“Exhaustion city,” a spiddle commented.
For a short while longer they paused, here at the crest of the range of hills. And then, one by one, they started down the far side.
Above, the four werjes suddenly dropped, their wings folded. They descended directly towards Nick and the group of spiddles.
“Quick!” a spiddle shouted. “The blue cheese!”
Nick took the cheese out of his pocket and held it towards the descending werjes. In a frenzy of revulsion, the four werjes swept in a long glide, away from the spiddles and Nick; the werjes shrieked in disgust, hovered for a moment and then streaked off, in the direction from which Nick and the spiddles had come.
“They were only trying to frighten us,” a spiddle said. But all the spiddles looked frightened.
“Keep the blue cheese ready,” a spiddle said to Nick, who still held the werj repellent. “They may sneak back behind us, to seize us when we are not looking. Once we are with Lord Blue,” the spiddle continued, “it will be all right.”
Again they descended the broken path, step by step. Now tall weeds grew, harsh and mean; the weeds showed spines like stings, and the spiddles carefully avoided them, Evidently the stings were poisonous. But at last the evil weeds thinned out, and harmless orange grass replaced them. The spiddles relaxed, now, and chattered amiably among themselves. It appeared to Nick that, for a time, the danger had ended.
“There is the printer,” a spiddle said, halting for a moment to point. Nick shaded his eyes and peered.
BELOW them a group of human colonists clustered around a shapeless cone which radiated wet, dull colors, a mound of immense size which pulsed, ebbed and flowed and then reformed itself.
“Is that it?” Nick said, disappointed.
“Don’t let the printer’s physical form discourage you,” one of the spiddles said. “It is, admittedly, rather plain. But a printer is intelligent and kind, full of wise goodwill and the determination to help all who come to it. Assistance city; that’s what a printer is.” The spiddle began to move on, and the others joined it. Nick did, too.
When they reached the level ground, Nick saw that the human colonists surrounding the printer carried all sorts of appliances which they wanted copied. One by one, the colonists brought precious possessions up to Lord Blue, and, undulating with effort, the great old printer produced, from itself, a reproduction of the object. At first the reproductions looked identical to the original objects to Nick, but as he got closer he saw that, in every case, the printer’s reproduction was inferior. Seeing this, he remembered all that he had heard about the printers; their weariness, their age, their inability to keep their reproductions from becoming—what was the word? Puddinged; that was it. A good term, Nick decided as he viewed that which the printer had made.
The printer’s products were indistinct and vaguely-defined. Nick saw, over to one side, a colonist who had got the printer to duplicate a pocket watch for him; going that way, Nick caught a glimpse of the face of the watch. All the numbers were there, but in the wrong order. The six, he saw, was at the top, and the twelve where the four should have been. And—the watch had no hands.
Feeling keen disappointment, Nick moved in the direction of a colonist who held a bowl which the printer had made. The bowl, as Nick watched, came apart. Pieces of it fell as the bowl shattered. The man looked unhappy, but not surprised. They must be used to tins, Nick realized. And yet they keep coming here. But then he thought. So do I. I guess, he thought, they keep hoping.
Going up the path to the printer, Nick waited while a woman ahead of him carefully set down a white and black ivory chess set which she wanted duplicated.
The printer surged and trembled, and then a portion of him came loose, forming a separate, small mound. The mound settled, gained color; it became black at one end, white at the other. The mound then divided into smaller pieces, and these solidified into black and white chessmen. But—
“Oh dear,” the woman said in dismay. “I’m afraid you don’t have it right, Lord Blue. There should be only two kings and two queens; the pieces should be different.” She showed the printer the original set. “Don’t you see?” she asked.
Nick moved closer to see. Yes, the various chessmen were all the same. Each had assumed a mere upright shape, without features; it was not possible to tell them apart. And, even as he watched, the pieces sagged, as if melting. They dwindled into puddles of black and white which then blended together into a neutral grey. It was no longer possible even to tell that it was intended to be a chess set.
