Myth-Told Tales

by Robert Asprin

  “What’s a tomato?” I asked curiously.

  “A fruit that’s been convinced it’s a vegetable,” Bunny said, mysteriously. “Look, Skeeve, I am sure to lose, but at the very least I can find out who wins the Bub Tube and let Uncle Bruce know whom he has to buy it from. I’m sure he’ll be able to make her an offer she can’t refuse.”

  “What’s so important about it?” I pondered, staring up at the rectangular piece of glass on its plinth high above the judges’ table. The magik that made it run drew constantly on the force line under the auditorium. Even at this distance I could clearly make out the pictures on its surface. People in brightly colored clothes performed appallingly embarrassing tasks for money. Bad singers that I could just hear over the din in the hall wailed out their tunes, and bad dancers tripped around, all within the confines of the glass box. And over all the noise coming from the Bub Tube was the inexplicable presence of raucous laughter. I hated it, but it was as fascinating to watch as a basilisk, and just as capable of freezing its prey in place. Darkness suddenly enveloped me.

  “Hey!” I protested.

  “Sorry,” Bunny said, pulling her cloak off my head. “You fell into its spell.”

  “That’s dangerous,” I said. “Is there a way to control it?”

  “Yes, there’s a guide.” Bunny rose from her seat and went to the foot of the plinth. She came back with a small book featuring an amazingly lifelike illumination on the cover.

  I opened it and began to read the instructions. For a magikal item it had amazingly good documentation, down to a listing of the times various images would appear on the surface. “Wild Kingdom” interested me, “being the exploits of his noble yet mad majesty King Roscoe the Disturbed, and his Knights of Chaos.”

  “Bunny,” I said, an idea dawning on me, “if it’s possible for you to win based on your essay, I’m going to see that you do. And I won’t cheat at all.”

  The contestants were unusually subdued as they prepared for the essay portion. None of the expected sniping was going on, dropping the sound level so low I could hear the inane chatter from the Bub Tube. Every one of the women were dressed in formal costumes, even the Trollops, for whom formal meant fewer body parts showing than usual. Bunny emerged from her assigned cubicle in a red gown that fit her as if it had been painted on her body. A frown wrinkle was fixed between her eyebrows. I took her hand and swirled her, gracefully for me, around the corner of the room.

  “You look wonderful,” I said. “You’re going to be a smash.” Bunny blushed.

  I was, unfortunately, more immediately correct than I had anticipated. As soon as Bunny made her appearance, the Deveel women appeared out of nowhere in an angry cloud like sting-wasps.

  “Who do you think you are?” they demanded. One of them pushed her back against a mirror. “Red is our color! Klahds like you get blue!”

  “I’m not a Klahd,” Bunny said, standing her ground. “I’m half Fairy!”

  “Then violet!” the chief Deveel woman said, in a tone that brooked no argument.

  “No, green!” shouted another.

  “Yellow! Yellow’s for the Fay!”

  The room stewards arrived, shouting to everyone to break it up. By the time I caught sight of her again, Bunny’s dress was a rainbow of anything but red, and her face had been dyed in stripes to match. I enveloped her with a web of power and pulled her out through the crowd, which disbursed with angry looks at me. Bunny’s spine was straight as a tree. If the Deveels had intended to shake her confidence, they’d failed. She was more determined than ever to get through the contest honestly. I used a little power to dispel the color in her face, but a pink flush remained in her cheeks. She flatly refused to let me change her dress back.

  That was the last attack, magikal or otherwise, until the essay portion began. The first woman on stage was a Klahd.

  “Good evening,” she said, curtsying to the judges. “If crowned the winner of this marvelous contest, I will use the Bub Tube for the benefit of all beings . . .”

  Out of nowhere a red sphere came hurtling, and splatted in the contestant’s face.

  “That’s a tomato,” Bunny pointed out.

