Tales From the Spaceport Bar Read online

  Witherwax beckoned to Mr. Cohan. "These are good. Do it again. But wouldn’t your square-cube law get you in Dutch there, too?”

  "By no means, sir. In the case of size reduction, it works in your favor. The mass is divided by eight, but the muscles remain proportionately the same, capable of supporting a vastly greater weight. The legs and wings of a tiny elephant would not only support him, but give him the agility of a hummingbird. Consider the dwarf elephant of Sicily during the Plish—”

  “Alvin,” said Mrs. Jonas, "you’re drunk. Otherwise you’d remember how to pronounce Pleistocene,

  and you wouldn’t be talking about elephants’ wings.”

  "Not at all, my dear. I should confidently expect such a species to develop flight by means of enlarged ears, like the Dumbo of the movies.”

  Mrs. Jonas giggled. "Still, I wouldn’t want one the size of a housefly. It would be too small for a pet and would get into things. Let’s make it the size of a kitten, like this.” She held out her index fingers about five inches apart.

  "Very well, my dear,” said the professor. "As soon as I can obtain a grant from the Carnegie Foundation, the project will be undertaken.”

  "Yes, but,” said Witherwax, "how would you feed an elephant like that? And could they be house-broke?”

  "If you can housebreak a man, an elephant ought to be easy,” said Mrs. Jonas. "And you could feed them oats or hay. Much cleaner than keeping cans of dog food around,”

  The professor rubbed his chin. "Hmm,” he said. "The rate of absorption of nourishment would vary directly as the intestinal area—which would vary as the square of the dimensions—I’m not sure of the results, but I’m afraid we’d have to provide more concentrated and less conventional food. I presume that we could feed our Elephas micros, as I propose to call him, on lump sugar. No, not Elephas micros, Elephas microtatus, the ’utmost littlest, tiniest elephant.’”

  Mr. Cohan, who had been neglecting his only other customer to lean on the bar in their direction, spoke up: "Mr. Considine, that’s the salesman, was telling me that the most concentrated food you can get is good Malt Whiskey.”

  "That’s it!” The professor slapped the table. "Not Elephas microtatus but Elephas frumenti, the Whiskey elephant, from what he lives on. We’ll breed them for a diet of alcohol. High energy content.”

  "Oh, but that won’t do,” protested Mrs. Jonas. "Nobody would want a house pet that had to be fed on Whiskey all the time. Especially with children around.”

  Said Witherwax: "Look, if you really want these animals, why don’t you keep them some place where children aren’t around and Whiskey is— bars, for instance.”

  "Profound observation,” said Professor Thott. "And speaking of rounds, Mr. Cohan, let us have another. We have horses as outdoor pets, cats as house pets, canaries as cage pets. Why not an animal especially designed and developed to be a bar pet? Speaking of which—that stuffed owl you keep for a pet, Mr. Cohan, is getting decidedly mangy.” "They would steal things like that,” said Mrs. Jonas dreamily. "They would take things like owls’ feathers and pretzel sticks and beer mats to build their nests with, up in the dark comers somewhere near the ceiling. They would come out at night—” The professor bent a benignant gaze on her as Mr. Cohan set out the drinks. "My dear,” he said, "either this discussion of the future Elephas frumenti or the actual spiritus frumenti is going to your head. When you become poetical—”

  The brass-blonde had leaned back and was looking upward. "I’m not poetical. That thing right up there on top of the pillar is the nest of one of your bar elephants.”

  "What thing up there?” said Thott.

  'That thing up there, where it’s so dark.”

  "I don’t see nothing,” said Mr. Cohan, "and if you don’t mind my saying so, this is a clean bar, not a rat in the place.”

  "They wouldn’t be quite tame, ever,” said Mrs. Jonas, still looking upward, "and if they didn’t feel they were fed enough, they’d come and take for themselves when the bartender wasn’t looking.” 'That does look funny,” said Thott, pushing his chair back and beginning to climb on it.