“Won’t you try again?” the woman asked. “You used to be able to do so much better; even last month, in fact.”
A uniformed man, standing near the printer, said to her, “One try only is allowed. Step aside for the next person, ma’am. Lord Blue is very weak, today. You.” The uniformed man beckoned to Nick. “Your turn,” he said to Nick. “And don’t strain him too much,” he added.
Nick began unbuttoning his shirt. He took hold of the book and lifted it out.
“Glimmung’s book!” the woman behind Nick cried.
The uniformed man stared at the book, then at Nick. His face showed fear, much to Nick’s surprise. All the people, on every side of Nick, retreated in panic. Are they that much afraid of Glimmung? Nick asked himself. He, himself, felt far more uneasy, now; their fear told him much. “I want to have a duplicate made of it,” Nick said. “Then we can return the original to Glimmung. And keep the copy.”
At his feet, spiddles squirmed and yammered; Nick could not make out what they were saying. And then he saw the people looking up; he saw their stricken, frozen faces as they saw something above and towards the hills from which Nick and the spiddles had come.
“It is Glimmung,” the spiddles said in hushed voices. “He is coming here; he has seen the book.”
In the sky the shape of Glimmung grew larger and larger.
Chapter 15
GLIMMUNG had ceased to hide within the werj. Now, in a form of his own, he swept like a visible wind towards Nick, straining to hurry. Glimmung came as fast as he could, called forth by the book, his book, the book from which he ruled this world.
He had a broken quality, as if his body had been fractured into many sections and then incorrectly, inexpertly repaired. No puddinged product by an aging printer could match his inexactness; the fraudulent circumference of his lame, malformed trunk; his twisted, beckoning eyes. Glimmung called as he descended, a whine that made Nick’s ears shudder; a noise which sent the spiddles rushing aimlessly, unable to stand it even for a moment. Glimmung was speaking, but Nick could not make out the words; the creature’s speech blurred together, like a record gone wrong.
How large he is, Nick thought as he stood watching. And still Glimmung was yet a long distance off; he grew as he fell from the sky. Still he expanded, and in his eyes a massive cold cruelty gleamed, eyes like deranged stars. Eyes, Nick thought, that picked out the thread of evil everywhere, knitting the thread into a fabric which Glimmung meant as a cover for the world.
Delight showed on Glimmung’s mocking, shining face; delight at seeing his book once more—a frigid, shrieking joy at being close to the all-knowing book again. Glimmung loved the book; he could not live apart from it. Without it he waned; he became hollow. With the book, Glimmung’s power returned. Descending from the sky, Glimmung reached to grasp it; he extended himself avidly, and his whining voice became a furious song, a song of triumph and possession. It is my book, the song declared. It was lost by mistake; now it has been returned.
Nick tucked the book back in to his shirt; again he clasped it against his chest, and felt its leathery presence next to him. He ran. And in the sky, Glimmung altered his course; he held out his right arm, and in his hand Nick saw a spear, the spear of Glimmung which had killed the water man Mr. Frankis and many other innocent creatures besides.
“Give me the book!” Glimmung wailed, and his voice danced in the wind, the wind created by his own enormous descent.
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“Give him the book,” the spiddles chattered to Nick in fright; they milled everywhere, not leaving him, as had the human colonists. “He will kill you,” the spiddles whimpered. “And us along with you. There’s no hope; this is surrender city. Let him have it back.”
What can I do? Nick asked himself. Can the printer help me? Still a round, inert mass, the printer remained unstirring; there was nothing the printer could do. Or, Nick thought, nothing it could think of; it had become too old to think. Where can I get help? Nick asked himself. My father is a long way from here; Horace is wandering in the forests, after biting the trobes. There is only myself, here with this book, with Glimmung’s book. And now he will get it back. And the war, Nick thought; it will go on, and perhaps Glimmung will win. He will use his book as before, and nothing will stand against him; he will be too strong. But, he thought, the book; could it help me?
