The Wildside Book of Fantasy: 20 Great Tales of Fantasy

by Gene Wolfe

  -o-

  How true! I never thought to hear from another Sloatist on this board! I only asked because I didn’t want to give offense if you were an ultra-Yersinian. But it’s so refreshing to dispense with such outdated formalities. Tell me some more about yourself. —IlonaG

  -o-

  Not much to tell really. I’m an assistant editor at a magazine, and it sucks. —MuttsterPrime

  -o-

  I’m afraid you’ve lost me there, Muttster. Why would a repository for excess grain need even one professional scurrilator, much less an assistant? And how can a condition or inanimate object “suck?” Where do you live? It must be someplace rather isolated, with its own dialect. Perhaps the Ludovici Flats? —IlonaG

  -o-

  Mutt stood up a moment and looked toward the distant window in the far-off wall of the cube-farm, seeing a slice of the towers of Manhattan and thereby confirming the reality of his surroundings. This woman was playing some serious games with his head. He sat back down.

  -o-

  Oh, my home town is no place you’ve ever heard of. Just a dreary backwater. But enough about my boring life. Tell me about yours! —MuttsterPrime

  Ilona was happy to comply. Over the next several weeks, she spilled her life story, along with a freight of fascinating details about life in Gondwanaland.

  Ilona had been born on a farm in the Ragovoy Swales district. Her parents raised moas. She grew up loving the books of Idanell Swonk and the antic-tableaus (were these movies?) featuring Roseway Partridge. She broke her arm when she was eleven, competing in the annual running of the aurochs. After finishing her schooling, earning an advanced instrumentality in cognitive com­binatorics, she had moved to the big city of Tlun, where she had gotten a job with the Cabal of Higher Heuristics. (Best as Mutt could figure, her job had something to do with writing the software for artificial ­mineral-harvesting deep-sea fish.) Every Breathday Ilona and a bunch of girlfriends—fellow geeks, Mutt conjectured—would participate in zymurgy, a kind of public chess match where the pieces were represented by living people and the action took place in a three-dimensional labyrinth. She liked to relax with a glass of cloudberry wine and the music of Clay Zelta. (She sent Mutt a sample when he said he wasn’t familiar with that artist. It sounded like punk polkas with a dash of tango.)

  The more Mutt learned about Ilona, the more he liked her. She might be crazy, living in this fantasy world of hers, but it was an attractive neurosis. The world she and her fellow hoaxers had built was so much saner and exotic than the one Mutt inhabited. Why wouldn’t anyone want to pretend they lived in such a place?

  As for the larger outlines of Gondwanalandian society and its finer details, Mutt learned much that appealed to him. For instance, the role of Emperor or Empress was not an inherited one, or restricted to any particular class of citizen. Upon the death of the reigning ­monarch—whose powers were limited yet essential in the day-to-day functioning of the plurocracy—the Cabal of Assessors began a continent-wide search for a psychic heir. At death, the holy spirit of the ruler—not exactly that individual’s unique soul, but something like free-floating semi-divine mojo—was believed to de­tach and descend on a destined individual, whose altered status could be confirmed by subtle detection apparatus. And then there was that eminently sensible business about every citizen receiving a lifetime stipend that rendered work not a necessity but a dedicated choice. Not to mention such ­attractions as the regular state-sanctioned orgies in such cities as Swannack, Harsh Deep and Camp Collard that apparently made Mardi Gras look like the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.

  As for the crisis of Golusty IV’s impending death, the boards remained full of speculation and chatter. The remediators were trying all sorts of new treatments, and the Emperor’s health chart resembled Earth’s stock market’s gyrations, one minute up and the next way down.

  Earth’s stock market? Mutt was shocked to find himself so convinced of Gondwanaland’s reality that he needed to distinguish between the two worlds.

  With some judicious self-censorship and liberal use of generalities, Mutt was able to convey something of his life and character to Ilona as well, without baffling her further. He made up a lot of stuff too, incidents and anecdotes that dovetailed with Gondwana­land­ian parameters. Her messages began to assume an intimate tone. As did Mutt’s.

