by Mike Resnick
Mürgenstürm shrugged. “Shall I go back and ask?"
Mallory shook his head. “It'll take too long.” He looked both ways again, then set off to the north.
"What made you decide on this direction, John Justin?” asked the elf after they had walked in silence for a couple of minutes.
"It's less crowded,” answered Mallory. “If someone has got a unicorn that doesn't belong to him, it stands to reason that he won't want to take it where everyone can see him. Now, in my Manhattan you've got the Plaza and the Park Lane and all those stores at the south end of the park."
"It's the same in this Manhattan,” said Mürgenstürm. He paused. “So you're saying that if it turned south, it probably wasn't Larkspur?"
"Right,” said Mallory. “I hope."
A cold wind whipped across the park, and suddenly the rain changed to light snow. Within five minutes it was snowing heavily, and Mallory came to a stop.
"I have a feeling we're going the wrong way,” he announced.
"Oh? Why?"
"Because the Grundy hasn't tried to warn me off yet."
"Maybe he knows you're expecting him to do so, in which case the proper strategy from his point of view is to do nothing.” Mürgenstürm's brow furrowed in thought. “Unless, of course, he anticipates that you might be expecting just such a tactic, in which case—"
"Enough,” interrupted Mallory.
"I was just trying to be helpful,” said Mürgenstürm petulantly.
"Why don't you try being quiet instead?” suggested Mallory.
A harpy that had been perched in a nearby tree suddenly took wing and circled over them.
"Go back, John Justin Mallory!"
Mallory turned to Mürgenstürm. “Thanks a lot, you little green bastard!"
"What did I do?"
"Two minutes ago I would have known what the hell that meant!"
"Don't listen to her!" cried a large owl that sat shivering on a barren, leafless tree. "Press on, Mallory! Press on!"
"Wonderful,” muttered Mallory.
"What are you going to do, John Justin?” asked Mürgenstürm.
"Keep walking."
"What factor led to this decision?” queried the elf.
"It's too damned cold to stand here wondering what to do next,” replied Mallory, finally remembering to tighten his belt to the second notch and feeling somewhat more comfortable as his robe began generating heat.
They walked another fifty yards, and then the little elf tugged at Mallory's sleeve.
"What now?” asked the detective.
"Do you think you could manage to do without me for, oh, about fifteen minutes?” asked Mürgenstürm.
"Why?"
"Do you see that apartment building opposite us?” said the elf, pointing to a decaying structure with spires and a turret that Mallory was sure couldn't co-exist in his Manhattan.
"It looks like mad scientists build monsters in the basement,” remarked the detective.
"I don't know what goes on in the basement, though I suppose anything's possible,” answered Mürgenstürm.
"Get to the point."
"I have an ongoing ... ah ... friendship with the housekeeper, if you know what I mean."
"You're facing death in seven hours if you don't find the unicorn, and you want to take time off from the chase to get laid?” demanded Mallory unbelievingly.
Mürgenstürm sighed. “I see your point, John Justin,” he said. “It was thoughtless and selfish of me to suggest deserting you.” Suddenly his homely little face brightened. “I could see if she's got a friend."
"Forget it."
"You're absolutely right, John Justin,” agreed Mürgenstürm contritely. “I have to learn to control my passions. Taking fifteen minutes out of our limited remaining time was insensitive and wrongheaded.” He looked at Mallory out of the corner of his eye. “How about ten minutes?” he suggested very softly.
Mallory turned to him. “How about a kick in the groin to get your mind back on business?"
"Ohhh!” moaned Mürgenstürm as if in pain, pressing his knees together and clasping his hands over the area in question. “Don't even suggest it! What kind of monster are you?"
"A very cold one,” replied Mallory, wishing his robe had been equipped with a hood. “Now, do you think we can get this show back on the road?"
"All right,” said the elf, his expression still pained. “But no kicking."
"No deserting,” responded the detective.
"It wasn't desertion,” protested Mürgenstürm. “It was more in the nature of physical and psychic renewal.” He paused. “Are you absolutely positively sure we can't spare even five minutes?"