Crouching, Nick groped within his shirt. The book tumbled out and he snatched it up; he turned to the back, to the index. He looked under ‘G’, under Glimmung. Many pages about Glimmung; many entries and sections. How Glimmung came; what Glimmung had done; what Glimmung planned. And—one final entry.
How Glimmung could be destroyed.
Page 45, the index said. The final page in the book. Nick turned to page 45, and, as above his head Glimmung wheeled and screamed and reached to grasp his book, Nick scanned the text.
“‘…and he can be destroyed by nothing; he will never end. He will outlast them all. But he can be weakened, so much so that he will not recover; he can be made powerless and small, for all the time that is to come.’”
Nick shouted, “How?”
The text continued, “‘Place the book before the printer so that Glimmung is lured close; so that he must, in order to snatch the book, come against the printer and within the printer’s range. If this is done—’” But at that moment Nick felt the frigid breath of Glimmung close on his neck. Shutting the book, Nick ran back towards the printer. Over his head Glimmung wheeled, and then, like thunder, the spear unleashed itself; the spear hurled into the ground by Nick, its shaft whipping and vibrating. Glimmung, overhead, cursed to see it miss; he dropped and reached for it, descending almost to the ground.
Nick placed the book against the soft, high side of the printer. And then ran back, out of the way.
Seeing the book, Glimmung forgot his spear; he came to rest, his cape curling about him like a tongue of jagged, ominous flame. He strode to the printer, huge in his contempt; there, beside the printer, he bent down and with powerful fingers picked up the book. He remained there, holding the book, looking at Nick with hatred.
The printer shuddered and rose up high. It formed itself into a column and from that column there sprang a phantom Glimmung. The printer, in its death agony, had duplicated Glimmung, a poor duplicate, to be sure, but nonetheless alive and great of size. The duplicate Glimmung, his horned helmet glistening, his eyes hot with malice, raised his phantom spear and plunged it into the throat of Glimmung himself.
Glimmung rushed upward, into the sky, the book clasped in one gloved hand. From him the spear protruded, and as he climbed he reached at it; he tried to tug it from him. The spear remained, and from it there appeared a wound which did not close; Glimmung could not remove the spear and he could not heal the wound. He had been pierced, and he would carry with him the injury which the inexact, ill-formed duplicate Glimmung had given him—would carry it through eternity.
On the ground the phantom Glimmung turned to face Nick; it raised its gloved hands beseechingly, and then fell back into itself. It collapsed into formlessness into a puddinged mass with neither contour nor shape. It fell to the earth and lay still, and as it lay it lost motion and the imitation life which had animated it; dying, the phantom Glimmung joined the dying printer which had fashioned it.
“Glimmung is hurt!” the spiddles cried, gathering around Nick, trying to help him up—the force of Glimmung’s gaze had thrown him to his hands and knees. “He is gone; he fled. He is maimed forever. He came too close to the printer; in his eagerness to get back his book he strayed too far—he forgot his enemy.”
“Salvation city!” another group of spiddles, hurrying from beyond the printer, declared.
Nick said huskily, “He got the book back.”
“But he will never be the same,” a spiddle said. “The spear in his throat will leech his life; he will not be the same as before. Get up, mister, before the werjes come. Glimmung may strike in revenge by means of them. Remember your piece of blue cheese,” the spiddle went on. “It will protect you from Glimmung’s wrath.”
“Glimmung’s wrath,” the other spiddles chanted. “You must be kept safe; you have won a victory for us. You have saved us all.”
“Not quite,” Nick said with difficulty; he stood swaying, finding himself weak and confused. His vision blurred and he shook his head, trying to clear it and to steady himself. To the spiddles he said, “I can’t make it home. One of you go get my father and ask him to come here. Will I be safe here for a while?”
The uniformed colonist, who had stood guard beside the printer, came rapidly up to Nick; he steadied him with his hand, saying, “You’ll be absolutely all right here. We have werj-repellants and trobe-beams, and Glimmung himself won’t be back for some time. Maybe never. He may retreat to his mountains and hide himself there, waiting to become healed. But nothing that is stabbed through by Glimmung’s spear can heal itself; he’ll wait there in the mountains, in his high places, forever.”