  By the time Ilona sent him her picture, Mutt realized he was in love. The photograph clinched it. (It was too painful for Mutt even to dare to think the image might be a fake, the Photoshop ruse of some thirteen-year-old male dweeb.) Ilona Grobes was a dark-haired, dark-eyed beauty with a charming mole above quirked lips. If all ­cognitive combinatorics experts looked like this, Gondwanaland had proved itself superior in the geek department as well. With the photo was a message:

  -o-

  Dear Mutt, don’t you think it’s time we met in the flesh? The Emperor can’t live much longer, and of course all non-essential work and other activities will be suspended during the moratorium of the Imperial Search, for however long that may take. We could use those leisurely days to really get to know each other better. —IlonaG

  -o-

  Finally, here was the moment when all charades would collapse, for good or ill. After some deliberation, Mutt attached his own photo and wrote back:

  -o-

  Getting together would be really great, Ilona. Just tell me where you live, and I’ll be right there! —MuttsterPrime

  -o-

  You’re such a joker, Mutt! You know perfectly well that I live at Number 39 Badgerway in the Funes district of Tlun! When can you get here? The aerial tramway service to Tlun is extensive, no matter where you live. Here’s a pointer to the online schedules. Try not to keep me waiting too long! And I think your auroch-lick hairstyle is charming! —IlonaG

  -o-

  Mutt felt his spirits slump. He was in love with a clinically insane person, one so mired in her delusions that she could not break out even when offered genuine human contact. Should he cut things off right here and now? No, he couldn’t bring himself to.

  -o-

  Let me check those schedules and tidy up some loose ends here, Ilona. Then I’ll get right back to you. —MuttsterPrime

  -o-

  Mutt was still sitting in a motionless, uninspired funk half an hour later when Kicklighter called him into his office.

  All the editor’s photos were off the walls and in cardboard boxes, along with his other personal possessions. The hairy, rumpled man looked relieved.

  “I’m outta here as of this minute, kid. Security’s coming to escort me to the front door. But I wanted to let you know that I put in a good word for you to take over my job. Huntsman might not like my extracurricular activities too much, but he’s a good publisher and realizes I know my stuff when it comes to getting a magazine out. He trusts me on matters of personnel. So you’ve got a lock on the job, if you want it. And who wouldn’t? But you’ve got to get your head out of your ass. I don’t know where you’ve been the past few weeks, but it hasn’t been here.”

  All Mutt could do was stare at Kicklighter without responding. Scurrilator, he thought. Why would I want to be head scurrilator?

  After another awkward minute, Mutt managed to mumble some thanks and good-luck wishes, then left.

  He dropped in to Gifford’s cubicle. Maybe his friend could offer some advice.

  Gifford looked like shit. His tie was askew, his face pale and bedewed with sweat. There was a white crust around his nostrils like the rim of Old Faithful. He smiled wanly when he saw Mutt.

  “Hey, pal, I’d love to talk to you right now, but I don’t feel so good. Little touch of stomach trouble. In fact, I gotta hit the john pronto.”

  Gifford bulled past Mutt. He smelled like spoiled yogurt.

  Mutt wandered purposelessly through the cube-farm. He found himself at Cody’s box. She glared at him and said, “If you’re here like the rest of them to gloat, you can just get in line.”

  “Gloat? About
what?”

  “Oh, come on, don’t pretend you haven’t heard about the layoffs.”

  “No—no, I haven’t, really. I’m—I’m sorry, Cody.”

  Cody just snorted and turned away.

  Melba wasn’t in her cube. Mutt learned why from an official notice on the bulletin board near the coffee-maker.

  -o-

  If any employee is contacted by any member of the media regarding the sexual discrimination suit lodged by Ms. Melba Keefe, who is on extended leave until litigation is settled, he or she will refrain from commenting upon penalty of dismissal.…

  -o-

  Back in his cubicle, Mutt brought up the Gondwanaland web page. The coastline of Gondwanaland bore unmistakeable resemblances to the geography Mutt knew, the way an assembled jigsaw puzzle recalled the individual lonely pieces. As far as he could make out, Tlun was located where Buenos Aires was on Earth.

