The Reluctant Shaman and Other Fantastic Tales
- Автор: Де Камп Лайон Спрэг
- Год: 1970
- Язык: английский
- Год: Pyramid Books
- Жанр: Научная фантастика
Электронная книга - «The Reluctant Shaman and Other Fantastic Tales». Краткое содержание книги:
And plunge headlong into the always wild, constantly weird, and frequently whimsical realm of fantasy as invoked by that master magician L. SPRAGUE DE CAMP!
* A social protestor who just happens to be a ghost...
* A mail-order magic business that conjures up a universe of trouble...
* A fledgling wizard who doesn't know the strength of his own power...
And these are only a sprinkling of the outrageous and amazing creatures and things you'll encounter as you whir through a world where everything is probable--
THE RELUCTANT SHAMAN
THE HARDWOOD PILE
NOTHING IN THE RULES
THE GHOST OF MELVIN PYE
THE WISDOM OF THE EAST
MR. ARSON
KA THE APPALLING
Iantha peeled off her land-woman's clothes and pulled on the emerald bathing cap. Vining, watching her with the skirt of his overcoat whipping about his legs, felt as if his heart was running out of his damp shoes onto the sand.
They shook hands, and Iantha kissed them both. She squirmed down the sand and into the water. Then she was gone. Vining thought he saw her wave back from the crest of a wave, but in that visibility he couldn't be sure.
They walked back to the car, squinting against the drops. Laird said: "Listen, Mark, you look as if you'd just taken a right to the button."
Vining merely grunted. He had gotten in front with Laird and was drying his glasses with his handkerchief, as if that were an important and delicate operation.
"Don't tell me you're hooked?"
"So what?"
"Well, I suppose you know there's absolutely nothing you can do about it."
"Herb!" Vining snapped angrily. "Do you have to point out the obvious?"
Laird, sympathizing with his friend's feelings, did not take offense. After they had driven a while, Vining spoke on his own initiative.
"That," he said, "is the only woman I've ever known that made me feel at ease. I could talk to her."
Later, he said, "I never felt so damn mixed up in my life. I doubt whether anybody else ever did, either. Maybe I ought to feel relieved it's over. But I don't."
Pause. Then: "You'll drop me in Manhattan on your way back, won't you?"
"Sure, anywhere you say. Your apartment?"
"Anywhere near Times Square will do. There's a bar there I like."
So, thought Laird, at least the normal male's instincts were functioning correctly in the crisis.
THE GHOSTS OF MELVIN PYE
There it was again.
Bernard Rigoulot heaved himself up on one elbow, staring into the darkness.
He told himself, Don't be a fool, Barney. It's your imagination. There ain't no such things—it's your imagination. You're getting old—ought to go to a doctor. If you can't afford a doctor, a clinic then!
The argument between two persons murmured and twittered along the floor and up the wall.
Rigoulot thought, If they're going to keep me awake, they might talk so as I can hear them.
The argument waxed suddenly, like a radio turned up.
"You scoundrel, he's awake," said one voice.
"I know, buddy," said the second voice.
"You'll scare him!"
"That's what I wanna do."
"It's against the rules." Here came a vulgar noise made with the mouth. Then an apparition appeared.
It was the wraith of a stout, dark man of forty, with a small mustache, and dressed in a neatly pressed, doublebreasted dark suit. It leaned over the foot of the bed, extended a plump forefinger, and said: "Boo!"
Rigoulot poked his wife. "Hey, honey! Wake up!"
Bertha awoke. "What is it?"
"Looky there! Do you see what I see?"
"Looks like a ghost," she said.
"I am a ghost!" the wraith said. "Heh-heh-heh!"
"Eeeeek!" said Mrs. Rigoulot, and pulled the covers over her head.
"Heh-heh," continued the ghost. "That's showing 'em, Phony, old boy?"
"Will you stop?" said a voice—either the same voice or another identical with it. At that point, Rigoulot, too, pulled the covers over his head.