“Is there any place I can sit down?” Nick asked.
A colonist hurried up with the duplicate of a chair which the printer had, a little while ago, made. “Sit on this,” he said to Nick. He and the uniformed man helped Nick seat himself on the chair.
The legs of the chair were various lengths; under Nick the chair teetered and sank on one side, so that once more he had to stand. The printer had not done a very good job.
“I’m okay now,” Nick said. “More or less.” He examined his shirt and found it covered with countless tiny crystals of ice which had rained on to him from Glimmung’s great dark cape. “All I have to do now,” Nick said aloud, “is find Horace.” In all this, he had not for one minute forgotten his cat.
He would not be happy again, despite his victory over Glimmung, until Horace was found.
Chapter 16
WHAT had Glimmung’s book said about Horace? He would thrash about and bite the trobes, it had said. He would escape, and Nick would hear his cries as Horace roamed the forests of Plowman’s Planet. So I must listen for him, Nick realized. I must find him by the loud sounds he will make…is perhaps already making now.
His father had at last come, and with him Mr. McKenna. Apparently Mrs. McKenna and his mother were waiting back at the house.
“You never should have gone outside again,” his father said to him reprovingly; he seemed very worried and tense, as much so as he had been back on Earth. “It’s just luck that they didn’t get you, those flying werjes or whatever they’re called.”
“Not luck,” Nick corrected. He showed his father the blue cheese. “This protects me,” he said. “Ask Mr. McKenna.”
Mr. McKenna agreed. “That’s right. Werjes won’t come anywhere near cheese of any kind, except perhaps American cheese, which has virtually no smell. It’s the smell they hate.”
“Victory city,” the spiddles declared, hopping about in agitation. “A great, great day.”
Nick said to his father, “Is there any sign of Horace?”
“I wasn’t looking for Horace,” his father said severely. “I was looking for you, Nick. You’re a great deal more important.”
“But we have to find him,” Nick said.
“Let’s go home first,” his father replied. “You can rest up and I can finish talking to the police about Mr. Frankis. And then later, if we both feel well enough, and if it appears to be safe—”
Nick said, “Nothing is safe on this planet. Completely safe,
I mean.” There would always be Glimmung; there would always be werjes and trobes and, most awful of all, the father-things. That made him think, all at once, of what the nunk had told him. “The nunk which we ran into along the way—” he began, and then became silent. It would only worry his father, to tell him about the Nick-thing following along the road. And his father, as usual, was already worried enough.
“Yes,” his father said. “What about the nunk?”
Nick said evasively, “Nunks are harmless We met one along the way.”
“I know they’re harmless,” his father replied in a worried voice. “Come on; let’s get home.” He started off in the direction from which they had come.
The uniformed man who had stood guard by the aged printer stopped Nick’s father. “Mr. Graham,” he said, “your son brought the first great true injury to Glimmung yet inflicted.”
“Nick did?” his father asked. “Most, amazing.” He seemed a bit dazed. “I’m very glad,” he said, but then, almost at once, he became worried again. “Weren’t you taking a terrible chance, Nick?”
Nick sighed. “Yes,” he admitted. “I was.”
“But at least you’re okay now,” his father added. That cheered him up. Happily, he slapped Nick on the back. “So we’ve started out here in a positive way. This officer seems extremely proud of you.”
The spiddles, collecting in a ring around Nick and his father, shouted in their clamorous voices, “Accomplishment city!”
“And the spiddles, too,” the uniformed guard said. “They witnessed it. We all witnessed it. Glimmung will carry a phantom spear in his throat forever, because of what your boy has done. In his desolate, empty mountain places, Glimmung will nurse his unending wound and grow weaker day by day. He will grow bitter, he will brood and meditate. He will fade with each passing night. So you can understand why everyone is proud of your son.”
Nick and the Glimmung Page 8