  It was a free-for-all. The poor Klahd hopped all over the stage, avoiding hot feet, kicking at snake-spiders that suddenly appeared and tried to crawl up her legs, shouting to be heard over booing from the audience, flushing sounds and greatly amplified intestinal noises. Swarms of sting-wasps buzzed around her, zooming for her face, her hands, any exposed flesh. The judges sat at their table, calmly marking score sheets and sipping tea poured for them by their attendants. They didn’t move a finger to prevent the humiliation of the first contestant. Or the second. Or the third. The fifth essayist, the Gnome, simply wasn’t there when rotten fruit came flying her way, but her continual disappearing and reappearing interfered with the delivery of her speech.

  “. . . A benefit to all beings . . . used only for good . . . personally promise to dedicate the device . . .”

  Except for the direction the missiles were coming from, stature and skin color of the victim, er, participant, the speech, the ducking, and the humiliation of each woman was nearly identical. I began to feel sorry for the contestants. It would have tried even a seasoned politician to survive a pelting like that. I glanced at Bunny. Her face was set.

  An Imper woman slunk off the stage, covered with yellow paint that had sloshed down on her from a bucket that clanged to the floor after depositing its contents on her head. The Pervect woman shoved past her, speech clutched in one scaly hand. She strode to the center of the stage, showed all her teeth and stuck a clawed finger out in the direction of her fellow contestants.

  “If one single rotten vegetable,” she roared, “one bucket of anything or one spell comes my way until I have finished reading this speech, every single one of you is going to be sorry!”

  My ears rang with the sound of her voice, but she’d made her point. Except for resentful muttering, it was quiet in the auditorium. She showed all of her long teeth in a feral smile. I felt her build up a spell and cast it upon herself. It didn’t feel like a charm of protection, rather one to aid eloquence.

  “Now. Good evening, honored Trofi judges. I’m proud to be allowed to tell you my plans for the Bub Tube. In the interest of universal peace and the benefit of all living beings . . .”

  I gulped as the Pervect left the stage to applause by the usually stoic judges. If my plan didn’t work, all the pent up resentment building through the duration of the Pervect’s speech would rebound upon the very next person up, and that person was Bunny.

  One of the things I’d learned in my perusal of the Bub Tube’s operation manual was how the pictures it produced came into being. The original illusions flowed from the chaotic ether, or they could be superseded by ones that sprang from a magician’s creative mind. Both kinds played out directly upon the front glass, known as the screen.

  Following the instructions, I pointed the control wand at the glass. I focused the image that I’d had building in my mind. Bunny walked up the steps, took her place before the judges, held up the parchment containing her speech, and opened her mouth.

  The first tomato came flying out of the crowd. With one hand I averted the dripping fruit from hitting Bunny. With the other, I activated the Bub Tube.

  High over the judges’ heads the suavely smiling face of the Deveel host greeted them. “Good evening, ladies! You all know the remaining speeches have no impact on the outcome of the contest, so I am about to announce the name of the winner of the annual Trofi beauty contest! Hold on to your wigs, ladies. First, the runners up! In 1,023rd place, from beautiful, bleak Imper—Aberdyfi! In 1,022nd place . . .”

  A thousand pairs of eyes fixed on the screen, listening raptly to the voice of the host rattling off hundreds of names I’d made up, so not one of them would lose interest in what they thought would be an early peek at the results. Far below, almost unnoticed on the stage, Bunny curtsied to the judges, and began her spee
ch.

  “Honored judges, I’ve thought very deeply about what I’d do with the Bub Tube if I got it, but the truth is I won’t be using it myself. My uncle wants it, and he sent me here in hopes of winning it. If you give it to me, it’ll be in the possession of a man that I love and trust. I’m not saying that he’s incapable of being harsh to his enemies, but I would like to think that a hypnotic device like the Bub Tube will help him to deal with people he wishes to teach a lesson in a non-violent manner . . .”

  I listened, keeping one eye on the rest of the contestants. Her speech was well-reasoned, honest, and above all, uninterrupted. She spoke for fifteen minutes, then curtsied again, rolled up her scroll, and was off the stage again before anyone noticed.

  As soon as she was safely beside me again, I cut off the transmission from the Bub Tube. The screen went blank. All the women around us blinked.

  “Hey!” a Deveel woman said, lowering the raised handful of dripping stable muck she’d held poised to throw. “Where’d she go?”

