Alan Dean Foster SS5 The Paths Of The Perambulator

[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

frustration and embarrassment gave added emphasis to each phrase he sang.
Both were powerful forces, though not the ones he would have chosen to fuel
his magic, but there was no question about their eificacy. Instantly the
transparent autumn morning seemed to darken around them.
In the dim light the gneechees that had materialized stood out sharply. Not a
couple this time but hundreds, enveloping singer and companions in a cloud of
iridescent light. As usual, not one of the minuscule apparitions could be seen
straight on. They could be perceived only out of the corner of one's eye.
Jon-Tom wailed and twisted, sang and played. The fingers of his left hand
danced a saraband over the upper strings while his right hand was a blur in
front of the duar's body. As he played, something new was taking shape and
form in front of him, something substantial, something worthy of a
spellsinger's best efforts.
Sorbl retreated behind the tree again, and even Clothahump took an unwilling
step backward. A
foul-smelling wind blew outward from the solidifying manifestation. Its
outlines did not flutter and break this time but grew steadily more visible.
It grew and added weight and reality.
But the shape was still wrong. He hurried to bring the song to a conclusion,
trying to see through the glowing mist that enveloped the object. It was not
the object of his desires. It certainly was nothing like a
L'borian riding snake. But neither was it a cosmic joke akin to the toy he had
conjured up previously.
In shape it was more than recognizable; it was quite familiar. Certainly he
had not expected to see anything like it. His throat was sore and his fingers
numb from the effort he'd put into the song. Carefully, painfully, he slid the
duar back around his shoulders so that the instrument rested against his back.
Then he approached the product of his spellsinging. The lingering glow that
attended to it was fading rapidly.
Sorbl flew out from behind the tree, circled the manifestation a couple of
times, and then landed next to
Jon-Tom. "What in the name of the seven aerial demons is it?"
Jon-Tom ignored him as he touched it. There was no burning sensation. Neither
was it dangerously cold to the touch. The surface was smooth and shiny, like
the skin of a L'borian riding snake. He walked completely around it,
Page 22
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
inspecting it from every possible angle as Clothahump joined them.
"As I feared, not what you wished for, my boy, but an interesting piece of
work nonetheless. Though I
recognize neither its origin nor composition, it is clear that it is a vehicle
of some kind. For one thing it has wheels." He tapped one. "They appear to be
fashioned not of wood or metal but of some flexible alien substance." He
wrinkled his nose as best he was able. "It possesses a most disagreeable
smell."
"I know what it is, though," Jon-Tom told him. "I didn't think anything like
it actually existed. I should say it's considerably rarer than a L'borian
riding snake. But it look like we'll be riding to Lynchbany and beyond, after
all. in style and I agree that it stinks, but at least we won't have to walk.
"Where I come from there are books, magazines, other cheap publications, and
they all have
advertisements for this thing in them, but I never believed they actually
existed, and I never heard of anyone actually obtaining one of them. The ads
are for army surplus materials."
"I do know what an army is," said Clothahump thoughtfully, "but I have yet to
encounter one that boasted a surplus of anything."
"In my world," Jon-Tom informed him, "armies exist for the sole purpose of
acquiring the taxpayers'
money so they can spend it on things they don't need and then turn around and
sell the stuff to these surplus stores. The armies have less material and need
more money than ever, and there are also more surplus stores each year than
before. It's a miraculous cycle that bears no relationship to anything else in
nature.
"These publications I mentioned are always carrying ads for many things that
are quite useful. In addition to what they actually have for sale, they also
try to get your attention with items that I'm sure have never existed. The
most famous of these is the army surplus jeep for twenty-five dollars.
"It's impossible to sell a jeep for twenty-five dollars, but despite post
office regulations, ads like that have been appearing for decades. But not one
of those twenty-five-dollar jeeps ever existed. And now I know why. The only
way to actually get one is by using magic. The wonderful aroma you're
inhaling, by the way, is the delightful fragrance of leaded gas. One of the
more common smells on my world."
"My profoundest sympathies," said Clothahump, sniffing ostentatiously.
"I still can't believe it," Jon-Tom murmured as he stared at the uncovered,
olive-drab, open-bodied stripped-down, but nonetheless serviceable
twenty-five-dollar genuine army surplus jeep. His wonder was not misplaced,
for true to his suspicions he was actually the first person in history to set
eyes on one of those fantastic, mythical machines. There must be a special
place for such things, he told himself. A
special, near-impossible-to-locate corner of the cosmos where hundreds of
twenty-five-dollar army surplus jeeps were arraigned side by side with such
other imaginary beasts as vegetable choppers that worked with the lightest of
pressures, bust-developing creams, two-dollar X-ray tubes that enabled
adolescent boys to see through walls, and income tax forms that could be
comprehended and filled out by human beings who had not yet obtained their
Ph.D.'s in accounting.
He hefted his backpack and plopped it down in the backseat. "What are we
waiting for? Let's go."
Gothahump eyed the alien manifestation warily. "Are you sure this thing is
safe?"
"We're not likely to run the risk of meeting another one in a blind
intersection," Jon-Tom told him, "so I
imagine it's safe enough."
"I would have preferred a snake." Grumbling, the wizard clambered in on the
Page 23
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
passenger side, tried to make himself comfortable. "Odd sort of seat, but I
expect it will have to do."
Sorbl lifted himself oflf the ground and settled down on the back of the rear
bench seat, which made a convenient and stable perch. He would probably be
more comfortable bouncing over the rough terrain ahead, Jon-Tom reflected,
than either of his flightless companions.
"Let's see." The dash was less than basic. The keys dangled from the ignition.
He turned them, stomped the gas a couple of times, and waited. The engine
turned over smoothly. He raced it a couple of times, enjoying the look of
surprise on Clothahump's face, then depressed the clutch and put it in gear.
They started off fast, got approximately halfway around the tree, and stopped.
The engine died. He frowned, [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

Tematy