Wizards’ Worlds (55 page)

What TV guy doesn’t smell a story in a quick change like that? I’d been running the
dives every night for a week—trying to pick up some local color for our 6 o’clock
casting. And the most exciting and promising thing I had come across so far was Sam’s
sudden change of beverage. Strictly off the record—we cater to the family and tourist
public mostly—I started to do a little picking and prying. Sam answered most of my
feelers with grunts.

Then I hit pay dirt with the casual mention that the Three Planets Travel crowd had
picked up another shocked cement dealer near their pet monster, “The Ant King.” Sam
rolled a mouthful of the Sparkling Water around his tongue, swallowed with a face
to frighten all monsters, and asked a question of his own.

“Where do these here science guys think all the monsters come from?”

I shrugged. “No explanation that holds water. They can’t examine them closely without
destroying them. That’s one reason for the big award awaiting any guy who can glue
them together so they’ll stand handling.”

Sam pulled something from under the pocket flap of his spacealls. It was a picture,
snapped in none too good a light, but clear enough.

Two large rocks curved toward each other to form an almost perfect archway and in
their protection stood a
woman. At least her slender body had the distinctly graceful curves we have come to
associate with the stronger half of the race. But she also had wings, outspread in
a grand sweep as if she stood on tiptoe almost ready to take off. There were only
the hints of features—that gave away the secret of what she really was—because none
of the sand monsters ever showed clear features.

“Where—?” I began.

Sam spat. “Nowhere now.” He was grim, and his features had tightened up. He looked
about ten years younger and a darn sight tougher.

“I found her two years ago. And I kept going back just to look at her. She wasn’t
a monster like the rest of ’em. She was perfect. Then that—” Sam lapsed into some
of the finest space-searing language I have ever been privileged to hear—"that Collins
got me drunk enough to show him where she was. He knocked me out, sprayed her with
his goo, and tried to load her into the back of the ʼmobile. It didn’t work. She held
together for about five minutes and then—” He snapped his fingers. “Dust just like
ʼem all!”

I found myself studying the picture for a second time. And I was beginning to wish
I had Collins alone for about three minutes or so. Most of the sand images I had seen
I could cheerfully do without—they were all nightmare material. But, as Sam had pointed
out, this was no monster. And it was the only one of its type I had ever seen or heard
about. Maybe there might just be another somewhere—the desert dry lands haven’t been
one quarter explored.

Sam nodded as if he had caught that thought of mine right out of the smoky air.

“Won’t do any harm to look. I’ve noticed one thing about all of the monsters—they
are found only near the rocks. Red rocks like these,” he tapped the snapshot, “that
have a sort of blue-green moss growin’ on ʼem.” His eyes focused on the wall but I
had an idea that he was seeing beyond it, beyond all the sand barrier walls in Terraport,
out into the dry lands. And I guessed that he wasn’t telling all he knew—or suspected.

I couldn’t forget that picture. The next night I was back at the Flame Bird. But Sam
didn’t show. Instead rumor had it that he had loaded up with about two months’ supplies
and had gone back to the desert. And that was the last I heard of him for weeks. Only,
his winged woman had crept into my dreams and I hated Collins. The picture was something—but
I would have given a month’s credits—interstellar at that—to have seen the original.

During the next year Sam made three long trips out, keeping quiet about his discoveries,
if any. He stopped drinking and he was doing better financially. Actually brought
in two green Star Stones, the sale of which covered most of his expenses for the year.
And he continued to take an interest in the monsters and the eternal quest for the
fixative. Two of the rocket pilots told me that he was sending to Earth regularly
for everything published on the subject.

Gossip had already labeled him “sand happy.” I almost believed that after I met him
going out of town one dawn. He was in his prospector’s crawler and strapped up in
plain sight on top of his water tanks was one of the damnedest contraptions I’d ever
seen—a great big wire cage!

I did a double take at the thing when he slowed down to say good-by. He saw my bug-eyes
and answered their protrusion with a grin, a wicked one.

“Gonna bring me back a sand mouse, fella. A smart man can learn a lot from just watchin’
a sand mouse, he sure can!”

Martian sand mice may live in the sand—popularly they’re supposed to eat and drink
the stuff, too—but they are nowhere near like their Terran namesakes. And nobody with
any brains meddles with a sand mouse. I almost dismissed Sam as hopeless then and
there and wondered what form the final crack-up would take. But when he came
back into town a couple of weeks later—minus the cage—he was still grinning. If Sam
had held any grudge against me, I wouldn’t have cared for that grin—not one bit!

Then Len Collins came back. And he started in right away at his old tricks—hanging
around the dives listening to prospectors’ talk. Sam had stayed in town and I caught
up with them both at the Flame Bird, as thick as thieves over one table, Sam lapping
up imported rye as if it were Canal Water and Len giving him cat at the mouse hole
attention.

To my surprise Sam hailed me and pulled out a third stool at the table, insisting
that I join them—much to Collins’ annoyance. But I’m thick-skinned when I think I’m
on the track of a story and I stuck. Stuck to hear Sam spill his big secret. He had
discovered a new monster, one which so far surpassed the winged woman that they couldn’t
be compared. And Collins sat there licking his chops and almost drooling. I tried
to shut Sam up—but I might as well have tried to can a dust storm. And in the end
he insisted that I come along on their expedition to view this fabulous wonder. Well,
I did.

We took a wind plane instead of a sandmobile. Collins was evidently in the chips and
wanted speed. Sam piloted us. I noticed then, if Collins didn’t, that Sam was a lot
less drunk than he had been when he spilled his guts in the Flame Bird. And, noting
that, I relaxed some—feeling a bit happier about the whole affair.