  -o-

  Ilona, I’m going to try to reach you somehow. I’m setting out today. Wish me luck. —MuttsterPrime

  -o-

  Mutt left his cheap hotel—roaches the size of bite-sized Snickers bars, obese hookers smoking unfiltered cigarettes and trolling the corridors 24/7—for the fifth time that day. He carried a twofold map. Before he had left the US, he had printed off a detailed street map of Tlun. He had found a similar map for Buenos Aires and transferred it to a transparent sheet. Using certain duplicate, unvarying physical features such as rivers and the shape of the bay, he had aligned the two. This cartographic construction was what he was using to search for Number 39 Badgerway.

  Of course, Buenos Aires featured no such street in its official atlas. And the neighborhood that Ilona supposedly lived in was of such a rough nature as to preclude much questioning of the shifty-eyed residents—even if Mutt’s Spanish had been better than the “¿Que pasa, amigo?” variety. Watched suspiciously by glue-huffing, gutter- crawling juveniles and their felonious elders hanging out at nameless bars, Mutt could only risk a cursory inspection of the Badgerway environs.

  After checking out the most relevant district, Mutt was reduced to wandering the city’s boulevards and alleys, parks and promenades, looking for any other traces of a hidden, subterranean, alternative city that plainly didn’t exist anywhere outside the fevered imagination of a handful of online losers, praying for a glimpse of an unforgotten female face graced by a small mole. Maybe Ilona was some Argen­tinian hacker-girl who had been subliminally trying to overcome her own reluctance to divulge her real whereabouts by giving him all these clues.

  But even if that were the case, Mutt met with no success.

  He had now been in Argentina for ten days. All costs, from expensively impromptu airline tickets to meals and lodging, had been put on plastic. He had turned his last paycheck into local currency for small purchases, but Mutt’s loan payments had left him no nest egg. And the upper limits on his lone credit card weren’t infinite. Pretty soon he’d have to admit defeat, return the New York, and try to pick up the shambles of his life.

  But for the next few days anyhow, he would continue to look for Tlun and Ilona.

  Returning today to the neighborhood labeled Funes on the Tlun map, Mutt entered a small café he had come to patronize only because it was marginally less filthy than any other. He ordered a coffee and a pastry. Spreading his map on the scarred countertop he scratched his stubble and pondered the arrangement of streets. Had he explored every possible niche—?

  A finger tapped Mutt’s shoulder. He turned to confront a weasly individual whose insincere yet broad smile revealed more gaps than teeth. The fellow wore a ratty Von Dutch t-shirt that proclaimed I KISS BETTER THAN YOU.

  “Señor, what is it you look for? Perhaps I can help. I know this district like the breast of my own mother.”

  Mutt realized that this guy must be some kind of con-artist. But even so, he represented the best local informant Mutt had yet encountered, the only person who had deigned to speak with him.

  Pointing to the map, Mutt said, “I’m looking for this street. Do you know it?”

  “Si, seguro! I will take you there without delay!”

  Experiencing a spark of hope, Mutt followed the guide outside.

  They came to a dank calle Mutt was half-sure he had visited once before. The guide gestured to a shadowy cross-street that was more of a channel between buildings, only large enough for pedestrian traffic. A few yards along, the street transformed into a steep flight of greasy twilit stairs.

  “Right down here, señor, you will find exactamente what you are looking for.”

  Mutt tried to banish all fear from his heart and head. He summoned up into his mind’s eye Ilona’s smiling face. He advanced tentatively into the claustrophobic cattle-chute.

  He heard the blow coming before he felt it. Determined not to lose his focus on Ilona, he still could not help flinching. The blow sent him reeling, blackness seeping over Ilona’s face like spilled tar, until only her smile, Cheshire-cat-like, remained, then faded.

  * * * *

  Sunlight poured through lacy curtains, illuminating a small cheerful room. On the wall hung a painting which Mutt recognized as one of Sigalit’s studies for his Skydancer series. Mutt saw a vase filled with strange flowers on a nearby small table. Next to the flowers sat a box labeled LIBERTO’S ECLECTIC PASTILLES and a book whose spine bore the legend:

  Ancient Caprices, by Idanell Swonk

  Mutt lay in what was obviously a hospital bed, judging by the peripheral gadgetry around him, including an object-box and a pair of meta-palps. The blanket covering him diffused an odd yet not unpleasant odor, as if woven from the hairs of an unknown beast. He saw what looked like a call button and he buzzed it.

