The Best From Fantasy & Science Fiction Part 25

There was a silence. Then Zeke said, "I've got to go tell the rest of the guys." He looked at us kind ofhelplessly. "I guess there's not much sense picketing any more."

"No, I guess not," I said.

After he left, none of us said a word for a long time. Then Ike whispered, "It was like I said all along.

The Organizer was using us."

"But why?" Dan asked.

Dee shook his head. "I don't know."

"We've got company," Eli announced.

We looked. It was that long black palanquin again. Out of it stepped the King.

This time, he had brought his bow with him. It was slung diagonally across his back. His right hand held an arrow.

Again those black and burning eyes of his seemed to absorb the Project from its bottommost brick to its topmost one. There was a purposefulness about his mien that had been lacking on his previous visit; a fierce, almost an awesome, determination that made him seem larger than life. His black eyebrows were like the wings of a hawk; his lips were set like bitumen. He was wearing a maroon turtleneck with a big N on the front, blue Levis and thick-soled chukka boots.

He strode toward the gate. The four of us were standing right in his path, and we stepped aside when he neared us. If we hadn't, he'd have bowled us over.

He pa.s.sed through the gate, approached the ma.s.sive pile of the Project and began ascending the steps of the first stage. Ike and I, coming out of our daze, followed him. Not to try and stop him but to catch him in case he slipped and fell.

When he reached the ap.r.o.n of the second stage, he strode across it and began ascending the second series of steps. We kept right on his heels. It was at this point that I noticed be was mumbling something under his breath. I listened hard, but I couldn't make out what it was.

He surmounted the second stage. The third. Ike and I stayed right behind him. The fourth. The fifth.

We were high now. Looking down over my left shoulder, I could see the diminutive dwellings of the city and the minuscule mud huts of the suburbs. Looking down over my right, I could see the Plain, with its myriad fields of millet and barley and its sparkling irrigation ditches. In the distance the easternmost of the Twin Rivers gleamed like gold in the morning sun.

Some of the scaffolding was still in place along the wall of the sixth stage, and the King, perceiving that it provided a more direct route to the seventh-stage ap.r.o.n, swarmed up it. He was more agile than either Ike or I were, and by the time we reached the ap.r.o.n he was halfway up the scaffolding that flanked the unfinished seventh-stage wall.

I became aware of the wind. It was blowing steadily up from the south. I could smell the sea in it.

The Project swayed, ever so slightly. But that was all right. The engineers had allowed for the wind. I'd felt it sway lots of tunes, and I was no stranger to the wind.

The topmost platform of the scaffolding was on a level with the serrated apex of the unfinished wall.

Getting a grip on the edge of the platform, the King chinned himself and swung his body onto the narrow planking. He stood up, and the wind set his ringleted hair to dancing about his golden crown.

Ike and I remained on the ap.r.o.n below.

The King shook his fist at the blue and cloudless sky. "I knew all along that f.u.c.king Organizer was working for you!" he shouted, "He never fooled me for a second! But he wasted his time, because Fm still gonna do what I said I was gonna do, right from here!" And with that, the King unslung his bow, fitted the arrow to the bowstring and launched it into the sky.

Straight up, it sped, impervious to the wind, seeming to gather momentum with every cubit it traveled.

Ike and I no longer breathed. Everything in all creation except that arrow had ceased to exist for us. In our eyes it had become a thunderbolt-a thunderbolt cast heavenward by a madman in a magnificent, if senseless, gesture of defiance.

It neither faltered nor slowed. Any moment now, it seemed, it would pa.s.s through the invisible Gateway and disappear. It was high enough: it had to. But it didn't. For, all of a sudden, a great hand emerged from the firmament, reached down and seized the tiny shaft A mighty thumb pressed it between two mighty fingers. There was a distant snap!, barely audible above the wind. Then the hand withdrew,and the broken arrow fell back to earth and landed at the King's feet.

He stood there staring down at it.

An aeon went by. There was no sound except the whistling of the wind in the scaffolding. Then a loud sob reached our ears. Another. We turned away and slowly descended the successive stages to the ground. We didn't look back-not once. You might think you'd enjoy seeing a king cry, but you wouldn't. It's like watching a mountain dwindle into an anthill, a city crumble into dust, a kingdom turn into trash.