Mallory grabbed the elf by his scrawny neck. “Now, you listen to me—” he began fiercely.
"Out of the way!” yelled a voice. “Clear the path!"
Mallory released his grip and jumped aside just in time to see a slender man, clad only in track shoes, shorts, and a T-shirt with the number 897 emblazoned on its chest, collide with Mürgenstürm. The little elf went flying into the snow that was accumulating beside the bridle path, but the man managed to maintain his balance and began running in place.
"Terribly sorry,” said the man as Mürgenstürm slowly picked himself up. “But I did have right-of-way."
"I didn't know there were right-of-way rules on a bridle path,” remarked Mallory.
"Bridle path?” repeated the man, confused. “You mean this isn't Highway A-98?"
Mallory shook his head.
"Then I suppose those aren't the lights of the Via Veneto glimmering in the distance?” said the man unhappily, pointing to Fifth Avenue without losing a step.
"They're the lights of Manhattan,” answered Mallory.
"Manhattan?” repeated the man, surprised. “Are you quite sure?"
"Not as sure as I was yesterday,” replied Mallory. “But pretty sure."
"Hmm,” said the man thoughtfully. “I seem to be farther off course than I thought."
"Where are you heading?” asked Mallory.
"Rome, of course."
"Of course,” repeated Mallory dryly.
"But where are my manners?” said the man. He extended his hand without losing a step. “My name is Ian Wilton-Smythe."
"British?” asked Mallory, shaking his hand.
Wilton-Smythe nodded. “To the core. Kill the Irish! Plunder the colonies! God save the Queen!” He paused. “It is still the Queen, isn't it? Or have we a King now?"
"It's still the Queen,” said Mallory. “I take it you haven't been home in some time?"
"Not since the spring of 1960,” acknowledged Wilton-Smythe. “Went over to Rome for the Olympics that summer."
"As a spectator?"
"As a marathon runner. In fact, I'm still running it. I seem to have taken a wrong turn somewhere along the course."
"I don't know how to lay this on you,” said Mallory, “but we've had quite a few Olympics since then. The race is over."
"Not until I cross the finish line, it isn't,” said Wilton-Smythe adamantly.
"Why not just stop?"
"Not cricket,” replied Wilton-Smythe. “Rules of the game, you know."
"There's nothing in the rules that says you have to keep running for decades after everyone else has finished,” said Mallory.
"Slow and steady wins the race,” quoted Wilton-Smythe.
"Not this race,” replied Mallory. “It's already been won."
"That's hardly my fault, is it?” shot back Wilton-Smythe. “My job is to plug away and do the best I can.” He paused. “You don't see any photographers around here, do you?"
"No."
"Pity."
"Why?” asked Mallory. “Were you expecting some?"
"Well, I am the sporting world's greatest news story,” said Wilton-Smythe. “With every step I take, I extend my record."
"What record? You lost."
"The record for the longest time required to complete an Olympic marathon, of cour
se,” said Wilton-Smythe. He looked puzzled. “I keep expecting the Guinness people to interview me or measure my stride or something for their record book, but so far they haven't shown up. I wonder why?"
"Maybe they don't know you're still running,” suggested Mallory.
"Impossible!” scoffed Wilton-Smythe. “Probably they're waiting for me five or ten miles farther up the road."
"Perhaps,” said Mallory without much conviction.
Wilton-Smythe yawned. “I'm getting sleepy. I think I'd better take a little nap before I reach them. I wouldn't want to look other than my best for the interviews and picture-taking."
"I don't think you're going to have much luck finding a room,” said Mallory. “It's New Year's Eve."
"Why would I want a room?"
"I thought you said you were sleepy."
"I sleep on straightaways and wake up for the turns,” explained Wilton-Smythe. “I wouldn't ever want it said that I cheated."
"Do you eat on the run, too?"
"Of course."
"Forgive my asking,” said Mallory, “but how the hell did you ever wind up on a bridle path in Central Park?"
