The Reluctant Shaman and Other Fantastic Tales

Buckminster steered into the less-used ramp indicated and came out on an ordinary street, where he stopped. The cop parked his cycle ahead of the truck and walked back. As he took out his pad he looked up at the cab with an expression more of pity than of anger. He said:

"Say, buddy, don't you know anything about the traffic laws?"

When Buckminster could not answer, the policeman added: "A grown man like you oughta know you can't drive ya truck across the bridge at fifty—"

"Ain't my truck," croaked Buckminster.

"Now listen, buddy, it don't matter whether you're hired to drive—"

"I stole it, see?" said the salesman.

At this the policeman's voice simply dried up, and he stared with his mouth open until a motion on the curb side of the truck attracted his attention. This was Arson, who had descended from the truck body and was walking forward to the motorcycle. The elemental bent over the vehicle with interest.

"Hey, leggo that!" yelled the cop as Arson experimentally wiggled the handle bars.

The Saldine ignored the command and removed his gloves for more intimate contact. As the policeman started toward him, he clamped his red-hot hands on the framework, picked the cycle up, and with a creaking of tortured metal calmly twisted the whole thing out of shape.

Buckminster could see the paint beginning to curl and smoke. A tire burst into flame. Then, with a loud whoof, the gasoline tank went off, and Arson was completely hidden in a vast cloud of flame and smoke. The cop jumped back and banged his elbow against a fender of the truck.

When the smoke cleared and the flames subsided, Arson was standing in a small sea of burning gasoline and still holding the blazing wreck of the cycle. He was unchanged except that his asbestos suit was of a dirtier gray than before.

"It ain't ... isn't real," said the cop to himself, rubbing his elbow.

The elemental now started toward the policeman, an evil grin on his glowing face. As he tramped he raised the motorcycle over his head. The cop shouted something which Buckminster missed, then drew his pistol. The gun barked three times, at a range where a miss was impossible. Each shot was followed by a metallic clang such as one hears after a hit on a shooting-gallery target. Arson grinned more widely and hurled the motorcycle. The cop ducked, but a handle bar struck his head and he tumbled to the concrete as the cycle whizzed past the cab window.

Arson in leisurely manner walked back and climbed into the truck. Far down the street a few civilians were standing and watching, but none seemed eager to investigate. "Hence!" roared the Saldine through the back of the cab.