The Conroy Realty Company—in private life George Conroy—looked up from its desk with a forced smile, knowing that tenants called only about complaints.
"Hello, Mr. Conroy," said Bernard Rigoulot.
"Hello, Mr.—uh—Rigoulot," said Conroy. "I'll have a man over to fix that burner in a couple of days."
Rigoulot ignored that remark. "I aim to break my lease," he said.
"You can't do that! A lease is a contract. I'll have that oil burner fixed!"
" 'Tain't that. It's ha'nts."
"Ants? I'll get the exterminator."
"Ha'nts, not ants. Ghosts—things that go woooo."
"You're crazy, man."
Rigoulot shook his head.
"I seen what I seen, and so did my wife," he said. "Yesterday my hands was shaking so I couldn't draw. So I'm leaving unless you can get rid of the ha'nts."
"Now Mr. Rigoulot, what's the real reason you want to leave?"
"I told you. Ha'nts."
Conroy sighed. "Look. Will you stay on if I spend a night in your house and see the ghost?"
"Mebbe. If you can get rid of the ghost, I'll see."
When Rigoulot had left, Conroy spoke to his secretary.
"Mrs. Small, get out the file on that block of houses on One Hundred Seventy-Fifth Place." Then he answered the telephone.
"Yes, Mrs. Barth, I'll send a man over right away. In a couple of days. Well, next Friday at the latest."
"Better do something about that stove, Mr. Conroy," said the secretary. "The Barths are two months behind on their rent and say they won't pay until it's fixed."
"Did you send them the usual notices?"
"Yes, but they didn't weaken."
Conroy sighed. "Guess we'll have to fix their blasted stove. Find out how much it'll be."
Mrs. Small got out the file on Rigoulot's house, and Conroy studied it.
"Unh," he said. "That's where that guy Pye was killed. That was before we took over the block. Em."
"Scared?" said Mrs. Small.
Before Conroy could frame a biting reply, the telephone rang again.
"It's Miss Winston," Mrs. Small said.
The Conroy Realty Company disappeared and George Conroy, the Man, took its place. He spoke into the instrument in monosyllables, half of them being "Unh."
"Okay, Babs, six," he ended. "By-by."
"Why don't you marry her, boss?" said Mrs. Small. "You owe it to her after monopolizing her time for ten years. Or are you afraid of dividing up your income?"
Conroy glared.
"I don't pry into your affairs, Mrs. Small!" he growled, and buried himself in the file on Rigoulot's house.
Conroy arrived at the Rigoulot house at 9 P.M. and drank the glass of beer that Rigoulot offered him. Mrs. Rigoulot excused herself and went to bed. Conroy did not miss her, for her conversation was confined to platitudes.
"You're one of my prize tenants, you know," he told Rigoulot. "Always on time with the rent. I'd hate to lose you."
"I was just brought up that way," said Rigoulot. "I don't accep' favors. But see here: I can't live in a ha'nted house. If I get so shaky I can't draw, you won't have no rent or tenant or nothing." He looked at the clock. " 'Leven fifty. Guess it's time to turn the lights out."
The time they sat in the darkness seemed longer than it actually was. Then a faint mutter trickled along the wainscoting. It drifted this way and that, growing louder. Conroy felt that his blood had left his viscera to concentrate in his scalp.
"Ga wan, scram!"
"How dare you!"
"To hell with the rules. I'm feeling good. Whoop!"
The apparition popped into view.
Conroy was as brave as most, and there was nothing too alarming about a plump, middle-aged ghost in a double-breasted suit. But Conroy had his share of atavistic fears. He rose, tensing Ms muscles to keep his knees from knocking.
"Who are you?" said Conroy.
"Heh-heh," said the ghost. "So you're that low-down landlord? Another mama's boy, like Phony. Watch out! Gonna getcha!" The ghost grimaced and extended clutching hands.
Conroy stood it as long as he could. Then something snapped, and he found himself outside and running. Ghostly laughter behind him made him run faster. But he did not go too fast to reflect that this phenomenon was practically certain to cost him money ...