"I wish I knew,” admitted Wilton-Smythe. “I think I probably should have turned left at Melbourne."
"Melbourne, Australia?"
The runner nodded. “Puzzling, isn't it?"
"To say the least,” agreed Mallory.
"Well,” said Wilton-Smythe, “I've enjoyed our little chat, but I really must be toddling along."
"If I were you, I'd pick up a road map,” Mallory shouted after him.
"What for?” he yelled back. “All roads lead to Rome."
Then they were out of earshot, and Mallory turned to Mürgenstürm.
"What did you make of that?” he asked.
"He's a fool,” answered the elf promptly. He frowned and scratched his head. “On the other hand, he's been working steadily for more than a quarter of a century, whereas most of the truly intelligent people I know can't seem to hold a job. I find it intensely puzzling."
"Not really,” said Mallory. “It's pretty much the same in my Manhattan."
"It is?"
Mallory nodded. “The bright ones can solve most of the problems of the world—but putting on matching socks or learning how to change a tire seems a little beyond them."
"How comforting,” said Mürgenstürm. “I was afraid it was an isolated phenomenon."
"No such luck,” said Mallory. He began walking to the north again. “Let's keep moving, Robe or no robe, it's goddamned cold out."
"Maybe the snow will prove to be an advantage,” said Mürgenstürm hopefully. “We should be able to pick up the unicorn's tracks."
"If our marathon runner doesn't obliterate them,” said Mallory.
They walked, shoulders hunched and heads lowered against the driving wind, for another half mile. Then Mürgenstürm suddenly sat down heavily on the ground.
"I can't go any farther,” he said. “I'm cold and I'm wet and I'm exhausted."
"And you think you're going to get warm and dry and energetic by sitting on the ground in the middle of a snowstorm?” asked Mallory sardonically.
"I don't care anymore,” moaned Mürgenstürm. “Let them come looking for me tomorrow at sunrise. All they'll find are the frozen remains of a noble little elf who never meant any harm to anyone."
"Can you think of anything that would make you feel better?"
"Absolutely nothing,” said Mürgenstürm emphatically.
"Not even a ladyfriend?"
"Well ... maybe."
"Look,” said Mallory. “If I let you go off and get laid, do you think you can keep your mind on business when you get back?"
"Oh, absolutely, John Justin!” cried the elf enthusiastically. “I see it all now! It's not the weather. It's just my metabolism."
"Stop drooling or you'll freeze your chin off,” said Mallory disgustedly.
"I'll be back in ten minutes,” said Mürgenstürm, leaping to his feet. “Fifteen at the most.” He paused. “Maybe twenty."
"Take thirty, and see if you can find out anything about Flypaper Gillespie."
"Right,” said Mürgenstürm. “I'll meet you here in half an hour."
"I hope you don't think I'm going to stand here in the snow waiting for you to get your rocks off,” said Mallory.
"What are you going to do?"
"I'm a detective,” replied Mallory. “I'm going to try to find that damned unicorn."
"You were never this single-minded in your own Manhattan,” noted Mürgenstürm.
"Things were never this black-and-white in my own Manhattan,” said Mallory. “There were always legal ramifications and extenuating circumstances and moral ambiguities. This is a lot simpler: something was stolen by a villain and I'm being paid to get it back."
"I thought you said you preferred your Manhattan,” said the elf.
"I said I understood my Manhattan,” replied Mallory. “That's not the same thing."
"How can you prefer something you don't understand?"
"I don't understand the form. The substance makes a lot of sense."
"I don't know what you're talking about,” said Mürgenstürm.
"Then you'll have something to think about while you're hunting up one of your many true loves."
"How will I find you when I'm done?"
"The same way I'm trying to find Larkspur. Follow my tracks."
"What if the snow melts, or you go indoors?” persisted Mürgenstürm.
"Hire a detective,” said Mallory, heading off along the bridle path.
"That's not very funny, John Justin."
"If you're worried about it, you can put your romance on hold and come along with me."