  "Don’t, Alvin,” said Mrs. Jonas. "You’ll break your neck..... Think of it, they’d feed their child-

  "Stand by me, then, and let me put my hand on your shoulder.”

  "Hey!” said Witherwax suddenly. "Who drank my drink?”

  Mrs. Jonas lowered her eyes. "Didn’t you?”

  "I didn’t even touch it. Mr. Cohan just put it down, didn’t you?”

  "I did that. But that would be a couple of minutes back, and maybe you could—”

  "I could not. I definitely, positively did not drink —hey, you people, look at the table!”

  "If I had my other glasses...” said Thott, swaying somewhat uncertainly as he peered upward into the shadows.

  "Look at the table,” repeated Witherwax, pointing.

  The glass that had held his drink was empty. Thott’s still held about half a cocktail. Mrs. Jonas’ glass lay on its side, and from its lip about a thimbleful of Presidente cocktail had flowed pinkly into an irregular patch the size of a child’s hand.

  As the other two followed Witherwax’s finger, they saw that, from this patch, a line of little damp footprints led across the table to the far edge, where they suddenly ceased. They were circular, each about the size of a dime, with a small scalloped front edge, as if made by...

  L. Sprague de Camp is the author of numerous science-fiction classics, including Lest Darkness Fall, Rogue Queen, and The; Hand of Zei. Fletcher Pratt wrote two distinguished fantasy novels, The Well of the Unicorn and The Blue Star, along with much science fiction. Together, the two of them formed one of the most successful collaborative teams in the history of the field, producing the classic Harold Shea series (The Incomplete Enchanter, etc.) and Tales from Gavagan’s Bar.

  De Camp describes "Elephas Frumenti” as one of his first fictional efforts after World War II, written in late 1948. He recalls further, "The general idea of a series of barroom tales, as well as the basic idea for the present story, were Fletcher Pratt's. When Pratt and I collaborated, we thrashed out the plot together; I wrote a rough draft, and he wrote the final.” Over the next five years, they wrote twenty-nine Gavagan’s stories; but then Pratt shifted more to nonfiction, and in 1956 suddenly died. De Camp remains reluctant to produce one more story by himself, so the thirtieth, about a vampire with a sweet tooth that only attacked diabetics, must remain unwritten.

  UNICORN VARIATION

  by Roger Zelazny

  A deserted bar in a ghost town in the American Southwest...

  A bizarrerie of fires, cunabulum of light, it moved with a deft, almost dainty deliberation, phasing into and out of existence like a storm-shot piece of evening; or perhaps the darkness between the flares was more akin to its truest nature—swirl of black ashe3 assembled in prancing cadence to the lowing note of desert wind down the arroyo behind buildings as empty yet filled as the pages of unread books or stillnesses between the notes of a song.

  Gone again. Back again. Again.

  Power, you said? Yes. It takes considerable force of identity to manifest before or after one’s time. Or both.

  As it faded and gained it also advanced, moving through the warm afternoon, its tracks erased by the wind. That is, on those occasions when there were tracks.

  A reason. There should always be a reason. Or reasons.

  It knew why it was there—but not why it was there, in that particular locale.

  It anticipated learning this shortly, as it approached the desolation-bound line of the old street. However, it knew that the reason may also come before, or after. Yet again, the pull was there and the force of its being was such that it had to be close to something.

  The buildings were worn and decayed and some of them fallen and all of them drafty and dusty and empty. Weeds grew among floorboards. Birds nested upon rafters. The droppings of wild things were everywhere, and it knew them all as they would have known it, were they
to meet face to face.

  It froze, for there had come the tiniest unanticipated sound from somewhere ahead and to the left. At that moment, it was again phasing into existence and it released its outline which faded as quickly as a rainbow in Hell, that but the naked presence remained beyond subtraction.

  Invisible, yet existing, strong, it moved again. The clue. The cue. Ahead. A gauche. Beyond the faded word SALOON on weathered board above. Through the swinging doors. (One of them pinned alop.)

  Pause and assess.

