The Project Gutenberg eBook ofThe gnome's gneissThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: The gnome's gneissAuthor: Kendell Foster CrossenIllustrator: Alex SchomburgRelease date: September 1, 2022 [eBook #68892]Most recently updated: October 19, 2024Language: EnglishOriginal publication: United States: Better Publications, Inc, 1952Credits: Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GNOME'S GNEISS ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: The gnome's gneissAuthor: Kendell Foster CrossenIllustrator: Alex SchomburgRelease date: September 1, 2022 [eBook #68892]Most recently updated: October 19, 2024Language: EnglishOriginal publication: United States: Better Publications, Inc, 1952Credits: Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
Title: The gnome's gneiss
Author: Kendell Foster CrossenIllustrator: Alex Schomburg
Author: Kendell Foster Crossen
Illustrator: Alex Schomburg
Release date: September 1, 2022 [eBook #68892]Most recently updated: October 19, 2024
Language: English
Original publication: United States: Better Publications, Inc, 1952
Credits: Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GNOME'S GNEISS ***
The Gnome's GneissA NOVELET BYKENDELL FOSTER CROSSEN[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced fromStartling Stories, May 1952.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence thatthe U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced fromStartling Stories, May 1952.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence thatthe U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
I
A mood was upon Kevan MacGreene. As of the moment, he did not consider this the best of all possible worlds. In fact, many arguments to the contrary were running through his head—on shoes of iron, it seemed. Only twenty-five years of age, Kevan MacGreene was foot-loose and fancy free, but his thoughts were cast in gloom and darkly shaped.
It was 1952 and the threats of atomic warfare appeared almost daily in the newspapers. The cost of living continued to go up. The prisons and asylums were overflowing. Congress, having investigated everything else, had formed a Goober-Natural Committee (fifteen governors had misunderstood and resigned the first day it was announced) and were knee-deep in peanuts. The Soviet representative had just stormed out of another U.N. meeting. The American representative wanted to lock the door so he couldn't get back in. A columnist had written that "the world is going to hell on a street car" and had been forced to apologize to seven railroad companies and a major-interest-owned bus line.
But it was because of none of these things that Kevan MacGreene walked the streets of lower Manhattan and pondered on the frailty of Man. It was now only a few days since he had received his draft notice. Far from objecting, he had welcomed the opportunity to become a hero—even a radioactive one. He had quit his job in Macy's complaint department and the night before he'd spent all of his money financing a binge for himself and a few select friends. It had lasted until morning and then, complete with hangover, Kevan MacGreene had reported for his physical.
It was while being questioned by a fatherly doctor, who, it turned out, was a psychiatrist, that Kevan made his first slip. Usually he was more alert, but the hangover was demanding attention and he automatically admitted that he often heard voices. Under the pressure of questioning, while wondering if his head was really as hollow as it felt, he went into some detail on the voices and what they said. By the time he realized what was happening it was too late. He was classified as an unstable personality and was being ushered through the door reserved for those who weren't wanted.
Broke, hungry, and considerably vexed at being called an unstable personality, especially since everything now combined to make him feel like one, Kevan MacGreene walked through the streets of Greenwich Village. It was in this mood that he arrived on the corner where Fourth Street unaccountably crosses Twelfth Street. Standing there for a minute, he happened to glance up and see the sign over one of the buildings:
TROUBLESHOOTERS, INC.
Below that, in smaller letters, it said:
Come in.
Kevan MacGreene went in.
The girl at the desk was lovely beyond words. Her hair was like black velvet and her eyes were an emerald green. Just looking at her made Kevan MacGreene feel better.
"I have some troubles I'd like shot," he said, saying the first thing that came into his aching head.
The girl smiled with a distant friendliness. "Do you mean you'd like to employ us?" she asked.
"No," said Kevan MacGreene, realizing what it was that he did want. "I'd like you to employ me."
"I'm sorry," the girl said, "but I'm afraid there are no positions open—none, at least, that you could fill."
"But I need a job," Kevan said. "I—I gave up my last job because I thought I was going to be drafted. Now I have no job and I'm broke. And the draft board rejected me because I hear voices."
For the first time, the black-haired girl looked interested. "What kind of voices?" she asked.
"Thin little piping voices," Kevan said. He didn't know why but he felt that she would understand. "Most of the time I can't understand what they're saying. Sometimes they sing. Like this." Wincing from the pain in his head, Kevan sang in the highest pitch he could reach. "Gie brownie coat, gie brownie sark, ye'll get nae mair o' brownie's wark." He stopped and looked at the girl. Her smile was warmer.
"What's your name?" she asked.