The red rocks we were hunting stood out like fangs—a whole row of them—rather nasty
looking. From the air there was no sign of any image, but then those were mostly found
in the shadow of such rocks and might not be visible from above. Sam landed the plane
and we slipped and slid through the shin-deep sand.

Sam was skidding around more than was necessary and he was muttering. Once he sang—in
a rather true baritone—just playing the souse again. However, we followed along without
question.

Collins dragged with him a small tank which had a hose attachment. And he was so eager
that he fairly crowded on Sam’s heels all the way. When at last Sam stopped short
he slid right into him. But Sam apparently didn’t even notice the bump. He was pointing
ahead and grinning fatuously.

I looked along the line indicated by his finger, eager to see another winged woman
or something as good. But there was nothing even faintly resembling a monster—unless
you could count a lump of greenish stuff puffed up out of the sand a foot or so.

“Well, where is it?” Collins had fallen to one knee and had to put down his spray
gun while he got up.

“Right there.” Sam was still pointing to that greenish lump.

Collins’ face had been wind-burned to a tomato red but now it darkened to a dusky
purple as he stared at that repulsive hump.

“You fool!” Only he didn’t say “fool.” He lurched forward and kicked that lump, kicked
it good and hard.

At the same time Sam threw himself flat on the ground and, having planted one of his
oversize paws between my shoulders, took me with him. I bit into a mouthful of grit
and sand and struggled wildly. But Sam’s hand held me pinned tightly to the earth—as
if I were a laboratory bug on a slide.

There was a sort of muffled exclamation, followed by an odd choking sound, from over
by the rocks. But, in spite of my squirming, Sam continued to keep me more or less
blindfolded. When he at last released me I was burning mad and came up with my fists
ready. Only Sam wasn’t there to land on. He was standing over by the rocks, his hands
on his hips, surveying something with an open and proud satisfaction.

Because now there
was
a monster in evidence, a featureless anthropoidic figure of reddish stuff. Not as
horrible as some I’d seen, but strange enough.

“Now—let’s see if his goo does work this time!”

Sam took up the can briskly, pointed the hose tip at the monster, and let fly with
a thin stream of pale bluish vapor, washing it all over that half-crouched thing.

“But—” I was still spitting sand between my teeth and only beginning to realize what
must have happened. “Is that—that thing—”

“Collins? Yeah. He shouldn’t have shown his temper that way. He kicked just once too
often. That’s what he did to her when she started to crumple, so I counted on him
doing it again. Only, disturb one of those puff balls and get the stuff that’s inside
them on you and—presto—a monster! I got on to it when I was being chased by a sand
mouse a couple of months back. The bugger got too close to one of those things—thinking
more about dinner than danger, I guess—and whamoo! Hunted me up another mouse and
another puff ball—just to be on the safe side. Same thing again. So—here we are! Say,
Jim, I think this
is
going to work!” He had drawn one finger along the monster’s outstretched arm and
nothing happened. It still stood solid.

“Then all those monsters must once have been alive!” I shivered a little, remembering
a few of them.

Sam nodded. “Maybe they weren’t all natives of Mars—too many different kinds have
been found. Terra was probably not the first to land a rocket here. Certainly the
antmen and that big frog never lived together. Some day I’m going to get me a stellar
ship and go out to look for the world my lady came from. This thin air could never
have supported her wings.

“Now, Jim, if you’ll just give me a hand, we’ll get this work of art back to Terraport.
How many million credits are the science guys offering if one is brought back in one
piece?”

He was so businesslike about it that I simply did as he asked. And he collected from
the scientists all right—collected
enough to buy his stellar ship. He’s out there now, prospecting along the Milky Way,
hunting his winged lady. And the unique monster is in the Interplanetary Museum to
be gaped at by all the tourists. Me—I avoid red rocks, green puff balls, and never,
never kick at objects of my displeasure—it’s healthier that way.

Were-Wrath

K
ROBIE
meat! Krobie meat!

She who had once been the Lady Thra and was now a brown bone of a woman as worn as
one of the carrion birds she snarled at in a harsh whisper, dug her fist into the
muck at the foot of the first forest tree. A sharp stone cut into her palm. She welcomed
that pain as she made herself watch the scene in the valley below where a man kicked
his way into death’s peace.

Rinard, shy, slow spoken, hard of muscle if slightly dull of wit, one of that fighting
tail who had broken out of Lanfort at its taking, riding and fighting at her back.
Now he, the last of them all, was gone at the hands of these haughty, cruel northerners
who would have no more refugees to threaten their own private raids and wars. She
was all alone.

A black running hound on a blood-red banner—she would remember that. Oh, aye, she
would hold that in mind and some day—her hand closed into a tight lock upon the stone,
taking the hurt of it to seal the vow she made—though she might have little chance
to keep it.

The forest was her only chance. They had cut her off from the open lands. It was both
dark and thick and there
were storm clouds gathering. She arose, settling her sword belt more easily, shrugged
the weight of her pack straight.

There were rumors that some made a living in this place of grim dark trees. But it
was evil-mouthed by most. Though she had seen greater evils caused by men with blood
reek and fire, and the dusk beyond seemed to promise shelter.

Men were alien to this forest, that she had also heard. Well enough. In her heart
she felt alien to her own kind, no beast could present a greater threat.

Her face was sharp featured beneath the shadow of a cap over-sewn with metal rings,
and she had long forgot the luxury of clean linen, her present world was a harsh one.
But there was a path opening before her, a narrow slot marked here and there by paw
or hoof but with no trace of boot track.