Smart Dragons, Foolish Elves Read online

  A FUN-FILLED FROLIC

  FOR FEARLESS FANTASY FANS!

  A FOOLISH FEAST OF

  FEVERISH FRIVOLITY!

  Come join the party, and meet the gang. Alan Dean Foster, bestselling author of Quozl, introduces this sparkling celebration of funny fantasy by today’s most acclaimed storytellers …

  HARLAN ELLISON

  uncorks a devilish load of Djinn, No Chaser.

  ROBERT SILVERBERG

  buys an astonishing used car … As Is.

  ROGER ZELAZNY

  horns in on a few unusual Unicorn Variations.

  MIKE RESNICK

  sends the cops out looking for Beibermann’s Soul.

  ESTHER FRIESNER

  drives some ancient Romans Up the Wall.

  ANTHONY BOUCHER

  meets a pain-in-the-neck demon named Snulbug.

  AND MUCH MORE! REALLY!

  Smart Dragons, Foolish Elves

  SMART DRAGONS,

  FOOLISH ELVES

  EDITED BY

  ALAN DEAN FOSTER

  AND MARTIN HARRY GREENBERG

  SMART DRAGONS, FOOLISH ELVES

  An Ace Book / published by arrangement with the editors

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Ace edition / April 1991

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 1991 by Alan Dean Foster and Martin Harry Greenberg. Cover art by Robert Grace.

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission.

  For information address: The Berkley Publishing Group.

  200 Madison Avenue. New York. NY 10016.

  ISBN: 0-441-18481-2

  Ace Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group, 200 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10016.

  The name “ACE” and the “A” logo are trademarks belonging to Charter Communications, Inc.

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  The editors gratefully acknowledge permission to reprint the blowing material:

  “As Is” by Robert Silverberg, copyright © 1968 by Agberg, Ltd. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “The Same to You Doubled” by Robert Sheckley, copyright © 1971 by Robert Sheckley. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “The Egg of the Glak” by Harvey Jacobs, copyright © 1960 by Mercury Press, Iric.; copyright © 1969 by Harvey Jacobs. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “Beibermann’s Soul” by Mike Resnick, copyright © 1988 by Mercury Press, Inc. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “Thimgs” by Theodore R. Cogswell, copyright © 1958 by Mercury Press, Inc. Reprinted by permission of the Estate of Theodore R. Cogswell.

  “Ms. Lipshutz and the Goblin” by Marvin Kaye, copyright © 1979, 1981 by Marvin Kaye. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “Unferno” by George Alec Effinger, copyright © 1985 by Davis Publications, Inc. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “Unicorn Variations” by Roger Zelazny, copyright © 1982 by the Amber Corporation. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “Yes Sir That’s My” by Daniel P. Dem, copyright © 1978 by Robert Silverberg. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “Please Stand By” by Ron Goulart, copyright © 1961 by Mercury Press, Inc. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “Bottle Party” by John Collier, copyright © 1939 by John Collier, renewed © 1967 by John Collier. Reprinted by permission of Harold Matson Co., Inc.

  “My Mother Was a Witch” by William Tenn, copyright © 1966 by William Tenn. Reprinted by permission of Virginia Kidd, Literary Agent.

  “Djinn, No Chaser” by Harlan Ellison, copyright © 1982 by The Kilimanjaro Corporation. Reprinted with permission of, and by arrangement with, the Author and the Author’s agent, Richard Curtis Associates, Inc., New York. All rights reserved.

  “Up the Wall” by Esther Friesner, copyright © 1990 by Davis Publications, Inc. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “Trouble With Water” by Horace L. Gold, copyright 1939 by Street & Smith Publications, Inc.; renewed © 1967. Reprinted by arrangement with Forrest J. Ackerman, 2495 Glendower Avenue, Hollywood, CA 90027.

  “Savage Breasts” by Nina Kiriki Hoffman, copyright © 1988 by Nina Kiriki Hoffman. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “Or the Grasses Grow” by Avram Davidson, copyright © 1958 by Mercury Press, Inc.; renewed copyright © 1986 by Avram Davidson. Reprinted by permission of the author and his agent, Richard D. Grant. First appeared in The Magazine of Fantasy A Science Fiction.

  “Snulbug” by Anthony Boucher, copyright 1941 by Street & Smith Publications, Inc.; renewed © 1969. Reprinted by permission of Curtis Brown, Ltd.

  Introduction and Afterword by Alan Dean Foster, copyright © 1991 by Alan Dean Foster. Used by arrangement with the author.