"Kevan MacGreene."
She nodded. "I'll see," she said. She picked up the phone and pressed a button. He could hear the faint buzz in the inner office. "There's a young man here," she said into the phone, "looking for a job. He says his name is Kevan MacGreene and that he hears voices." She listened a minute and then put the phone down.
"He'll see you," she said. "Go in." She indicated the door beyond her desk.
Kevan stopped beside the desk and glanced down at the hair that was like a raven's wing. "What's your name?" he asked.
"Kathleen Culanna."
"Ah," he said, "I knew there was a reason for the green in your eyes and the harp's song in your voice. Will you have dinner with me tonight?"
"Go along with you," the girl said, but there was no rebuke in her voice. "He's waiting for you."
"Will you have dinner with me tonight?"
"Ask me when you come back," the girl said. "If I'm still here, I will."
"I'll be back," he said. He walked through the door and closed it behind him. He stopped there, gazing at the man who sat at the desk in the small room.
He was a short man, with a face Kevan thought of as jolly even though it seemed pinched with worry. Tufts of golden blond hair ringed a bald head, resembling a halo. He looked up from his cluttered desk and studied Kevan.
"MacGreene, is it?" he said finally. "Where were you born?"
"In New York," Kevan answered, wondering at the question.
"And your father?"
"Fergus MacGreene. He was born in the old country, Ulster, I think, but he became a citizen as soon as he could after arriving here." He wondered if this was some sort of loyalty check.
"You hear voices, do you?" the little man asked.
"I do," Kevan said shortly, thinking that it had been a mistake to mention it. "As did my mother, and her mother before her. But it's never interfered with a job I've held."
"Of course not." The worried expression was fading from his face. "You're hired. My name is Brian Shanachie."
"But—but I don't understand," Kevan said. He was feeling confused and he wasn't sure whether it was the hangover or the company. "Don't you want to know my qualifications?"
"You've already told me," said Brian Shanachie. "Your name's MacGreene and you hear voices. What more could I ask—even though it's true I'm in a bit of a pinch? Here I was, with every one of my men out on a job and me with an emergency on my hands, when, Finbheara be praised, in you walked. You'll be quite ready to go to work at once?"
Kevan MacGreene was more confused than ever, but a generous streak of stubbornness came to his aid. "You may be satisfied," he said, dropping into the chair in front of the desk, "but I want to know something about the job before I take it. What does Troubleshooters, Inc., do?"
"You don't know?" the little man asked in surprise.
Kevan shook his head, an act which painfully reminded him of his headache.
"Oh, well," sighed Brian Shanachie, "but it'll have to be brief. There is an emergency. Tell me, Kevan MacGreene, you know of the Little People?"
It was Kevan's turn to be surprised. "Gnomes?" he asked.
"Gnomes, dwarfs, brownies, leprechauns, fairies, druids, apuku, the Wanagemeswak, it matters little what you call them. You know of them?"
"My mother used to tell me about them," Kevan said, "but she was a woman without education. I've been through college and while they are interesting legends—"
"Agh!" interrupted Brian Shanachie. "There's the trouble with the world. Too much education in the wrong things. If it weren't for people like you, Kevan MacGreene, who've given up the old ways, I wouldn't have to be working here, slaving away all hours—"
It was obvious that he was working himself into a rage, so Kevan interrupted. "Okay, so thereareLittle People," he said. He thought he might as well humor his prospective employer. He glanced at him more closely. "Don't tell me you're one? You're too big."
"Too big for a gnome, too small for a mortal," said Brian Shanachie, his humor restored, "No, I'm neither. My father was the son of Finbheara himself, but my mother was a mortal. So I am well suited for this job."
"Which is what?"
"I'm telling you," said Brian Shanachie, with a scowl. "In the days when people had enough sense to believe in the Little People, diplomatic relations were handled on an individual basis. The individual who aroused the anger of a gnome would himself put out an offering of milk, with perhaps a wee drop of brandy in it, or offer him a new cloak and hood. But with the coming of such fine education that the Little People were forgotten there was a problem. It was then that my little organization was started. More properly it should be known as the Bureau of Mortal-Gnomic Adjustments, but there are too many non-believers who would only plague me with their silly questions, so I called it Troubleshooters, Inc."
"But what do you do?" Kevan asked. He had a strange feeling that the more it was explained the less he understood.
"Adjust matters between mortals and gnomes, of course," snapped the other. He picked up some papers on his desk. "Now, take the case I'm assigning you to, the emergency—I'm putting it in the files as The Case of the Gnome's Gneiss...."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Gneiss," said Brian Shanachie with some irritation. "G-N-E-I-S-S. Everybody certainly knows what gneisses are."