Well, Local 209 pulled out, just like the Company did. We knew there'd be no more jobs on the Plain for the likes of us. We spread out all over. North and south and east and west. I went south. Right now, I've got a flunky's job in a granary. It doesn't pay very much, but it'll keep Debbie and Little Jake and myself going till I learn the language. Once I learn the language, I'll get back in Construction. There's a big project about to begin just east of here. From what I gather, it's a tomb of some kind, and it's supposed to set a new trend. Building it may take as long as a year, and they're going to need all hands of skilled labor. I figure that as a bricklayer I can get on easy.

Samuel R. (Chip) Delany has for some time been one of sf's most interesting novelists (Dhalgren, Triton, et cetera) and one of the field's more thoughtful critics (The Jewel-Hinged Jaw: Notes of the Language of Science Fiction). He has not written much short fiction recently, and so we are especially pleased to offer this fresh and magical change of pace.

Prismatica

SAMUEL R. DELANY.

Hommage to James Thurber

I.

Once there was a poor man named Amos. He had nothing but his bright red hair, fast fingers, quick feet, and quicker wits. One grey evening when the rain rumbled in the clouds, about to fall, he came down the cobbled street toward Mariner's Tavern to play jackstraws with Billy Belay, the sailor with a wooden leg and a mouth full of stories that he chewed around and spit out all evening. Billy Belay would talk and drink and laugh, and sometimes sing. Amos would sit quietly and listen-and always win at jackstraws.

But this evening as Amos came into the tavern, Billy was quiet, and so was everyone else. Even Hidalga, the woman who owned the tavern and took no man's jabbering seriously, was leaning her elbows on the counter and listening with opened mouth.

The only man speaking was tall, thin, and grey. He wore a grey cape, grey gloves, grey boots, and his hair was grey. His voice sounded to Amos like wind over mouse fur, or sand ground into old velvet The only thing about him not grey was a large black trunk beside him, high as his shoulder. Several rough and grimy sailors with cutla.s.ses sat at his table-they were so dirty they were no color at all!

". . , and so," the soft grey voice went on, "I need someone clever and brave enough to help my nearest and dearest friend and me. It will be well worth someone's while."

"Who is your friend?" asked Amos. Though he had not heard the beginning of the story, the whole tavern seemed far too quiet for a Sat.u.r.day night.

The grey man turned and raised grey eyebrows. "There is my friend, my nearest and dearest." He pointed to the trunk. From it came a low, muggy sound: Ulmphf.

All the mouths that were hanging open about the tavern closed.

"What sort of help does he need?" asked Amos. "A doctor?"

The grey eyes widened, and all the mouths opened once more.

"You are talking of my nearest and dearest friend," said the grey voice, softly.From across the room Billy Belay tried to make a sign for Amos to be quiet, but the grey man turned around, and the finger Billy had put to his lips went quickly into his mouth as if he were picking his teeth.

"Friends.h.i.+p is a rare thing these days," said Amos. "What sort of help do you and your friend need?"

"The question is: would you be willing to give it?" said the grey man.

"And the answer is: if it is worth my while," said Amos, who really could think very quickly.

"Would it be worth all the pearls you could put in your pockets, all the gold you could carry in one hand, all the diamonds you could lift in the other, and all the emeralds you could haul up from a well in a bra.s.s kettle?"

"That is not much for true friends.h.i.+p," said Amos.

"If you saw a man living through the happiest moment of his life, would it be worth it then?"

"Perhaps it would," Amos admitted.

"Then you'll help my friend and me?"

"For all the pearls I can put in my pockets, all the gold I can carry in one hand, all the diamonds I can lift in the other, all the emeralds I can haul up from a well in a bra.s.s kettle, and a chance to see a man living through the happiest moment of his life-I'll help you!"

Billy Belay put his head down on the table and began to cry.

Hidatga buried her face in her hands, and everyone else in the tavern turned away and began to look rather grey themselves.