  Contents

  Introduction

  As Is - ROBERT SILVERBERG

  The Same to You Doubled - ROBERT SHECKLEY

  The Egg of the Glak - HARVEY JACOBS

  Beibermann’s Soul - MIKE RESNICK

  Thimgs - THEODORE R. COGSWELL

  Ms. Lipshutz and the Goblin - MARVIN KAYE

  Unferno - GEORGE ALEC EFFINGER

  Unicorn Variations - ROGER ZELAZNY

  Yes Sir That’s My - DANIEL P. DERN

  Please Stand By - RON GOULART

  Bottle Party - JOHN COLLIER

  My Mother Was a Witch - WILLIAM TENN

  Djinn, No Chaser - HARLAN ELLISON

  Up the Wall - ESTHER M. FRIESNER

  Trouble With Water - HORACE L. GOLD

  Savage Breasts - NINA KIRIKI HOFFMAN

  Or the Grasses Grow - AVRAM DAVIDSON

  Snulbug - ANTHONY BOUCHER

  Afterword

  Introduction

  Humor and fantasy have had a long and happy marriage. Every society has felt the need now and then to leaven heavy doses of religion and mythology with laughter, lest the populace feel too oppressed by the gods. Not only did healthy injections of humor help to lighten the life loads of otherwise impoverished peoples, it served to humanize the vast unknowables of existence. Believing that Zeus, or Odin, or Shiva could find themselves on the cosmic whoopee cushion every now and then just like Uncle Cheng probably made the night seem a little less dark, the vastness of space and time a smidgen less overbearing.

  So the people told funny stories; sometimes respectfully, sometimes not. Clearly the gods had a sense of humor, because including them in amusing tales did not result in imminent destruction and devastation. No matter how serious the religion or mythology, some irreverent soul always found room for a good laugh.

  Today only the parameters have changed. The universe is better understood and therefore less threatening, but we still find space in religion for humor. The mythologies are different, though. The old gods repose comfortably in the Valhalla Retirement Home, having been replaced by computers, satellite communications, and psychoanalysis. Science, not mythology, rules the day.

  Yet much of the old hangs around, having slipped comfortably into new clothes. Human concerns are still universal. Many of the stories in this collection would make sense to readers of a hundred or even a thousand years ago. It would do our ancestors good to know that their offspring can still laugh and smile at themselves.

  Fantasy can be much more than escapism. Like the Arabian Nights, the imaginative tales in this collection often have points to make about the human condition: about love and truth, greed and lust, children and reality, what is really important in life and what is peripheral or overrated. The best stories are the ones that can make us th
ink as well as smile. That’s as true of fantasy fiction as it is of stand-up humor.

  Fantasy is a tool that enables the writer to go beyond the constraints of everyday life to make a point. The vehicle can be ethnic mythology, puberty, Roman history, love, beer, a grand quest or a tiny afterthought. The humor can be contained in a quick punchline or an elaborate buildup. A story can make us laugh out loud or simply smile knowingly. Humor can be light, dark, and every shade in between, depending on what setting the toaster has been left on.

  I like to believe that in addition to making us laugh or smile, each of the stories in this collection has something to say to us. Laughter lingers longest when it also makes a point. We usually remember the stories that cut deeper than those that merely anesthetize.

  Some of the authors in this collection are noted for their humorous fiction. Most are not. Quite the contrary, they are famed for the dark and serious, or expansive and adventurous, or the biting, or the poetical. But not humor. Not for making the reader grin and chuckle. Those are the ones I particularly prize.

  Because there’s laughter in all of us, even in long-faced, somber authors charged with explaining the Meaning of It All to desperate readers. Sometimes it’s a little slow manifesting itself, is all. The reason is that genuinely amusing fiction is the toughest kind to write. Succinctly put, “Funny is hard.”

  Keep that in mind as you put aside your casual evening’s reading of Proust or Solzhenitsyn and dig into something really serious. Like this book. If it makes you smile, then it’s done its job. If it makes you think, you’ve received a bonus. Take two stories, drink plenty of liquids, and stay in bed.

  That done, have you heard the one about … ?

  —Alan Dean Foster

  Prescott, Arizona

  How nice to be able to open a collection of the extraordinary with a quite ordinary tale. After all, what could be more ordinary than buying a car? Cars are unremarkable utilitarian objects that we deal with every day of our lives.

  Still, it would be a fairly simple matter to concoct a story about a remarkable car. One that kills, like Stephen King’s Christine. Or one that metamorphoses into a starship, as in the movie The Last Starfighter. But once you’ve tossed out the punchline, so to speak, where’s your story? No, no. Better to keep it simple, ordinary, unspectacular.

  Robert Silverberg has been writing simple, ordinary stories about everyday situations and events for a long time now. It’s the ease and skill with which he brings off whatever he wants to try that’s spectacular. This quiet little story, for example. You have to take it …

  As Is

  ROBERT SILVERBERG

  “As is,” the auto dealer said, jamming his thumbs under his belt. “Two hundred fifty bucks and drive it away. I’m not pretending it’s perfect, but I got to tell you, you’re getting a damned good hunk of car for the price.**

  “As is,” Sam Norton said.

  “As is. Strictly as is.”

  Norton looked a little doubtful. “Maybe she drives well, but with a trunk that doesn’t open—”

  “So what?” the dealer snorted. “You told me yourself you’re renting a U-Haul to get your stuff to California. What do you need a trunk for? Look, when you get out to the Coast and have a little time, take the car to a garage, tell ’em the story, and maybe Five minutes with a blowtorch—” “Why didn’t you do that while you had the car in stock?” The dealer looked evasive. “We don’t have time to fool with details like that.”