"I don't."
"College education," the little man sneered. "Gneisses are rocks made of thin layers of minerals. Now, a gnome, or a dwarf, if you prefer—he's been called both—named Alviss is one of the finest gneiss-makers in the world. Recently, he had just finished what he considered his masterpiece, a gneiss composed of some fifteen different minerals, and all of fifty feet long, when directly over the spot where it was located an atom bomb test was held. You can imagine the results. The gneiss was cracked beyond repair. Alviss, with certain provocation you must admit, is angry. In fact, he grows angrier every minute and I understand that he is on the verge of declaring open war against all mortals."
"So what?" asked Kevan. "What could he do?"
"What could he do?" echoed Brian Shanachie in horror. "Why, there is no end to what he could do. Sour milk, make cows go dry, put changelings in the place of mortal infants, make the hens lay square eggs. Water might run uphill, hens would crow and roosters cackle, and the sun set in the east. And that, mind you, would be only the work of Alviss. If the others of the Little People helped him, and fully half of them would have to, then you can imagine the chaos.
"No, it's obvious Alviss must be appeased and since the ones who dropped the bomb will not do so, it is up to us to avert the war."
"Why not just explain to—er—Alviss that it was all a mistake?" Kevan suggested.
"'Twouldn't do. Alviss is a sensitive one, as you will see, and it'll take more than that to make him forget his grudge."
"As I will see?"
"Certainly," said Brian Shanachie, nodding his head. "It is you who will go to see Alviss."
It wasn't that Kevan MacGreene was willing to so quickly forego his skepticism and embrace a belief in the Little People, but his head hurt too much to argue and he was in a mood to take what came along and let things work themselves out.
"But what do I do after I see him?" he asked.
"Find out what will keep him peaceful and, if it's within reason, give it to him. If it isn't, then you may have to appeal to the Council of Gnomes, or even to the four kings. I'll be giving you this—" Brian Shanachie came around the desk and fixed what seemed to be a small metal flower in the lapel of Kevan's coat—"by which you can discuss any settlement with me. All you have to do is shout my name and the contact will be made. It is also possible for me to deliver to you, by teleportation, certain mortal materials when they will aid in adjustments. I remember one time when peace was made with Sindri, over the matter of a mortal who tried to steal his treasure, with the presentation of a radio.... But now get along with you, Kevan MacGreene."
"Just a minute," said Kevan, "how much does this job pay?"
"Enough in mortal money that you'll have no complaint," Brian Shanachie snapped. "Be gone with you."
"Where?" Kevan asked. "I mean how do I get there?"
Brian Shanachie looked surprised, then nodded. "Of course, you wouldn't know, would you? I best look it up, to be sure that we still have it right." He took a thick book from his desk, thumbing through it rapidly while muttering to himself. Then he nodded again. "Yes, 'tis still in the proper alignment. And all you have to do, my boy, is walk through yon door."
For the first time, Kevan noticed another door in the office near to the chair in which he sat. He stood up and looked at it uncertainly.
"But be sure and watch the first step," said Brian Shanachie. "It's been a bit broken since the time Regin came to see me and stomped on the step instead of knocking."
"But how do I find Alviss after I get through the door?" Kevan wanted to know.
"Ask," said Brian Shanachie. "You can ask anyone—no, but better, perhaps since you're a new employee you'd best first go and pay your respects to Finbheara, Iubdan, Geanncanac, and Daoine Glas, the four kings. They'll be sure to know where you can find Alviss. Run along with you."
II
Taking a deep breath, Kevan MacGreene put his hand on the door knob and opened it. Then he stepped through.
He felt his foot strike the edge of something solid and then he was falling. He tried to twist and grab, but there was nothing to grab. Down he went—falling, it seemed, slowly and interminably—until finally he landed with a thump. Looking around, he realized he was sitting on the ground of a forest. There was an eerie look to the trees around him, their limbs twisting skyward, their leaves looking like green woven silk.
Sitting there on the ground, Kevan MacGreene became aware of the most startling thing. His hangover was gone as if it had never existed. That, more than anything, made him decide to believe that he was in the land of the Little People. He'd had many a hangover, but never had one vanished so quickly and painlessly.
"It's a pity you wouldn't watch where you're falling," a voice said peevishly.
Kevan looked around, but saw nothing except the trees. "Where are you?" he asked cautiously.
"Right here," answered the voice. And it did sound as though it was right beside him.
"I can't see you," he said.
"Of course, you can't," snapped the voice. "That's because I'm looking at you. Oh, all right, I'll turn, although I don't know why I should."