"Then come with me," said the grey man, and the rough sailors with cutla.s.ses rose about him and hoisted the trunk to their grimy shoulders-Onvbpmf, came the thick sound from the trunk-and the grey man flung out his cape, grabbed Amos by the hand, and ran out into the street.

In the sky the clouds swirled and b.u.mped each other, trying to upset the rain.

Halfway down the cobbled street the grey man cried, "Halt!"

Everyone halted and put the trunk down on the sidewalk.

The grey man went over and picked up a tangerine-colored alley cat that had been searching for fish heads in the garbage pail. "Open the trunk," he said. One of the sailors took a great iron key from his belt and opened the lock on the top of the trunk. The grey man took out his thin sword of grey steel and pried up the lid ever so slightly. Then he tossed the cat inside.

Immediately he let the lid drop again, and the sailor with the iron key locked the lock on the top of the box. From inside came the mew of a cat that ended with a deep, depressing: Elmblmpf.

"I think," said Amos, who thought quickly and was quick to tell what he thought, "that everything is not quite right in there."

"Be quiet and help me," said the thin grey man, "or I shall put you in the trunk with my nearest and dearest."

For a moment, Amos was just a little afraid.

II.

Then they were on a s.h.i.+p, and all the boards were grey from having gone so long without paint. The grey man took Amos into his cabin and they sat down on opposite sides of a table.

"Now," said the grey man, "here is a map."

"Where did you get it?" asked Amos.

"I stole it from my worse and worst enemy."

"What is it a map of?" Amos asked. He knew you should ask as many questions as possible when there were so many things you didn't know.

"It is a map of many places and many treasures, and I need someone to help me find them."

"Are these treasures the pearls and gold and diamonds and emeralds you told me about?"

"Nonsense," said the grey man. "I have more emeralds and diamonds and gold and pearls than I know what to do with," and he opened a closet door.

Amos stood blinking as jewels by the thousands fell out on the floor, glittering and gleaming, red, green, and yellow."Help me push them back in the closet," said the grey man. "They're so bright that if I look at them too long, I get a headache."

So they pushed the jewels back and leaned against the closet door till it closed. Then they returned to the map.

"Then what are the treasures?" Amos asked, full of curiosity.

"The treasure is happiness, for me and my nearest and dearest Mend."

"How do you intend to find it?"

"In a mirror," said the grey man. "In three mirrors, or rather, one mirror broken in three pieces."

"A broken mirror is bad luck," said Amos. "Who broke it?"

"A wizard so great and old and so terrible that you and I need never worry about him."

"Does this map tell where the pieces are hidden?"

"Exactly," said the grey man. "Look, we are here."

"How can you tell?"

"The map says so," said the grey man. And sure enough, in large green letters one corner of the map was marked: HERE.

"Perhaps somewhere nearer than you think, up this one, and two leagues short of over there, the pieces are hidden."

"Your greatest happiness will be to look into this mirror?"

"It will be the greatest happiness of myself and of my nearest and dearest friend."

"Very well," said Amos. "When do we start?"

"When the dawn is foggy and the sun is hidden and the air is grey as grey can be."

"Very well," said Amos a second time. "Until then, I shall walk around and explore your s.h.i.+p."

"It will be tomorrow at four o'clock in the morning," said the grey man. "So don't stay up too late."

"Very well," said Amos a third time.

As Amos was about to leave, the grey man picked up a brilliant red ruby that had fallen from the closet and not been put back. On the side of the trunk that now sat in the comer was a small triangular door that Amos had not seen. The grey man pulled it open, tossed in the ruby, and slammed it quickly: Orghmftbfe.

III.

Outside, the clouds hung so low the top of the s.h.i.+p's tallest mast threatened to p.r.i.c.k one open. The wind tossed about in Amos' red hair and scurried in and out of his rags. Sitting on the railing of the s.h.i.+p was a sailor splicing a rope.

"Good evening," said Amos. "I'm exploring the s.h.i.+p and I have very little time. I have to be up at four o'clock in the morning. So can you tell me what I must be sure to avoid because it would be so silly and uninteresting that I would learn nothing from it?"