  Bar to the right, dusty. Cracked mirror behind it. Empty bottles. Broken bottles. Brass rail, black, encrusted. Tables to the left and rear. In various states of repair.

  Man seated at the best of the lot. His back to the door. Levi’s. Hiking boots. Faded blue shirt. Green backpack leaning against the wall to his left.

  Before him, on the tabletop, is the faint, painted outline of a chessboard, stained, scratched, almost obliterated.

  The drawer in which he had found the chessmen is still partly open.

  He could no more have passed up a chess set

  without working out a problem or replaying one of his better games than he could have gone without breathing, circulating his blood, or maintaining a relatively stable body temperature.

  It moved nearer, and perhaps there were fresh prints in the dust behind it, but none noted them.

  It, too, played ches3.

  It watched as the man replayed what had perhaps been his finest game, from the world preliminaries of seven years past. He had blown up after that—surprised to have gotten even as far as he had—for he never could perform well under pressure. But he had always been proud of that one game, and he relived it as all sensitive beings do certain turning points in their lives. For perhaps twenty minutes, no one could have touched him. He had been shining and pure and hard and clear. He had felt like the best.

  It took up a position across the board from him and stared. The man completed the game, smiling. Then he set up the board again, rose, and fetched a can of Beer from his pack. He popped the top.

  When he returned, he discovered that white’s king’s pawn had been advanced to K4. His brow furrowed. He turned his head, searching the bar, meeting his own puzzled gaze in the grimy mirror. He looked under the table. He took a drink of Beer and seated himself.

  He reached out and moved his pawn to K4. A moment later, he saw white’s king’s knight rise slowly into the air and drift forward to settle upon KB3. He stared for a long while into the emptiness across the table before he advanced his own knight to his KB3.

  White’s knight moved to take his pawn. He dismissed the novelty of the situation and moved his pawn to Q3. He all but forgot the absence of a tangible opponent as the white knight dropped back to its KB3. He paused to take a sip of Beer, but no sooner had he placed the can upon the tabletop than it rose again, passed across the board, and was upended. A gurgling noise followed. Then the can fell to the floor, bouncing, ringing with an empty sound.

  "I’m sorry,” he said, rising and returning to his pack. "I’d have offered you one if I’d thought you were something that might like it.”

  He opened two more cans, returned with them, placed one near the far edge of the table, one at his own right hand.

  'Thank you,” came a soft, precise voice from a point beyond it.

  The can was raised, tilted slightly, returned to the tabletop.

  "My name is Martin,” the man said.

  "Call me Tlingel,” said the other. "I had thought that perhaps your kind was extinct. I am pleased that you at least have survived to afford me this game.”

  "Huh?” Martin said. "We were all still around the last time that I looked—a couple of days ago.”

  "No matter. I can take care of that later,” Tlingel replied. "I was misled by the appearance of this place.”

  "Oh. It’s a ghost town. I backpack a lot.”

  "Not important. I am near the proper point in your career as a species. I can feel that much.”

  "I am afraid that I do not follow you.”

  "I am not at all certain that you would wish to. I assume that you intend to capture that pawn?” "Perhaps. Yes, I do wish to. What are you talking about?”

  The Beer can rose. The invisible entity took another drink.

  "Well,” said Tlingel, "to put it simply, your—successors—grow anxious. Your place in the scheme of things being such an important one, I had sufficient power to come and check things out.”

  '"Successors’? I do not understand.”

  "Have you seen any griffins recently?”

  Martin chuckled.

  "I’ve heard the stories,” he said, "seen the photos of the one supposedly shot in the Rockies. A hoax, of course.”

  "Of course it must seem so. That is the way with mythical beasts.”

  "You’re trying to say that it was real?”

  "Certainly. Your world is in bad shape. When the last grizzly bear died recently, the way was opened for the griffins—just as the death of the last aepyomis brought in the yeti, the dodo, the Loch Ness creature, the passenger pigeon, the sasquatch, the blue whale, the kraken, the American eagle, the cockatrice—”

  "You can’t prove it by me.”

  "Have another drink.”