Then in front of Kevan's eyes there suddenly appeared a little man, no more than two feet high. His face, in profile, was sharp and pointed.
"How did you do that?" Kevan asked with interest.
"Do what?"
"You were invisible. Then suddenly you were visible."
"I wasn't anything of the kind," the little man said. "I was merely looking at you. When I'm looking at you, you can't see me. When you can see me, I can't see you—but I don't start making nasty cracks about you being invisible."
"Why?"
"Because I'm good-natured," grumbled the gnome.
"No, I mean why can't I see you if you're looking at me?"
"Because I'm one of the Wanagemeswak of Penobscot," the gnome announced with pride. "I'm so thin that mortals can only see me when I'm in profile. So when I turn to look at you, you can't see me. Like this." The gnome's head slowly turned to face Kevan—and then it vanished. "Now do you understand?" asked the voice.
Kevan MacGreene blinked his eyes rapidly and then switched his gaze to one of the more solid-looking trees.
"No," he said, "but don't try to explain it to me again. I'm afraid I'd only understand less than I do now. But, if you will, you can tell me how to find the four kings."
"Oh, sure," said the voice. "Just go straight down this path and turn left at the third snail. You can't miss it after that."
"Thanks," said Kevan, waving one hand toward the spot where he thought the gnome was. He set out in the direction indicated, keeping a sharp watch-out for snails.
As Kevan MacGreene walked through the forest, he became aware of the sounds about him. From every side flooded the songs of birds. Somewhere ahead of him two squirrels barked indignantly at each other. He caught sight of huge antlers as a deer crashed through the underbrush to his right. But having lived all of his life in New York City, Kevan was not attuned to these new sounds.
"Noisy place," he said to himself. "It's interesting to visit a place like this, but I'd certainly hate to live here."
After what seemed like a long walk, he sighted his third snail and turned left. For a moment he considered speaking to the snail, remembering that in all the stories he'd heard speech was standard equipment for all forms of life in fairyland, but he refrained because of the petulant look on the snail's face.
The new path seemed well-worn and he strode along at a fast pace. It wasn't long before he saw an impressive castle ahead. Long before he reached it, he could hear the sound of loud and quarrelsome voices coming from it. He wondered if this was the beginning of the riot he was to quell and hesitated. But only for a minute.
"I'll be damned," he muttered under his breath, "if any two-foot fugitive from a Walt Disney movie is going to scare me." He set his jaw grimly and marched on.
When he entered the castle, Kevan MacGreene found himself in what was obviously the throne room. There were four elegant thrones, all empty. From in front of the thrones came the loud voices, even more shrill now that he was nearer. His eyes became accustomed to the dim light and Kevan saw four little old men. They were alike as four peas in a pod. None of them was more than two feet in height, although each wore a peaked hat which gave the illusion of adding eight or ten inches. Each of them had a long white beard, almost reaching the floor. At the moment, four faces were screwed up in rage, while four fists shook themselves in the air.
"Isn't it a grand brawl?" asked a voice near Kevan. He turned and saw another gnome, his eyes fixed admiringly on the four old men.
"What's wrong with them?" Kevan asked.
"There's nothing wrong with them," the other said. "'Tis but a bit of an argument. They're just working themselves up to the interesting stage."
"What are they arguing about?"
"Sure and it's the same old argument—which of them has the longest beard. It's been going on ever since Finbheara endorsed Macushla's Magic Beard Groom, claiming that he had the longest beard in all Midgard. Iubdan brought suit in the Court of the Leprechauns to prove Finbheara a liar, but then Geanncanac and Daoine Glas called both of them liars and so it started."
"Do you think it'll last long?" Kevan asked anxiously.
"Until there's not a hair left on the chin of a one of them," the gnome said with anticipation. "Then they'll retire for a few hours until their beards grow back—and they'll be at it again. Isn't it heavenly?"
"I was hoping to ask them where to find someone," Kevan said.
The gnome turned and looked up at Kevan, who in turn noted that since he could still see the little man he must not be of the Wanagemeswak.
"You're a mortal," said the gnome in tones of accusation.
"Yes," confessed Kevan.
"Then, by the same reasoning," continued the gnome, "it must be that you were sent here by Brian Shanachie and that it's Alviss you're looking for. Now, that will be a donnybrook for fair when you find him. I've a notion to go with you."
"It'll really amount to very little," Kevan said hastily. "I'm sure you'll find this much more interesting. But you could tell me how to find Alviss."
The gnome seemed to be debating with himself, but renewed shrieks of rage from the other side of the throne room drew his gaze back there. He jerked a thumb in the direction from which Kevan had come. "Across the way and into the hill," he said.
