Collected fiction, p.242
Collected Fiction, page 242
Confusion became chaos. With yells of delighted fury, the gnomes rolled forward toward their ruler. “Fight!” the cry thundered out, reverberating from the roof. “Fight!”
Podrang snatched another crystal from nothingness—a green one, this time. Thirty-seven gnomes were instantly transformed into earthworms, and were trampled. The emperor went down under an avalanche of attackers, who abruptly disappeared, turned into mice by another of the Cockatrice Eggs.
Crockett saw one of the crystals sailing toward him, and ran like hell. He found a hiding-place behind a stalagmite, and from there watched the carnage. It was definitely a sight worth seeing, though it could not be recommended to a nervous man.
The Cockatrice Eggs exploded in an incessant stream. Whenever that happened, the spell spread out for twenty feet or more before losing its efficacy. Those caught on the fringes of the circle were only partially transformed. Crockett saw one gnome with a mole’s head. Another was a worm from the waist down. Another was—ulp! Some of the spell-patterns were not, apparently, drawn even from known mythology.
The fury of noise that filled the cavern brought stalactites crashing down incessantly from the roof. Ever so often Podrang’s battered head would reappear, only to go down again as more gnomes sprang to the attack—to be enchanted. Mice, moles, bats, and other things filled the Council Chamber. Crockett shut his eyes and prayed.
He opened them in time to see Podrang snatch a red crystal out of the air, pause, and then deposit it gently behind him. A purple Cockatrice Egg came next. This crashed against the floor, and thirty gnomes turned into tree toads.
Apparently only Podrang was immune to his own magic. The thousands who had filled the cavern were rapidly thinning, for the Cockatrice Eggs seemed to come from an inexhaustible source of supply. How long would it be before Crockett’s own turn came? He couldn’t hide here forever.
His gaze riveted to the red crystal Podrang had so carefully put down. He was remembering something—the Cockatrice Egg that would transform gnomes into humans. Of course! Podrang wouldn’t use that, since the very sight of men was so distressing to gnomes. If Crockett could get his hands on that red crystal—
He tried it, sneaking through the confusion, sticking close to the wall of the cavern, till he neared Podrang. The emperor was swept away by another onrush of gnomes, who abruptly changed into dormice, and Crockett got the red jewel. It felt abnormally cold.
He almost broke it at his feet before a thought stopped and chilled him. He was far under Dornsef Mountain, in a labyrinth of caverns. No human could find his way out. But a gnome could, with the aid of his strange tropism to daylight.
A bat flew against Crockett’s face. He was almost certain it squeaked, “What a fight!” in a parody of Brockle Buhn’s voice, but he couldn’t be sure. He cast one glance over the cavern before turning to flee.
IT WAS a complete and utter chaos. Bats, moles, worms, ducks, eels, and a dozen other species crawled, flew, ran, bit, shrieked, snarled, grunted, whooped, and croaked all over the place. From all directions the remaining gnomes—only about a thousand now—were converging on a surging mound of gnomes that marked where the emperor was. As Crockett stared the mound dissolved, and a number of gecko lizards fled to safety.
“Strike, will you!” Podrang bellowed. “I’ll show you!’’
Crockett turned and fled. The throne room, was deserted, and he ducked into the first tunnel. There, he concentrated on thinking of daylight. His left ear felt compressed. He sped on till he saw a side passage on the left, slanting up, and turned into it at top speed. The muffled noise of combat died behind him.
He clutched the red Cockatrice Egg tightly. What had gone wrong? Podrang should have stopped to parley. Only—only he hadn’t. A singularly bad-tempered and short-sighted gnome. He probably wouldn’t stop till he’d depopulated his entire kingdom. At the thought Crockett hurried along faster.
The tropism guided him. Sometimes he took the wrong tunnel, but always, whenever he thought of daylight, he would feel the nearest daylight pressing against him. His short, bowed legs were surprisingly hardy. Then he heard someone running after him.
He didn’t turn. The sizzling blast of profanity that curled his ears told him the identity of-the pursuer. Podrang had no doubt cleared the Council Chamber, to the last gnome, and was now intending to tear Crockett apart pinch by pinch. That was only one of the things he promised.
Crockett ran. He shot along that tunnel like a bullet. The tropism guided him, but he was terrified lest he reach a dead end. The clamor from behind grew louder. If Crockett hadn’t known better, he would have imagined that an army of gnomes pursued him. Faster! Faster! But now Podrang was in sight. His roars shook the very walls. Crockett sprinted, rounded a corner, and saw a wall of flaming light—a circle of it, in the distance. It was daylight, as it appeared to gnomic eyes.
He could not reach it in time. Podrang was too close. A few more seconds, and those gnarled, terrible hands would close on Crockett’s throat.
Then Crockett remembered the Cockatrice Egg. If he transformed himself into a man now, Podrang would not dare touch him. And he was almost at the tunnel’s mouth.
He stopped, whirling, and lifted the jewel. Simultaneously the emperor, seeing his intention, reached out with both hands, and snatched six or seven of the crystals out of the air. He threw them directly at Crockett, a fusillade of rainbow colors.
But Crockett had already slammed the red gem down on the rock at his feet. There was an ear-splitting crash. Jewels seemed to burst all around Crockett—but the red one had been broken first. The roof fell in.
A SHORT WHILE later, Crockett dragged himself painfully from the debris. A glance showed him that the way to the outer world was still open. And—thank. Heaven!—daylight looked normal again, not that flaming blaze of eye-searing white.
He looked toward the depths of the tunnel, and froze. Podrang was emerging, with some difficulty, from a mound of rubble. His low curses had lost none of their fire.
Crockett turned to run, stumbled over a rock, and fell flat. As he sprang up, he saw that Podrang had seen him.
The gnome stood transfixed for a moment. Then he yelled, spun on his heel, and fled into the darkness. He was gone. The sound of his rapid footfalls died. Crockett swallowed with difficulty. Gnomes are afraid of men—whew! That had been a close squeak. But now—”
He was more relieved than he had thought. Subconsciously he must have been wondering whether the spell would work, since Podrang had flung six or seven Cockatrice Eggs at him. But he had smashed the red one first. Even the strange, silvery gnomelight was gone. The depths of the cave were utterly black—and silent.
Crockett headed for the entrance. He pulled himself out, luxuriating in the warmth of the afternoon sun. He was near the foot of Dornsef Mountain, in a patch of brambles. A hundred feet away a fanner was plowing one terrace of a field.
Crockett stumbled toward him. As he approached, the man turned.
He stood transfixed for a moment. Then he yelled, spun on his heel, and fled.
His shrieks drifted back up the mountain as Crockett, remembering the Cockatrice Eggs, forced himself to look down at his own body.
Then he screamed, too. But the sound was not one that could ever have emerged from a human throat.
Still, that was natural enough—-under the circumstances—
THE END.
CHAMELEON MAN
He was a changeable sort of fellow—and on occasions resembled a piecemeal zombie assembled by someone entirely ignorant of anatomy!
TIM VANDERHOF wavered. He stood ten feet from a glass-paneled door, his apprehensive gaze riveted upon it, and swayed back and forth like a willow. Or, perhaps, an aspen. He wasn’t sure. Yes, it was an aspen—a quaking aspen. His ears seemed to twitch gently as he listened to the low rumble of voices from the inner office of S. Horton Walker, president of The Svelte Shop, Fifth Avenue’s snootiest establishment for supplying exclusive models of dresses, lingerie, and what-not.
Let us examine Mr. Vanderhof. He did not, at the moment, look like a man who, within a very short time, was going to turn into what amounted to something rather like a chameleon. Nevertheless, mentally and spiritually, Tim Vanderhof was a mere mass of quivering protoplasm, and no great wonder, after the interview he had just had. He wasn’t bad looking, though slightly pallid. His features were regular, his face a bit chubby, and his eyes held the expression of a startled fawn. They were brown, like his hair, and he had a pug nose.
He shivered slightly as the glass-paneled door opened. A Back appeared. Under it were two short, slightly bowed legs, and it was surmounted by a scarlet billiard-ball of a head. There was no neck. The Back was draped in tweeds, and a strong smell of tobacco, brandy, and horses emanated from it.
The Back extended a large, capable hand, clenched it into a fist, and shook it warningly at someone inside the office.
“Gad, sir!” a deep voice boomed, “Gad! This is the last straw! Mrs. Quester will be furious. And I warn you, Walker, that I shall be furious too. I have stood enough of your trifling. Twice already you promised exclusive models of a dress for my wife, and then failed to deliver.”
“But—” said a Voice.
“Silence!” bellowed the Back, and the Voice was cowed. “You have promised Model Forty-Three to Mrs. Quester. If you dare to exhibit it at your fashion show this afternoon, I shall call upon you with a riding-whip. I shall be here after the show, and you will have the dress ready for me to take to Mrs. Quester. You have had enough time to make alterations. Gad, sir—in Burma I have had men broken—utterly broken—for less than this.”
The Voice, with a faint spark of antagonism, rallied. It said, “But.”
“But me no buts, damn your eyes! This isn’t Burma, but you will find that Colonel Quester still knows how to use his fists—you tradesman! I shall be back this afternoon, and—brrrrmph!”
“Yes, Colonel,” the Voice assented weakly, and the Back turned, revealing to the watching Vanderhof a round, crimson face with a bristling, iron-gray mustache, and beetling brows from beneath which lightning crackled menacingly. Brrmphing, Colonel Quester moved like a mastodon past the quaking Vanderhof and vanished through a door that seemed to open coweringly of its own accord at the man’s advance. Vanderhof immediately turned and started to tiptoe away.
The Voice detected the sound of his departure. “Vanderhof!” it screamed. “Come here!”
Thus summoned, the unfortunate official halted, retraced his steps, and entered the inner sanctum. There he paused like a hypnotized rabbit, watching the Voice, who was also known as S. Horton Walker, president of The Svelte Shop.
A HARD man, S. Horton Walker. As a child, he had pulled the wings off butterflies, and maturity had not improved him. He looked like a shaved ape, with a bristling crop of blue-black hair and a gleaming, vicious eye that was now engaged in skinning Vanderhof.
“Ulp,” the later remarked, in a conciliatory tone.
“Don’t give me that,” Walker grow-led, crouching behind his desk like the gorilla he resembled. “I told you to keep that so-and-so out of my office. Well?”
“I said you were out,” Vanderhof explained. “I—I—”
“You—you—” Walker mocked, pointing a stubby sausage of a finger. “Bah! And, again, bah! What the hell are you, a man or a jellyfish?”
“A man,” Vanderhof said hopefully. Walker’s grunt was profoundly skeptical. “You’re a weakfish. A non-entity. By God, when I was your age I had twenty-nine men under me. By sheer force of personality I made myself what I am today. And I like men with drive—push—get-up-and-go.”
Vanderhof, seeing an opportunity of escape, began to get-up-and-go, but relapsed at Walker’s furious yelp. “Why, do you realize that Colonel Quester would have punched me in the eye if I hadn’t impressed him with my personality? He’s an outrageous person.”
“You did promise those exclusive models to his wife though.”
“We get a better price elsewhere,” Walker said, and pondered. “But Model Forty-Three will be ready for him when he calls this afternoon. A dangerous man, the colonel. Where was I? Oh, yes. “You’re a fool, Vanderhof.”
Vanderhof nodded and looked like a fool. Walker groaned in exasperation.
“Haven’t you any personality at all? No, you haven’t. You’re a—a—a chameleon, that’s what. I’ve noticed that before. When you’re talking to a ditch-digger, you act like one yourself. When you’re talking to a banker, you turn into a banker. You’re a mirror, that’s what!”
It was unfortunate that Vanderhof did not leave at that moment. After his interview with the excitable Colonel Quester, he was mere protoplasm, and somewhat too receptive to suggestion. It was, of course, true, that Vanderhof had little character of his own. He had lost it, after years of associating with the virulent Walker. He was a complete yes-man, and needed only a catalyst to complete a certain chemical reaction that was already taking place.
“You’re a chameleon,” Walker said, with emphasis, and his eyes bored into Vanderhof’s.
It was at that precise moment that Mr. Tim Vanderhof turned into a chameleon.
Not physically, of course. The metamorphosis was far more subtle. Adept for years at assuming the traits of others, Vanderhof was rather shockingly receptive. Though all he did was to sit down in a chair opposite his boss.
Walker stared, frowned, and hesitated.
Vanderhof stared, frowned, and didn’t say anything.
Walker lifted a large hand and pointed accusingly.
Vanderhof lifted a smaller hand and also pointed accusingly.
Walker flushed. So did Vanderhof, The president of The Svelte Shop rose like a behemoth from his chair and growled, “Are you mocking me?”
Then he stopped, amazed, because Vanderhof had risen and said exactly the same thing.
“You—you—you—” Walker’s face was purple. Vanderhof guessed what was coming. With a mighty effort he asserted what little remained of his will-power.
“D-don’t go on!” he pleaded frantically. “P-please—”
“You chameleon!” S. Horton Walker thundered.
“You chameleon!” Vanderhof thundered.
Such bare-faced, impudent mockery was unendurable. Walker quivered in every muscle. “You’re fired!” he said. “What’s that? What did you say? What do you mean, I’m fired? Stop imitating me, you stupid clown. Don’t call me a stupid clown! Nrrgh!”
“—nrrgh!” Vanderhof finished, not quite realizing what was happening to him. Walker sat down weakly. He was shaken a little, but his natural malignancy was still undimmed. A natural snake, S. Horton Walker.
“I—”
“I—” said Vanderhof.
Walker bellowed, “Shut up!” And, so strong was his will, for the moment Vanderhof remained perfectly quiet.
“Are you going to get out?” he asked at length, in a low, deadly voice. “Damn it, stop mocking me! I’ll have you thrown out! What? Have me thrown out of my own office?”
Goaded to insensate fury by the fact that Vanderhof was repeating perfectly everything he said and did—and, curiously enough, at exactly the same time he said and did it—Walker stuck out his thumb to press a button on the desk. It collided with Vanderhof’s thumb.
Walker sat back, palpitating, a mute Vesuvius. Obviously Vanderhof had gone mad. And yet—
“I wish you’d go and drown yourself,” said the president, meaning every word. He was somewhat astonished when Tim Vanderhof quietly arose and left the office. He would have been even more surprised had he seen Vanderhof walk down 42nd Street to Times Square, and then board the Brighton Beach subway train bound for Coney Island. Somehow, it is doubtful whether Walker would have regretted the incident or recalled his words. He was evil to the core, and a hard man, as has been mentioned previously. He turned back to his preparations for the exclusive fashion show that afternoon, while the metamorphosed Tim Vanderhof hurried off to go and drown himself.
NOW Tim was really a nice guy. He shot a fair game of golf, had once made ten straight passes while shooting craps at a stag party’, and was kind to dogs, blind men, and small children. He explained the latter eccentricity by stating that he had once been a small child himself, which was no doubt true enough. Under other circumstances, Mr. Vanderhof might have achieved a genuine personality of his own, but he had the misfortune always to be associated with rats like Walker. Self-made men invariably contend that they had to light their way through obstacles, so they create new obstacles for those under them, probably with the best intentions in the world. The fact remains that Walker had provided the ultimate catalyst for Tim Vanderhof, who got off the subway at Coney Island—it had now, by some strange metamorphosis, been transformed into an elevated—and wandered along the boardwalk, peering contemplatively at the ocean.
It was large, gray, and wet. A great deal of H2O2 to put it scientifically. Vanderhof’s mind was dulled; he found it difficult to think clearly, and he kept hearing Walker’s command over and over again.
“—go and drown yourself. Go and drown yourself.”
The sky was cloudy. It had been a hot day, one of those Turkish bath affairs which make Manhattan, in the summer, a suburb of hell, and so there were vast quantities of people at Coney. Large bulging women lumbered about shepherding brats, who fed voraciously on ice-cream, pickles, hokey-pokey, hot dogs, and similar juicy tidbits. Brawny young men and flimsy girls, hot and perspiring, tried to gulp down air quite as humid as in the city. Meanwhile, the Atlantic Ocean beckoned to Tim Vanderhof.
His eyes were glazed as he made a beeline for the nearest pier. In the back of his mind a little remnant of sanity shrieked warning, but Vanderhof could not obey. Stripped of the last remnant of personality and will-power, he walked on . . .
“—go and drown yourself. Go and drown yourself.”
