The Philosophical Strangler(102)

“—the Slathering Sanguine Skulker—”

A great wail, there.

“—the Creeper from the Crevasse—”

A pure howl.

“—the Undulant Umbellant from Under—”

A shriek.

“—and, of course, the It and the Thing and the Them and the They.”

A cacophony of pure terror, from the dwarves. Shelyid piped up cheerfully:

“You forgot the Torrid Terror, professor. And the Kankr Connection and the Flaying Crutchman and the Minions of the Minotaur—and the Minotaur himself, come to think of it—and—”

“Enough, my loyal but stupid apprentice!”

Less cheerfully: “And the Switches.”

“I say—enough!”

Not cheerfully at all: “And the Nun.”

“Desist, diminutive wretch!”

Gloomily: “Attila the Nun.”





Suddenly, the Cat spoke up. As often, I had forgotten she was there. The woman had a way of disappearing without actually doing it.

“Any chance Schrödinger might be down there?”

The wizard frowned. “Of course. Schrödinger might be anywhere.”

“Who’s Schrödinger?” asked Magrit.

“Who are you, for that matter?” shrilled the salamander. “You got a name, lady? Or should we just call you Four-Eyes?”

That was the only bright moment of the whole day. An instant later Wittgenstein was clutched in the Cat’s hand, its eyes popping, its tongue bulging out.

“Schrödinger’s supposed to be a slimy sort of creature,” muttered the Cat. She inspected the salamander from a distance of two inches, peering at the wretched amphibian through her telescope lenses.

Greyboar cleared his throat. “That’s actually not Schrödinger, love. Its name’s Wittgenstein.”

Wittgenstein tried to splutter. The Cat drew her sword.

“Maybe he’s in disguise,” mused the Cat. Magrit tried to say something, so did Greyboar. I just grinned.

The Cat chopped off Wittgenstein’s tail. The deed done, she dropped the salamander and inspected the tail. Closely, as only she can do.

“Nope,” she concluded. “It’s not a disguise. Real tail.”

Wittgenstein was scurrying about, cursing a blue streak. “Of course it’s a real tail, you fucking idiot blindwoman! It was a real tail, I should say!”

Wittgenstein inspected his stub mournfully. Everyone else in the room started laughing.

Then the laughter died, and disaster finally struck.

“Sure we’ll do it,” rumbled Greyboar. Gwendolyn started crying again and he took her in his arms. Then she even kissed him on the cheek and I knew we were lost.

And that’s how it happened. A slimy salamander, inspecting his lost tail. An honest chokester’s agent, inspecting his ruined life. His wrecked world.





Chapter 24.

The Gripster in the Grotto

If you’ve never participated in one of these insane adventures, you probably have all kinds of weird ideas about how they get started. Solemn councils, plotting strategy; sage advice proferred, modified, adapted; tactics developed; preparations made; re-made; re-made again. Then, a great ceremony when the heroes depart on their quest.

Crap. That’s the way it should have been, of course—and you can be sure that I so advised, every step of the way. Lengthy councils, I advocated. Well-planned strategies, I called for. Elaborate preparations, I counseled. And re-counseled. And re-counseled.

I might as well have been talking to the wall. The only one who listened to me was the wizard, and even Zulkeh demurred.

“As a general rule, my dear Ignace,” allowed the sorcerer, “I am inclined toward your approach to these matters. But in this instance, alas, time presses.”

“Why?” I demanded. “Benny struck me as a competent chap. I’m sure he’ll manage well enough until we can get there.”

Zulkeh stroked his beard, shook his head. “I fear not. Regardless of his competence—and we should remember, in this regard, that the man is after all an artist, a breed not noted for their practic skills—he has no chance of survival if we do not rescue him from Even Worse Hands within a fortnight. The oscillation of the galactic plane, you understand.”

“The what?”

Zulkeh stared at me as if I were a moron. “Is such ignorance possible?” he demanded.

“Just answer the question,” I growled. (I didn’t take offense. I’d dealt with Zulkeh before.)

The mage stroked his beard furiously. “But, my dear illiterate, the matter’s obvious! As our solar system rotates through the galaxy, we move slowly up and down across the galactic plane. The cycle time is thought to vary between sixty-two and sixty-seven million years. I myself, of course, opt firmly for the latter figure, inasmuch as the Law of Gravity—properly so named only by myself, as I am its discoverer despite the preposterous claims advanced by—”