Kevan MacGreene stepped back outdoors and saw a small brass door set in the hill. He walked across and entered. As the door swung shut behind him, he found himself in a tunnel running straight back through the hill. It was dimly lighted, but Kevan managed to make his way along it—with some difficulty, however, since he had to walk stooped over to keep from bumping his head.
After walking for some time, around numerous twists and bends, Kevan heard the murmur of a voice somewhere ahead. As he proceeded, it became louder. Finally, he rounded a turn in the tunnel and saw a small, stocky dwarf busily stirring a huge cauldron with one hand while with the other he kept throwing various ingredients into the steaming pot. It was he who muttered and Kevan could now make out the words.
"A pinch of chlorite, a bit of mica, some biotite, spoon of felspar; a little graphite, and now amphibole, dust with kyanite, and top with idocrase—"
"What's idocrase?" Kevan asked.
"Don't do that!" screamed the little man. He whirled around, molten rock dripping from the spoon in his hand, to glare at Kevan, his bushy red beard bristling with anger.
"I merely asked what idocrase is," Kevan said mildly.
"You didn't have to sneak up on me like that. And any fool knows that idocrase is a hydrous silicate of calcium and aluminum and that you can't bake a decent gneiss without it." His eyes suddenly narrowed as he took in Kevan's size. "You're a mortal," he said.
Kevan nodded. The little man reached behind him, grabbed a pickaxe and came up swinging. Kevan MacGreene leaped to one side only in time.
"Wait a minute," he yelled. "I claim diplomatic immunity."
The dwarf stopped short and glared. "Diplomatic immunity?" he said. "What's that?"
"It means you're not allowed to attack me," said Kevan. "Brian Shanachie sent me here on a diplomatic errand."
It was plain that the dwarf saw no reason for restraining his anger, but he was sufficiently uncertain to hold back. "Brian Shanachie should mind his own business," he growled.
"Now, I'm looking for Alviss...."
"I'm Alviss."
"Good," Kevan said. He had no idea of how to go about adjusting the matter which he'd been sent to fix, but he had determined on a firm course. "Now, what seems to be the matter, Alviss?" he asked briskly.
"Matter?" repeated Alviss, his voice going up a few octaves. For a moment, it looked as if he might succumb to his rage, but he controlled it. "I made the finest gneiss that has ever been formed in the entire history of Midgard. No sooner had it hardened than you mortals came along and cracked it right down the center."
"But it was an accident," Kevan said. "An atom bomb was being tested and it was by accident that they happened to set it off over your work. You see, these atom bomb tests are a part of our national defense program—"
"So it's defending yourselves you are," Alviss said grimly. "Then you can just defend yourselves against me."
"I'm sure," Kevan said, "that the Combined Command would have been more careful but—well, I'm afraid that the truth of the matter is that the Army doesn't officially believe in gnomes."
"They don't, eh?" said Alviss with a nasty grin. "Then they'll have nobody to blame but themselves when their fine bombs bounce back in their laps and when the barrels of their guns turn to rubber and drop the bullets at their feet."
"You mustn't do that," Kevan said hastily. "The psychiatrists would only pin a label on it which would destroy the morale of our Army. To say nothing to what it would do to the WAC and the WAVE. There must be some other solution."
"No," said Alviss firmly. "My honor is at stake."
"But there must be another way of saving your honor. You look like a reasonable—er—person, Mr. Alviss. I'm sure that between the two of us, we can find a way...."
"Well," said Alviss and there was a shrewd look in his eyes, "perhaps, if you were to bring me Thrud...."
"Thread?" exclaimed Kevan, relief coming with the misunderstanding. "What kind?"
"Not thread," said Alviss. "Thrud. Do you mean, mortal, that you do not know the story of Alviss?"
Kevan shook his head.
"What's your name, mortal?"
"Kevan MacGreene."
"'Tis a good name," said the dwarf.
Alviss sat down on the floor and for the first time his face lost its look of anger. "It was long ago," he said. "More years than you mortals can reckon. But I was an adventurous lad and one night I crossed the bridge Bifrost from Midgard to Asgard. Asgard, you understand, is the land of the old gods, but I was safe there as long as it was dark. While I was there, I met Thrud, only daughter of Thor, god of the yeomen and peasants, dispenser of thunder. Aye, she was beautiful—more beautiful than you'd know, Kevan MacGreene—and I knew she was the lass for Alviss. It seemed that she felt the same way about me, despite the fact that she was three times my height. Hand in hand, we went to see Thor—faith and there's one for whom I would set bear traps every night if he were my father-in-law."
"I gather that he turned you down?" Kevan said.
"Worse," said Alviss. Rage and sorrow intermingled on his face. "By the beard of Daoine Glas, he tricked me. He said that Thrud could marry me and come away if I would answer thirteen questions. Bad cess to him, I agreed. His twelve questions were to give the names for the world, the moon, the sun, the clouds, the wind, the calm, the sea, the trees, the night, fire, wheat and beer in all the worlds of the Aesir, Vanir, giants, elves and gods."
"What are they?" Kevan asked curiously.
"There is no time to tell you, as you will see. But I was then fresh from visiting the worlds he'd mentioned and I knew the names well. We sat there in Thor's palace, Belskirnir, before a great roaring fire—Thor holding his great head in his hands as he listened, Thrud sitting beside me and holding my hand—and I recited the names. It was a long task and I didn't notice that it was daylight as I finished. I spoke the last name and then demanded Thrud's hand. Thor only grinned and pointed. I turned to look in the direction he was pointing and the last thing I saw in Asgard was the sun streaming through the window. As it touched me, I turned to stone."
Two tears streaked down the dwarf's face and were lost in his red beard.
"Why did you turn to stone?" Kevan asked.
"It was the law of the land—and still is," said Alviss. "If the sun shines on any of the Little People while in Asgard, they turn to stone. Thor had tricked me. I would be there still if Hreidmar and Sindri hadn't come to rescue me. As soon as they carried me back to Midgard, the spell was gone and I was myself again. But Thrud was lost to me forever."
"Why didn't you go back some night and get her?" asked Kevan. Being a practical man, he added, "Or why didn't she run away and join you?"
"You're excessively stupid, even for a mortal," snapped the dwarf. "Once the spell had been upon me, I would turn to stone should I ever again set foot in Asgard. And it has been decreed that there are only three ways in which Thrud may ever leave Asgard. Hand in hand with her true love, carried over Bifrost by a mortal, or when she goes to Gimli after Ragnarok."
"Well," said Kevan MacGreene finally, "it's a very touching and romantic story and I assure you that you have my deepest sympathy—but I'm afraid I fail to see how it concerns our present problem."
"Do you now?" asked Alviss. He gazed up from beneath his bushy red eyebrows. "All you have to do, my lad, is go to Asgard and bring Thrud here to me. If you do that, I'll not make war against the mortals. Fail and I'll strike immediately."
"Oh, come now," said Kevan. "You can't seriously expect me to go in and kidnap the girl out from under the nose of her father and I don't know how many other characters. It's not fair."
"Its fair enough and you'll get no more from me," said Alviss. "Be off with you—for if you're not back here by the end of the month, I'll start my war."
"The end of the month? Mortal time or your own?"
"Mine, of course."
"How much time does that give me?" asked Kevan.
The dwarf scratched his head, lost in deep thought. Then he began chanting to himself:
"Junius, Aprilis, Septemq, Novemq, tricenos
"Unum plus reliqui, Februs tenet octo vicenos
"At si bissextus fuerit superadditur unus—" He rolled his eyes toward the roof and seemed to be counting. "That'll give you until tomorrow morning," he finally announced.
"But that's impossible," exclaimed Kevan.
"Not impossible if you stretch your legs instead of standing here stretching your tongue," said Alviss. "Your only problem with time is getting from here to Yggdrasil and then from there to here. The time you spend in Asgard will not count since time there does not exist in relation to our time."
"Yggdrasil?" repeated Kevan. "Where is that?"
"That's part of your problem," said the dwarf. He turned back and began stirring his cauldron and it was obvious that he intended to talk no more. Kevan MacGreene turned and went back through the long, winding tunnel.
III
When he was once more outside, across from the palace of the four kings, he suddenly remembered something that the head of Troubleshooters, Inc. had told him. He looked and saw that the small metal flower was still in his lapel. He put his mouth close to it and shouted.
"Brian Shanachie!"
"Well," said a voice which seemed to come out of the air directly over his head, "I was wondering if I were ever going to hear from you."
"What do you mean?" Kevan demanded indignantly. "I haven't been here more than an hour."
"Time, my dear boy, is relative," the voice said airily. "How did you make out with Alviss?"
Kevan quickly related all that had happened. "What shall I do?" he asked when he'd finished. "Obviously I can't go to—wherever it is—and just steal the girl."
There was a heavy sigh out of the air above his head. "It is a rather difficult task," admitted the voice, "for one of your inexperience. Unfortunately, there are no other agents unengaged at the moment, so I guess there's nothing to do but go get the girl."
"I won't," Kevan MacGreene said grimly. "I've had enough of this. I quit."