  A nurse hurried into the room, all starched calm business in her traditional tricornered hat and life-saving medals.

  Behind her strode Ilona Grobes.

  Ilona hung back smiling only until the nurse assured herself that Mutt was doing fine and left. Then Ilona flung herself on Mutt. They hugged wordlessly for minutes before she stood up and found a seat for herself.

  “Oh, Mutt, what happened to you? A Junior Effectuator found you unconscious a few feet from my door and brought you here. I was at work. The first thing I knew about your troubles was when I saw your picture on the evening propaedeutic. ‘Unknown citizen hospitalized.’ I rushed right here, but the remediators told me not to wake you. You slept for over thirty hours, right from Fishday to Satyrsday!”

  Mutt grabbed Ilona’s hand. “Let’s just say I had kind of a hard time getting to Tlun.”

  Ilona giggled. “What a funny accent you have! That’s one thing that doesn’t come across online.”

  “And you—you’re more beautiful than any photo. And you smell like—like vanilla icecream.”

  Ilona looked shyly away, then back. “I’m sure that’s a compliment, whatever vanilla icecream may be. But look—I brought you some candy, and one of my favorite books.”

  “Thank you. Thank you very much for being here.”

  No icecream, Mutt thought. He’d be a millionaire by this time next year.

  They talked for several hours more, until the sounds of some kind of commotion out in the hall made them pause.

  The door to Mutt’s room opened and three men walked in. They were clad in elaborately stitched ceremonial robes and miters, and carried among them several pieces of equipment.

  Seeing Mutt’s puzzlement, Ilona explained. “It’s just a team of Assessors. Golusty died yesterday, shortly after your arrival. The Imperial Search has begun.”

  One Assessor addressed Ilona. “Citizen Grobes, your testing will take place at your residence. But we need to assess this stranger now.”

  “Of course,” Ilona said.

  The Assessors approached Mutt’s bedside. “With your permission, citizen—”

  Mutt nodded, and they placed a cage of wires studded with glowing lights and delicate sensors on his head like a crown.

  SPACE-TIME FOR SPRINGERS, by Fritz Leib
er

  Gummitch was a superkitten, as he knew very well, with an I.Q. of about 160. Of course, he didn’t talk. But everybody knows that I.Q. tests based on language ability are very one-sided. Besides, he would talk as soon as they started setting a place for him at table and pouring him coffee. Ashurbanipal and Cleopatra ate horsemeat from pans on the floor, and they didn’t talk. Baby dined in his crib on milk from a bottle, and he didn’t talk. Sissy sat at table but they didn’t pour her coffee and she didn’t talk—not one word. Father and Mother (whom Gummitch had nicknamed Old Horsemeat and Kitty-Come-Here) sat at table and poured each other coffee and they did talk. Q.E.D.

  Meanwhile, he would get by very well on thought projection and intuitive understanding of all human speech—not even to mention cat patois, which almost any civilized animal could play by ear. The dramatic monologues and Socratic dialogues, the quiz and panel show appearances, the felidological expedition to darkest Africa (where he would uncover the real truth behind lions and tigers), the exploration of the outer planets—all these could wait. The same went for the books for which he was ceaselessly accumulating material: The Encyclopedia of Odors, Anthropofeline Psychology, Invisible Signs and Secret Wonders, Space-Time for Springers, Slit Eyes Look at Life, et cetera. For the present it was enough to live existence to the hilt and soak up knowledge, missing no experience proper to his age level—to rush about with tail aflame.

  So to all outward appearances Gummitch was just a vividly normal kitten, as shown by the succession of nicknames he bore along the magic path that led from the blue-eyed infancy toward puberty: Little One, Squawker, Portly, Bumble (for purring, not clumsiness), Old Starved-to-Death, Fierso, Loverboy (affection, not sex), Spook, and Catnik. Of these only the last perhaps requires further explanation: the Russians had just sent Muttnik up after Sputnik, so that when one evening Gummitch streaked three times across the firmament of the living room floor in the same direction, past the fixed stars of the humans and the comparatively slow-moving heavenly bodies of the two older cats, and Kitty-Come-Here quoted the line from Keats: