Two To The Fifth (7 page)

He was overwhelmed, “No problem,” he agreed.

“Bleep!” someone else muttered.

“She used a prop,” Dusti protested, “That's against the rule.”

“So it is,” the Witch agreed. “I had forgotten. We have to take the gloves off. Out of there, wench. You're disqualified.”

“BLEEP!” Xina swore in wenchly fashion.

Now it was Acro's turn. She wore a sleek nightie that masked her body without the need for gloves. “And whose is the most evocative body?” she inquired dulcetly and she pressed it against him, placing his hands on her derriere.

Again, he was just barely (so to speak) shy of a freak. “Yours,” he gasped.

She kissed his cheek. “That's good.”

His face heated with the imprint of her lips. “Th-thank you.”

Then she kissed his mouth. He started sliding into a freak. “Oops! Must stop that. You've got to be immune to kisses. Kindly Stay Serene equals KISS. That should do it.”

“It did,” he agreed, no longer freaking. “Kiss me again.”

“Foul!” Dusti exclaimed. “No magic!”

“Right,” the Witch agreed, “That spell disqualifies you. Get your soft round butt out of there, nymph.”

“Dam, I forgot,” Acro said, doing it.

That left the Witch. “I knew those inexperienced girls would mess up,” she confided. “The trick is to rev up a man just so far, and no farther.”

“Doesn't he have a choice?”

She laughed, “I love your naïveté.” She settled down against him, revving him up just so far, “Sleep well.”

And, to his surprise, he did.

Cyrus scouted the way ahead, riding Don, to be sure of a route that all the actresses could handle without mischief. It was boring work, but necessary. “Too bad we can't be doing something interesting, like rescuing damsels in distress,” he said.

“Or kicking some ass.” Don agreed.

“I wouldn't do that to an animal!”

“I was not referring to an animal.”

Oh. They moved on. He heard a scuffling and clamor, and hurried to investigate.

A comely young woman was being hounded by three brutish thugs. “No! Never!” she cried.

“Yes, and right now,” a thug retorted, grabbing her by her long hair. “All three of us.”

Cyrus realized that this was a maiden in need of rescue. Maybe even a Damsel in Distress, He hurried closer.

“I'll scream!” she threatened.

The thug pinned her against a tree trunk. “You're a real piece of resistance, know that?”

“That's pièce de resistance,” Cyrus called, pronouncing it correctly. It was in his memory bank. “The main event. And not for you. Let her go.”

“And suppose we don't?” the thug demanded belligerently.

“Then I will have to force the issue.”

“Har har har!” The thug reached out to rip open the damsel's bodice.

Cyrus realized that these thugs were not going to be reasonable. He dismounted and strode forward. Don moved to block off the other two thugs.

“What the bleep?” the thug demanded as Cyrus caught his arm. “I'll pulverize you!”

Cyrus threw the arm into the brush. Since the thug remained attached, he followed it, landing on a stink horn. There was a foul-smelling noise and an awful-looking stench. The thug was soon enveloped in a noxious cloud, choking helplessly.

Meanwhile Don was kicking ass, his way. One hind hoof booted the bottom of the second thug, and the other hind hoof pasted the posterior of the third thug. Both flew through the air to land on their own stink horns.

In hardly more than a moment and a half all three stinking thugs were fleeing the scene.

“You saved me!” the Damsel exclaimed gratefully. “However can I reward you, handsome stranger?”

“Oh, there's no need. We were just passing by.”

She glanced at him thoughtfully. Her ponytail flicked off a stray fly from her shoulder. “At least let's get to know each other I am Algebra, good at math because I wear a bra made of algae,” She glanced down at it, now exposed by the thug's bodice rip. It was somewhat green and furry, but supported very nice mounds. “I am a nymph with some equine ancestry.” Her ponytail flicked off another fly.

“I am Cyrus Cyborg, a playwright, on my way to see the Curse Fiends.”

“A playwright! Oh, I always wanted to be an actress!” Then she reconsidered. “But that doesn't compute. My real passion is mathematics. I must not be diverted from it. What is a cyborg?”

“I am half human, half machine.”

“That's why you're so strong! And handsome too.” She glanced at him again, taking a deep breath that stretched the living bra. “Are you sure I can't reward you with a kiss and perhaps more? I am really in your debt for rescuing me from those thuggees.”

Cyrus was getting half a glimmer what she offered. But it would surely delay him unduly, “No thank you. I have to be moving on.”

“Then maybe you will accept this. It is exactly what you will need.” She reached into the crevice between her full mounds and brought out a tiny vial. “Three drops of lethe elixir. It will make you forget something for three days.”

“No thank you. I don't need to forget anything.”

“Not now, maybe. But some time you will need this. It's a mathematical certainty. Please, it's the only way I can repay you for saving me.”

When she put it that way, it was difficult to decline. “Thank you, Algebra,” he said, accepting the vial and putting it in his shirt pocket.

“You are more than welcome, Cyrus.” Then she laced her bodice back together and departed.

“You're a fool,” Don remarked as they resumed their trek, “She was eager to make you deliriously happy for a calculated instant or two.”

“I guess it's my nature,” Cyrus agreed. “I don't really know how to handle women.”

In due course they reached Lake Ogre-Chobee, where ogres and chobees roamed. As it happened, there was a middle-aged curse fiend standing by the shore, “Cyrus Cyborg, I presume?” he asked. “I am Curtis Curse Friend.”

Cyrus was astonished. “You expected me?”

“Indubitably. We have an interest in those who set up competing play troupes.”

That had not occurred to him. “I did not realize that it was competitive. I merely want to realize my destiny of writing and presenting plays.”

“Precisely. And you are having a problem getting started.”

“Yes. I am told I have Writer's Block, and that you would know how to deal with it.”

Curtis laughed. “Indeed we do. But you have it garbled. In Mundania they have little or no magic, so their blocks get in their way and they have to dispose of them. But in Xanth they are magic, and every writer needs his own special one.”

“I need a block?”

“Yes. Not just any block; the one block that is right for you. With it you will be able to write; without it you will be bereft of output, as you are now.”

“Suppose I get the wrong block?”

“Then you will be no better off than the Mundanes. The wrong block will constantly thwart your efforts.”

“How can I get the right block?”

“You will have to find it. You will know it when you see it, and it will know you.”

“How do I find it?”

“That is what I am here for. I will produce your plays. That includes signing on your actors, arranging your travel schedule, organizing meals, and anything else the troupe requires. Getting you in fit condition to write and cast your plays is an aspect of it.”

This was too much for Cyrus. “Why should you join my troupe? We are not curse fiends.”

“Curse friends,” Curtis corrected him gently. “We are hardly fiends. We are human beings with a common magic talent of cursing, and a common ability to produce fine plays.”

“Curse friends,” Cyrus agreed. “But still I don't quite understand—”

Don had been standing by. Now he spoke. “What's in it for you? We must beware of fiends bearing gifts.”

“A talking ass!” Curtis exclaimed. “The first four-footed one I have encountered.' ”

“He is Don Donkey, my robot steed,” Cyrus said.

“I will answer forthrightly,” Curtis said. “I have spent twenty years mastering my craft, rising through the ranks from spectator, through actor, to producer. Now I am ambitious to become Chief Producer, as there is an opening. To do that, I must prove myself capable of managing the least likely material and producing a reputable play. If I can accomplish this with your motley untrained troupe, to the satisfaction of my peers, I will achieve the office.”

Cyrus exchanged a look with Don. That was almost too candid. “You can help me find my block?”

“And organize your troupe, I mean to enable you to put on outstanding plays, thus demonstrating my genius for my peers.”

Don opened his mouth. Cyrus quickly used his two hands to close it, “Thank you. We appreciate your sacrifice.”

Curtis nodded. “Naturally. Now your physical block will be found anywhere, or you can craft it yourself.”

“I don't understand.”

Curtis rolled his eyes expressively. The orbs were evidently trying to avoid gazing on idiots. “Find a chunk of wood. Carve it into a block. Then I will explain how to establish the necessary rapport. Meanwhile I will set about organizing your troupe.” Curtis walked toward the waiting women.

“So now you know where you stand,” Don said.

“Knee high to a hopper,” he agreed. “Well, let's get on it. The man seems to know what he's doing.”

They checked around, and soon found a thick old gnarly wood root. Cyrus fetched a carving knife from Don's tool chest and carved. The wood was exceedingly solid and hard, but in due course he had a crude block. He used a rasp to work off the splinters, then sanded it and held it up. It was actually rather pretty, now that its grain was showing. “I have my block,” he said, “I hope.”

“Just don't let anybody knock it off.”

Curtis appeared just as he finished. The man seemed to have an impeccable sense of timing. “Good enough. Now you need to make contact with the spirit of the block in the dream realm. There's a gourd down that path.” He gestured. “Have your donkey supervise while you enter the scene. Keep your hands on the block so the gourd can orient. They will surely be expecting you.”

Cyrus sifted through his memory bank. The gourd was an avenue to the dream realm. A person put his eye to the peephole and found himself there, but could not escape it until someone cut off his line of sight to the peephole. That was why Don was needed.

They followed the path, and soon found the access. It was a perfectly ordinary green gourd growing on a leafy vine. It was hard to believe that such a routine thing could perform in such manner. But there were many examples in his memory.

He lay down by the gourd, holding firmly on to the block. “Cut off my line of sight in one hour,” he told Don. “Don't forget.”

“As long as one of those lithesome nymphs doesn't come to ride me away.”

“Don!”

The robot snorted, “It was asinine humor.”

“That figures.”

Cyrus put his eye to the peephole in the end of the gourd. Suddenly he was in another realm. It was some sort of city block, and before him was a blockhouse. This did seem to be the place. Curtis had advised him correctly. His memory bank did not have reference to any way to select a particular scene in the dream realm. The curse friends evidently had trade secrets.

The wood block was not in his hands. It seemed it had put him here, but could not enter itself. Well, that left his hands free, if that mattered.

He walked toward the door in the blockhouse. A voice challenged him: “Whatcha looking for, blockhead?” It was a demon guard who had just appeared. Across his burly chest was the word buster. So he was the blockbuster.

“My personal Writer's Block.”

Buster glanced at his empty hands, evidently seeing something there, “This is the place. Go on in.” The demon faded out.

Inside was a veritable mountain of tumbled bocks. There were hundreds of them, of all sizes and colors. How was he to find his one personal one?

Considering the hopeless task, he realized that this was in its fashion like a Challenge at the Good Magician's Castle. He simply had to figure out how to handle it.

This was the dream realm. So maybe a dream would do it.

He closed his eyes and formed a picture in his mind: the somewhat nebulous image of the Perfect Block.

He felt a warmness in one direction. He walked that way, and the warmth increased. Then he tripped over a block and sprawled on the floor.

He opened his eyes. He was at the verge of another small mountain of blocks. There seemed to be a warmth coming from one section of it. So he didn't have to do it blind.

He delved into the pile, clearing the way. Blocks tumbled noisily down, but he kept going. The warmth was getting almost hot.

Finally he plunged his hand into the mass of blocks, feeling for the warmest one. He found it; it was almost too hot to touch. He hauled it out, scattering more blocks.

It was a statuette of a lovely young woman. Nude.

Now he became aware of the contours his fingers clasped.

He dropped it, embarrassed.

“Ouch!” the little woman exclaimed angrily, rubbing her pert bottom, “Oaf!”

“You're alive!” he said, astonished.

“What did you expect, moron? A dead fish?”

“Uh, not exactly. I'm looking for my Writer's Block. The one that is meant for me alone.”

Her eyes rolled in a manner reminiscent of the curse friend's, “I see I've got my work cut out for me.”

“You mean—you're the one?”

“I am Melete,” she said. “MEL-i-tee. The Muse of Meditation. It is my sorry chore to develop your inherent ability to write. It will help if you don't throw me on the floor.”

“I didn't—”

She delivered a withering stare.

“I apologize,” he said quickly. “It won't happen again.”

She mellowed slightly. “I suppose you can't help being clumsy. You're a mortal man.”

“Actually I'm only half a man. I'm a cyborg.”

She sent another glance, this one apprising. “Well, that's new. A cyborg playwright. It does help to have a bit of novelty.”

“You said you are a— I get a whole Muse to help me?”

“You get a tiny fragment of a Muse, as every writer does. Only when I have enabled all aspiring writers to be fully competent will I finally be freed of this miserable bondage. So you will do your best, or else.”