"I'll follow your tracks,” said Mürgenstürm hastily. He began trotting across the park toward the bright lights of Fifth Avenue.
Mallory watched the little elf for a moment, then turned back to the bridle path and continued walking.
He had gone no more than fifty yards when he came to a small wooden lean-to, occupied by a pudgy man in a bright gold-and-green-checkered sports jacket.
"Evening, neighbor,” said the man with a friendly smile.
"Hello,” said Mallory.
"Terrible night, isn't it?"
Mallory nodded.
"Can I interest you in a little suntan lotion, friend?” asked the man.
"You're kidding, right?” said Mallory.
"Friend, if there's three things I never kid about, it's religion, blondes named Suzette, and business. This is business. I can sell you a case at fifty percent off the retail price."
"What the hell would I do with suntan lotion?"
"Go to Jamaica. Take a safari to Africa. Keep it in your garage until summer. Mix it with vodka and tonic. Scrub your floors with it. Friend, there's no end of things you can do with a case of cut-rate suntan lotion."
"Forget it,” said Mallory, starting to walk again.
"For you, sixty percent off,” persisted the man, leaving the lean-to and running after him.
"It's New Year's Eve!"
"Happy New Year!” cried the man, pulling a kazoo out of his pocket and blowing a few notes on it. “Sixty-five percent off, and that's my last offer."
"I hope you don't seriously expect to sell suntan lotion in the middle of a snowstorm,” said Mallory.
"It's the very best time to sell it,” replied the man, struggling to keep pace with the detective.
"How do you figure that?"
"How many stores are open right now? Maybe five hundred,” he answered himself. “And how many of them are selling suntan lotion? None! If you want suntan lotion, you've got to come to me."
"But I don't want suntan lotion,” said Mallory irritably.
"Friend, you drive a hard bargain. Seventy percent off, but only if you promise never to tell my accountant."
"Not a chance."
"All right!” snarled the man. “Seventy-five percent, and I'll hate myself
in the morning."
"Keep nagging me and you'll have a lot of company."
"I'll throw in a beach ball."
"Just what I need on New Year's Eve in Central Park,” said Mallory.
"Good!” cried the man. “Have we got a deal?"
"No."
"What kind of person are you?” screamed the vendor. “I've got a wife and two kids and a mortgage. I just bought a new television set, I'm late on my car payment, and my daughter needs braces. Where's your compassion?"
"I must have left it in my other suit,” said Mallory. He stopped and turned to the man. “You wouldn't happen to have any gloves or earmuffs for sale, would you?"
"Unloaded ‘em all last July,” said the man. “Ninety percent, and I'll pay the sales tax."
Mallory shook his head and began walking again. “Not interested."
"What does interest have to do with it?” demanded the man. “I'm a merchant, you're a consumer. Doesn't that mean something to you? Don't you feel your moral responsibility to me?"
"Do you feel any moral responsibility to me?" asked Mallory.
"Certainly."
"Good. I'm a detective who's looking for a unicorn. Did one pass by here recently?"
"Yes,” said the man.
"When?"
"Maybe five minutes ago."
"Was there a leprechaun with it?"
"I really didn't pay that much attention,” said the man. “Now, let me total up what you owe me for the suntan lotion."
"I'm not buying any suntan lotion."
"But I told you about the unicorn!"
"For which I thank you."
"Then do your duty and buy my suntan lotion."
"No."
"Ninety-five percent off list."
Mallory shook his head.
"All right,” said the man with a sigh of defeat. “How much do you want?"
"For what?” asked Mallory, puzzled.
"To take the damned stuff off my hands."
"I keep telling you—I don't want it."
"You can't do this to me! It's New Year's Eve! I have a right to be home in the bosom of my family! I'll pay you twenty percent of its list price to haul it away."
"It's been nice talking to you,” said Mallory, increasing his speed.
"Thirty percent,” said the man, finally coming to a stop. “And that's my final offer."
Mallory continued walking.
"Fifty, and that's my absolute final penultimate offer!"