"My dear boy," the voice said, "you can't quit. If you're not employed by me, there is no way back here, and without the badge of my office you might find it rather difficult to get along where you are."
Kevan was silent in the grip of frustration.
"Besides," the voice continued sternly, "don't forget that you're a MacGreene. Once removed from the County Ulster 'tis true, but still a MacGreene. Quitting is not for the likes of you."
It was, moreover, the only argument to sway Kevan MacGreene. "Okay," he said wearily, "where do I find this Yggdrasil?"
"Just go due Southeast by Northwest and you can't miss it." The voice sounded pleased with itself.
"And what is Yggdrasil?" Kevan asked.
"The world tree—and that's why you can't miss it. You'll see it miles before you reach it. How much time did Alviss give you?"
"Until tomorrow morning."
There was a thin whistle in the air. "That isn't much time. I guess you'll be needing some assistance. Don't move for the next minute, my lad."
There seemed to be a crackling in the air around Kevan's head and then beside him stood a new jeep. It was painted a pleasant emerald green—which reminded Kevan of Kathleen Culanna's eyes—and lettered on the side were the wordsTROUBLESHOOTERS, INC.—OUR SPELLS, CURSES AND KNELLS ARE GUARANTEED.
"What's the slogan for?" Kevan asked.
"Oh," said the voice of Brian Shanachie, "that jeep was built to be used only in the land of the Little People and it doesn't hurt to advertise, you know. After all, we do work for both sides in making our adjustments. It helps to build confidence if they know that we guarantee to handle any matter up here which threatens them. But it's getting late. Perhaps you'd better run along. Oh, yes, there is one more thing. That is a new jeep and I didn't have time to install a spell-bumper. Some of the more provincial gnomes are not yet accustomed to our jeeps and may try to throw a spell at you. So if you notice one apparently weaving something in the air, I'd suggest that you dodge as quickly as possible. Good-by—and don't hesitate to call on me if you need anything."
There was dismissal in the voice, so Kevan MacGreene stepped gingerly into the jeep. It turned out, however, to be quite solid, so he sat down with growing confidence. The first thing that caught his eye was the compass just over the steering wheel. If anyone had told Kevan that a compass could manage to point Southeast by Northwest, he wouldn't have believed him—but this one did.
He stepped on the starter and the motor of the jeep caught with a full-throated roar which was the most comforting thing that had happened to Kevan since he'd left Brian Shanachie's office. He put it in gear and let out the clutch. The jeep leaped forward eagerly.
He was just driving past the palace, from which could still be heard a subdued roar, when he discovered a small gnome standing in the shadow of the building. The gnome was glaring at the green jeep and his hands were making strange passes in front of him. Kevan gazed at him curiously and then suddenly remembered what Brian Shanachie had said. He twisted the wheel and sent the jeep bouncing over a small hill.
Glancing back, he was glad he had remembered, for he was just in time to see a tree turn into some sort of giant pink worm and go wriggling off at a mad pace. The tree was just beyond where the jeep would have been if he'd continued straight. Kevan had no doubt that if he'd failed to turn, he would have been riding just such a pink monstrosity.
He soon got the jeep straightened out again in the direction of the compass needle and pressed the accelerator to the floor. The little car went bouncing over rocks and hills, undaunted by all that was in its path, and Kevan MacGreene grinned happily. This was the sort of magic which gave him a sense of reality.
After what seemed like a couple hours of riding, Kevan found he was approaching the giant tree which he assumed must be Yggdrasil. He'd sighted it more than an hour back and for the past half hour had been driving in the shade of the tree. Now, just beyond it, he could see the huge flat rainbow arching up into the sky.
He arrived near the trunk of the tree and stopped the jeep, while he looked around for the bridge. There was nothing that resembled one—except the rainbow. He noticed that its incline was gradual enough to be ascended and finally decided that it must be the bridge for which he was looking. He was about to put the jeep into gear, when a new voice spoke to him.
"Really, old chap," it said, in the broadest of English accents, "I wouldn't, y'know. Bifrost is composed of fire, air and water. I should imagine the fire element might harm your tyres, to say nothing of exploding your petrol."
Kevan looked around but saw only a huge serpent coiled around the tree, apparently gnawing on its roots, and a sneaky looking squirrel which was just then scurrying up the trunk of the tree. He had about concluded that he was again dealing with a gnome who was too thin to be seen when he noticed that the serpent's eyes were fixed on him and that there seemed to be a friendly gleam in them.
"Were you addressing me?" he asked.