  Norton let the point pass. He walked around the car again, giving it a close look from all angles. It was a smallish dark-green four-door sedan, with the finish and trim in good condition, a decent set of tires, and a general glow that comes only when a car has been well cared for. The upholstery was respectable, the radio was in working order, the engine was—as far as he could judge—okay, and a test drive had been smooth and easy. The car seemed to be a reasonably late model, too; it had shoulder-harness safety belts and emergency blinkers.

  There was only one small thing wrong with it. The trunk didn’t open. It wasn’t just a case of a jammed lock, either; somebody had fixed this car so the trunk couldn’t open. With great care the previous owner had apparently welded the trunk shut; nothing was visible back there except a dim line to mark the place where the lid might once have lifted.

  What the hell, though. The car was otherwise in fine shape, and he wasn’t in a position to be too picky. Overnight, practically, they had transferred him to the Los Angeles office, which was fine in terms of getting out of New York in the middle of a lousy winter, but not so good as far as his immediate finances went. The company didn’t pay moving costs, only transportation; he had been handed four one-way tourist-class tickets, and that was that. So he had put Ellen and the kids aboard the first jet to L.A., cashing in his own ticket so he could use the money for the moving job. He figured to do it the slow but cheap way: rent a U-Haul trailer, stuff the family belongings into it, and set out via turnpike for California, hoping that Ellen had found an apartment by the time he got there. Only he couldn’t trust his present clunker of a car to get him very far west of Parsippany, New Jersey, let alone through the Mojave Desert. So here he was, trying to pick up an honest used job for about five hundred bucks, which was all he could afford to lay out on the spot.

  And here was the man at the used-car place offering him this very attractive vehicle—with its single peculiar defect—for only two and a half bills, which would leave him with that much extra cash cushion for the expenses of his transcontinental journey. And he didn’t really need a trunk, driving alone. He could keep his suitcase on the back seat and stash everything else in the U-Haul. And it shouldn’t be all that hard to have some mechanic in L. A. cut the trunk open for him and get it working again. On the other hand, Ellen was likely to chew him out for having bought a car that was sealed up that way; she had let him have it before on other “bargains” of that sort. On the third hand, the mystery of the sealed trunk appealed to him. Who knew what he’d find in there once he opened it up? Maybe the car had belonged to a smuggler who had had to hide a hot cargo fast, and the trunk was full of lovely golden ingots, or diamonds, or ninety-year-old cognac, which the smuggler had planned to reclaim a few weeks later, except that something unexpected had come up. On the fourth hand—

  The dealer said, “How’d you like to take her out for another test spin, then?”

  Norton shook his head. “Don’t think I need to. I’ve got a good idea of how she rides. ”

  “Well, then, let’s step into the office and close the deal.”

  Sidestepping the maneuver, Norton said, “What year did you say she was?”

  “Oh, about a ’sixty-four, ’sixty-five.”

  “You aren’t sure?”

  “You can’t really tell with these foreign jobs, sometimes. You know, they don’t change the model for five, six, ten years in a row, except in little ways that only an expert would notice. Take Volkswagen, for instance—”

  “And I just realized,” Norton cut in, “that you never told me what make she is, either.”

  “Peugeot, maybe, or some kind of Fiat,” said the dealer hazily. “One of those kind.”

  “You don’t know?”

  A shrug. “Well, we checked a lot of the style books going back a few years, but there are so damn many of these foreign cars around, and some of them they import only a few thousand, and—well, so we couldn’t quite figure it out.”

  Norton wondered how he was going to get spare parts for a car of unknown make and uncertain date. Then he realized that he was thinking of the car as his, already, even though the more he considered the deal, the less he liked it. And then he thought of those ingots in the trunk. The rare cognac. The suitcase full of rubies and sapphires.

  He said, “Shouldn’t the registration say something about the year and make?”

  The dealer shifted his weight from foot to foot. “Matter of fact, we don’t have the registration. But it’s perfectly legitimate. Hey,
look, I’d like to get this car out of my lot, so maybe we call it two twenty-five, huh?”

  “It all sounds pretty mysterious. Where’d you get the car, anyway?”

  “There was this little guy who brought it in, about a year ago, a year last November, I think it was. Give it a valve job, he said. I’ll be back in a month—got to take a sudden business trip. Paid in advance for tune-up and a month’s storage and everything. Wouldn’t you know that was the last we ever saw of him? Well, we stored his damn car here free for ten, eleven months, but that’s it, now we got to get it out of the place. The lawyer says we can take possession for the storage charge.”

  “If I buy it, you give me a paper saying you had the right to sell it?”

  “Sure. Sure.”

  “And what about getting the registration? Shifting the insurance over from my old heap? All the red tape?”

  “I’ll handle everything,” the dealer said. “Just you take the car outa here.”

  “Two hundred,” Norton said. “As is.”

  The dealer sighed. “It’s a deal. As is.”

  A light snow was falling when Norton began his crosscountry hegira three days later. It was an omen, but he was not sure what kind; he decided that the snow was intended as his last view of a dreary winter phenomenon he wouldn’t be seeing again, for a while. According to the Times, yesterday’s temperature range in L.A. had been sixty-six low, seventy-nine high. Not bad for January.