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
"Fetch it!" thundered the Saldine, "ere I set my pet upon you!" He plucked the salamander from under his armpit and whispered to it. It zipped over close to the men and bobbed menacingly about them. They could feel its heat even in that oven atmosphere.
The elemental added: "But one of you; the smaller. The other shall remain as hostage, and do ye but essay any treason or alarums, I'll embrace the fellow thus!" He grinned fiendishly and wrung an imaginary dishrag with his huge, fiery hands.
"Okay," capitulated Buckminster. "Got any dough, Carl?"
Grinnig wordlessly handed over his wallet. The elemental stood aside long enough to let Buckminster, wincing at the scorching radiation, duck out the garage door. The Saldine called the salamander back to him and fell into a statuesque pose in the doorway, arms folded across his mighty chest and feet spread.
Carl Grinnig, seeing the only easy exit blocked again, sat down wearily on the concrete floor. In the ensuing wait, he recovered some of his aplomb. Although he did not feel like a particularly dangerous Dane, he was too big and tough to be completely intimidated for long.
He remarked: "You never told me who you really are and what you want."
"Ha!" barked the Saldine and relapsed into silence.
"Okay, then I'll have to call you Arson."
"Arson?" The being grinned. "A good name, forsooth. How good, ye have yet no notion."
"How come you talk so funny?"
"Talk so funny?" frowned Arson. "What mean ye? Verily, I speak what was the best English at the time of the Treaty, in your year 1623. I can comprehend that the tongue may have degenerated since then."
Grinnig shed his dripping shirt. A package of cigarettes flopped out of the breast pocket; he took one out and lit it, and blew out the match.
"You!" shouted the elemental suddenly, and advanced with menacing steps. "What mean ye by destroying Fire, in my very presence?"
"B-but ... I just blew out the match. You wouldn't want me to burn my fingers? Or would you?" Grinnig flattened himself against the rear wall of the garage as the heat became intolerable.
"For that," thundered Arson, "ye shall— But not yet, for I need you as hostage. 'Tis such vile comportment that marks you and your kind for their just deserts! I am even informed that ye keep whole companies of men trained to quench fires!"
"You mean the fire departments?" sweated Grinnig. "Yeah, when a house catches fire, they try to put it out, natchly."
"Foul, wanton vandalism!" cried the Saldine. "When my brethren come—" He closed his mouth with a snap and retired, leaving Grinnig red of skin and half fainting from the roasting he had received.
"Hey, Mr. Grinnig!" called Clem Buckminster from outside the garage. "Tell him I got his stuff!"
Arson stood aside to admit the salesman with an armful of canvaslike material.
Buckminster explained: "I got it from a fire-apparatus company; it's one of these here asbestos suits. Got shoes and gloves. I borrowed a pair of tinsnips and some wire and fixed the helmet up so it looks almost like a hat. Looky. Took all our dough, even though it's secondhand."
While Buckminster chuckled with naive pleasure over his ingenuity, the elemental pulled on the suit. When it was all in place and he had put on the altered helmet, he looked quite human except for the orange glow of the face that glared out from under the hat brim. Otherwise he might have been an ash collector or some other dirty-job worker in the costume of his calling. The two men drew long breaths of relief as the searing heat rays were cut off for the nonce.
"Come!" commanded Arson. "To Paterson, Oo Jersey!" He cuffed them roughly ahead of him out of the garage and down the driveway, pausing to cast a speculative eye at Feldman's boardinghouse.
The fire engine was gone from the curb, although a couple of firemen were still in evidence. Several people were stacking furniture in the back yard. None paid attention to the trio, for in the bright sunlight, even the incandescence of Arson's face was not noticeable unless one looked closely.
The Saldine muttered: "Right well has my little pet done, and he shall yet have an opportunity to finish his task. Would I could stop to attend the matter myself! Go on, ye two!"
"Hey!" wailed Buckminster. "Are we gonna walk the whole way?"
"Of a certainty, unless you can provide a conveyance."
The salesman glanced down the street to where his car was parked, its stem just visible around the corner. "I got my car, but—"
"But what?"
"There wouldn't be room for all three of us, and anyway you'd burn it up!"
"Ha," said Arson flatly. He looked about. In the opposite direction a coal truck stood at the curb a block away. He pointed. "Is that one of your conveyances?"
"Yeah, it runs, if that's whatcha mean."
"Then shall we take it. It looks to be made of fire-resisting material."
"But it ain't ours! You can't just steal a truck like that!"
"Say you so?" snarled the fire man. He moved his arms, and the salamander appeared, bobbing up and down from the palm of his outstretched hand. "Shall I set my pet—"
"No, no," amended Buckminster quickly.
As they approached the truck, the men's hearts sank as they observed it to be unoccupied.
"The large one," announced Arson, "shall mount the rear of the conveyance with me. The other shall drive."
Grinnig hesitated just long enough for the elemental to make a move as if to seize him and throw him up into the empty truck bodily; the mechanic scrambled quickly up under his own power. Arson followed more deliberately. The truck's springs creaked as though a considerable load had been added.
When Buckminster nervously slid into the driver's seat, the Saldine banged on the back of the cab. "Can ye hear me?" he bellowed.
"Yeah, sure."
"Good. To Paterson, Oo Jersey, and swiftly!"
To get accustomed to the ponderous vehicle took Clem Buckminster several miles, and then he came to one of the approaches of the George Washington Bridge. Just before he reached the approach, it occurred to him that perhaps trucks were not allowed on the bridge. While he slowed the truck, torn between fear of Arson and fear of the law, a second thought told him that to get pinched was exactly what he wanted. On his whole trip from East Tremont Avenue, he had not seen a single policeman, who belong to a species that vanish like the snows in spring whenever one had a real need for them.
An occasional smell whiffed through the driver's cab; undoubtedly, thought Buckminster, scorched paint. The asbestos suit would eventually warm up so that it radiated almost as much heat as the naked Arson. He pushed the accelerator to the floor as the truck crested the middle of the bridge roadway and roared down the long slope toward the toll booths on the Jersey side.
He began to slow down as the distant blue-coated figures of the toll collectors came into view. Then a banging on the back of the cab informed him that Arson had words for him. They were: "Hasten! No stopping!" When Buckminster continued to apply the brake, he heard a shriek from Grinnig. Arson had snatched off a glove and thrust a fiery hand close to the luckless mechanic's face.
Clem Buckminster speeded up again, looking for a toll booth before which no autos were lined up. He found one, to his disappointment. Well, maybe the truck was too big to squeeze through the restricted opening and would get stuck between the concrete piers. If he had had suicidal courage, he might have chanced deliberately ramming an obstacle, but he was not that kind of person. He sighted on the opening as best he could and steered right through without even scratching the paint.
He was in the midst of the tangle of ramps west of the bridge when he at long last heard the welcome we-e-e-e-ew of a siren. Now he had to stop. As he slowed, a motorcycle pulled alongside. The cop pointed: "Down there!"