she has no part in these ceremonies—no, nor in your royal future.” His thin tongue darted out, licked his lips. “But I have other nice little plans for her, never fear!”

  We’ll see about that! Fungo thought grimly, but he forced himself to say nothing.

  Then Karbunkel blew a single shrill note on an ancient horn he drew from his robes. “Let the rites proceed!” he proclaimed; and he was instantly echoed by eighty stentorial heralds stationed in every part of the square.

  First the generals of the Guard came up, knelt before Fungo, and swore absolute obedience to his every word and whim. Then the greater nobility did likewise, followed by the lesser nobles, the Lord Mayor, and the civil servants.

  There was a moment of breathless silence while Karbunkel stood there, both arms held up to heaven. “And now,” he declared, “Now you shall learn what the history of our King Fungo’s reign shall be, as revealed by these infallible significators!” And he pointed at the entrails, over which a great many flies were now buzzing.

  “You, Noble King, from this moment on shall be known to all men as FUNGO THE UNRIGHTEOUS! You shall exact the cruelest taxes in our long history! You shall ravish maidens, and have innocent men put to death! Your name will be a stench in the nostrils, and will be reviled throughout the length and breadth of the Three Kingdoms! You will savagely persecute all those of whom the royal astrologers disapprove, especially the Gypsies! You shall be cursed by rich and poor alike, for your every act from this moment on—from this most auspicious moment on—shall damn you as enemy of all righteous men and all righteousness! You shall marry the Princess Savaka of Utt, and with her you will sleep every night of your life—”

  Here a great groan rose from the crowd, for not only were they all deeply shocked at the prognostication, but they knew that the Princess Savaka was renowned for her promiscuity and foul temper.

  “—and—” cried out Clysomel’s step-uncle, raising his voice, “you shall rule for the term of 12 years, 9 months, and 8 days, and shall perish finally of fish-spears thrust severally through you! I have spoken!”

  Fungo was thoroughly stricken. He sat on his throne, trying manfully to hold back his tears and to keep his hands from trembling too visibly, and conscious that he was pale as a ghost. He had almost cried out that the last thing he wanted was to be the Unrighteous, but fortunately he had remembered the message. The astrologer bowed to him mockingly, then stepped aside so that the traditional approach of the King’s subjects to the
foot of the throne could begin.

  Usually, at this point in the ceremony, there was a mighty shouting from the multitude, a blaring of horns and a ruffle of drums, an eager pealing of bells, as people surged forward to pledge their loyalty. Now there was a dead silence. No one moved.

  Then suddenly, out of the crowd, the new king beheld two figures approaching. The first, wearing bright silken robes and garlands of precious gold coins, was Mama Gabor, tall and erect in spite of her age. Her companion, obviously younger, was similarly garbed but had her face veiled demurely.

  “Let the old witch approach, Majesty,” hissed Kostra Karbunkel in King Fungo’s ear, “then tell her what persecutions you have in mind for her, ha-ha-ha!”

  Fungo had been fumbling nervously in his purse, fearful that he might have misplaced the message, but finally he’d found it. Now, surreptitiously, he unfolded and read it.

  “Your Majesty,” he read, “you must ask me this question: Mother Gabor, must I obey the cruel prophesy about my behavior, which is so much against my real nature? Then you must not be surprised at my answer. Fear not.”

  As Mama Gabor knelt at his feet, he reached his hand out to her. In a loud, strong, clear voice, he asked her the question, and throughout the square the eighty heralds repeated it.

  “Lord,” answered the Gypsy. “No man has ever dared to dispute the auguries, so you must obey. You must obey literally and without reservation. You must become the enemy of all righteous men, and the more righteous they are, the more cruel must you be to them.” Her black eyes glittered, and she winked at him. Then she stared directly at Kostra Karbunkel. “The most righteous first!”