"Yes," said the serpent. "I'm aware that it was forward of me, y'know—we haven't been introduced and all that—but, dash it all, one just can't let a chap rush into danger."
Kevan found himself grinning at the accent. "Who are you?" he asked.
"Nidhoggr, the serpent of Yggdrasil," the snake said.
"I'm Kevan MacGreene. How do you do."
"Charmed, I'm sure," said the serpent, with what was obviously meant for a friendly smile. The effect was modified unpleasantly by the appearance of his fangs.
"If you're a part of this set-up," Kevan said, with a wave which included the tree and the rainbow bridge, "I should guess that you must be Teutonic in origin, yet you seem to have a rather marked English accent."
"Do you like it?" the serpent said eagerly. "I think it sounds rather cultured myself. I picked it up from an English sparrow who occasionally visits me. He's taught me some rather jolly songs too—especially one, I believe it's called 'The Base-born King of England.' Would you care to hear it?"
"Some other time, perhaps," Kevan said, smothering a desire to laugh. "Although I believe you have the title slightly wrong. Now, what were you saying about not crossing the bridge in my jeep?"
"I don't believe it's safe," the serpent said. "I understand that fire and petrol do not mix well. You can walk across, y'know—it makes a splendid little outing. I believe the water and air keep the fire cool enough not to burn and I understand, in fact, that it's rather invigorating."
"Well, I suppose there's nothing to do but walk," Kevan said. He shut off the motor and climbed out of the jeep.
"You're quite sure it's safe?"
"Positive, old chap. It's safe for everyone except Thor. He's been forbidden to step on it because of his heavy tread—he's a peasant, y'know. It's not as if he were a gentleman." The serpent glanced up toward the trunk of the tree, where a squirrel could be seen now scurrying downward. "There comes Ratatosk again," he said, lowering his voice. "He spends all his time between Vedfolnir, on the upper branch, and myself trying to stir up trouble. An officious little blighter. You'd best hurry along or he's bound to think there's something subversive in our little chat."
"Okay," Kevan said with a grin. "Thanks for the advice." He waved to the serpent and started up the rainbow bridge. To his surprise, the mere touch of the bridge was invigorating. Through the soles of his shoes he could feel a combination of heat and coolness and it seemed that strength flowed up into him. He strode briskly along.
When he was well up over the curve of the bridge, he stopped a moment and looked back. By stretching his neck, he could make out the top of the tree and he caught a glimpse of a golden rooster perched on the very tip. It looked like a tiny spot of gold in the midst of the evergreen leaves.
In only a few more minutes, he was nearing the other end of the rainbow bridge. In the far distance, he could see the turrets of a number of huge castles.
The rest of the way was mostly down hill and he completed it at a fast pace. He stepped off the bridge and stopped to look around, wondering about his next move, when he was startled by a loud roar of pain. It seemed to come not far from his right, so he turned in that direction. After a moment's walk, he came around a small hill and found himself in front of a large cave.
A young man stood in the entrance of the cave. He was clad in golden chain mail, but wore no helmet so that his bright yellow hair fell to his shoulders. He was handsome beyond the highest standards set by mortal movies, yet his beauty was all masculine. There, Kevan found himself thinking, stands one who looks every inch a god.
He'd been staring at the blond man for several minutes before he realized what was represented in the full picture. The young man was standing in the mouth of the cave because he was chained here. Huge golden chains ran from his arms and legs, and from a collar around his neck, to the walls of the cave. The chains were tight so that he had little room to move about. Directly above the cave a large serpent was lying. Its open mouth was just above the entrance to the cave and its venom was steadily dripping from the gleaming fangs toward the man below. But standing alongside of the cave was a beautiful blonde—and, Kevan noted with some embarrassment, scantily-clad—young woman. She held a silver cup in her hand in which she caught the dripping venom just before it reached the young man.
"By Gimli," the young man was saying as Kevan arrived, "you took long to empty that last draught, Signe. I thought a sea of venom had struck me. Now—" He broke off as he caught sight of Kevan. His bright blue eyes moved swiftly as he looked Kevan over.
"What manner of a one have we here?" he said. "Although it's been immortal long since I've seen a mortal, I could swear this is one. And in Asgard." He raised his voice. "Are you a mortal, strange one?"
"Yes," Kevan said, trying to be polite enough not to show that he found anything strange in the scene before him. "My name is Kevan MacGreene."
"Welcome to Asgard, Kevan MacGreene," the blond young man said. He grinned merrily and rattled the chains that held him. "It may seem strange to you to be welcomed by one so carefully chained, but after all I am a son of Odin and I presume I can still shout a welcome. I am Loki and this is my wife, Signe. As you can see, she's busy."