  Martin began to reach for the can, halted his hand, and stared.

  A creature approximately two inches in length, with a human face, a lionlike body, and feathered wings, was crouched next to the Beer can.

  "A mini-sphinx,” the voice continued. "They came when you killed off the last smallpox virus.” "Are you trying to say that whenever a natural species dies out a mythical one takes its place?” he asked.

  "In a word—yes. Now. It was not always so, but you have destroyed the mechanisms of evolution. The balance is now redressed by those others of us, from the morning land—we, who have never truly been endangered. We return, in our time.”

  "And you—whatever you are, Tlingel—you say that humanity is now endangered?”

  "Very much so. But there is nothing that you can do about it, is there? Let us get on with the game.” The sphinx flew off. Martin took a sip of Beer and captured the pawn.

  "Who,” he asked then, "are to be our successors?” "Modesty almost forbids,” Tlingel replied. "In the case of a species as prominent as your own, it naturally has to be the loveliest, most intelligent, most important of us all.”

  "And what are you? Is there any way that I can have a look?”

  "Well—yes. If I exert myself a trifle.”

  The Beer can rose, was drained, fell to the floor. There followed a series of rapid rattling sounds retreating from the table. The air began to flicker over a large area opposite Martin, darkening within the growing flamework. The outline continued to brighten, its interior growing jet black. The form moved, prancing about the saloon, multitudes of tiny, cloven hoofprints scoring and cracking the floorboards. With a final, near-blinding flash it came into full view and Martin gasped to behold it.

  A black unicorn with mocking yellow eyes sported before him, rising for a moment onto its hind legs to strike a heraldic pose. The fires flared about it a second longer, then vanished.

  Martin had drawn back, raising one hand defensively.

  "Regard me!” Tlingel announced. "Ancient symbol of wisdom, valor, and beauty, I stand before you!”

  "I thought your typical unicorn was white,” Martin finally said.

  "I am archetypical,” Tlingel responded, dropping to all fours, "and possessed of virtues beyond the ordinary.”

  "Such as?”

  "Let us continue our game.”

  "What about the fate of the human race? You said—”

  "... And save the small talk for later.”

  "I hardly consider the destruction of humanity to be small talk.”

  "And if you’ve any more Beer...”

  "All right,” Martin said, retreating to his pack as the creature advanced, its eyes like a pair of pale suns. "There’s some Lager.” />
  * * *

  Something had gone out of the game. As Martin sat before the ebon horn on Tlingel’s bowed head, like an insect about to be pinned, he realized that his playing was off. He had felt the pressure the moment he had seen the beast—and there was all that talk about an imminent doomsday. Any run-of-the-mill pessimist could say it without troubling him, but coming from a source as peculiar as this...

  His earlier elation had fled. He was no longer in top form. And Tlingel was good. Very good. Martin found himself wondering whether he could manage a stalemate.

  After a time, he saw that he could not and resigned.

  The unicorn looked at him and smiled.

  "You don’t really play badly—for a human,” it said.

  "I’ve done a lot better.”

  "It is no shame to lose to me, mortal. Even among mythical creatures there are very few who can give a unicorn a good game.”

  "I am pleased that you were not wholly bored,” Martin said. "Now will you tell me what you were talking about concerning the destruction of my species?”

  "Oh, that,” Tlingel replied. "In the morning land where those such as I dwell, I felt the possibility of your passing come like a gentle wind to my nostrils, with the promise of clearing the way for us—”

  "How is it supposed to happen?”

  Tlingel shrugged, horn writing on the air with a toss of the head.

  "I really couldn’t say. Premonitions are seldom specific. In fact, that is what I came to discover. I should have been about it already, but you diverted me with Beer and good sport.”

  "Could you be wrong about this?”

  "I doubt it. That is the other reason I am here.”

  "Please explain.”

  "Are there any Beers left?”

  'Two, I think”

  "Please.”

  Martin rose and fetched them.

  "Damn! The tab broke off this one,” he said. "Place it upon the table and hold it firmly.”