  The next speaker, a lizard woman in green, was pelted with vegetables and spells even before she reached the center of the stage. The other contestants had now missed attacking two women, and had plenty of dirty tricks left over they hadn’t used yet.

  I extended my elbow to Bunny. “Shall we go?” I asked. “The results won’t be available until tomorrow. I’d like to see some more of this fine dimension.”

  “Let’s.” Beaming, Bunny tucked her hand into my arm, and we left the dressing room together.

  The award ceremony was very much like the one that I’d faked for the Bub Tube. The handsome Deveel of a host stood in the middle of the stage reading from a long scroll of parchment given to him by the judges, who sat serenely in their seats on the dais. The contestants whose names had been read had all departed sobbing or shouting. The others remained in the big dressing room, clad in their finest formal gowns, hanging on every word the Deveel spoke.

  “And in 887th place, right behind Shirleen, is Devraila! In 886th place—nice try, dear, better luck next year—is Elzirmona! Runner-up number 885, just a hair too far out for the big prize, is Mumseen!”

  A Deveel, a Klahd, and a rock-faced woman shouldered their way out of the big crowd toward the rear. I never saw them again. I believe I dozed off a few times on my feet in between batches of names. I didn’t hear Bunny’s spoken. Beside me she was getting more and more excited. I didn’t really hold out much hope. I had our bags packed and waiting in her dressing cubicle along with the D-hopper. The moment her name was read, we were going back to Klahd.

  The mass of contestants thinned more and more. After a while I started to recognize the remaining ladies. This was the top tier of entrants. The chief Deveel woman was still in contention, as was the Pervect, the Gnome, two Imper women I’d thought had been terrific in the talent show, the shark, and one of the snake-women.

  “... In 30th place, Bindina! In 29th place, Sorgkandu! . . .”

  Soon, only ten were left. The Deveel stopped to mop his brow and accept a glass of wine from one of the pages.

  “Ladies,” he said, turning to face our side of the stage, “I salute you. You’ve all come so far, but now this is the moment of truth! I want you all to come up on stage! Give ’em a big hand, folks!”

  To deafening applause and a horn fanfare from the orchestra, the ten remaining women hurried up the stairs and were arranged in a line at the footlights by the beaming host.

  “Ladies and gentlemen and whatever,” he said. “Here are the final runners-up. In 9th place, Amindabelia!” An Imper woman burst into tears as a page brought her a bouquet of flowers. “8th place belongs to Zmmmissa!” I saw the snake-woman’s tail sag with disappointment as she, too, received an armload of flowers. She retired to the back of the stage with the Imp. Seventh, 6th, 5th and 4th were all named, and still Bunny stood at the front, beaming and waving at the audience. Had she surpassed all odds and won? I had my fingers and my toes crossed for luck.

  “Third place, Moleynoo!” The host turned toward the Gnome woman with a silver loving-cup in hand, but she was nowhere in sight. Not a race to stick around when things hadn’t gone their way, Moleynoo must have dimension-hopped as soon as she heard her name. Now there was a gap in the row of gracious losers. The host handed the third-place cup back to the page. “Oh, well, folks! Second place . . . this was a hard fought battle, folks . . .” Bunny, the Deveel, and the Pervect leaned toward him. The host grinned. “. . . second place belongs to Devora!”

  If looks could kill, the Deveel would have dropped dead, burning like a bonfire. Devora accepted her second-place award and stepped back. Now there were only two contestants. Bunny’s shoulders were so tight above the band of her strapless gown my dragon could have alit upon them without making her bend. The Pervect leaned forward avidly.

  “Now, before I name our first place winner,” the host said. “I want to give our compensation award. This goes to the contestant who scored the lowest overall, but has still been a beam of sunshine and brightened our days here on Trofi. The award for Miss Congeniality goes to . . . Bunny!”

  Bunny’s hands rose, trembling, then covered her face as she burst into tears. The Pervect strode to the center of the stage, clasping both hands over her head for victory.

  The host trailed her, talking into his padded stick. “Yes, that means the winner of this year’s beauty pageant is . . . Oshleen! Congratulations, dear lady!”

  Oshleen was surrounded by pages. One draped a huge blue ribbon banner from the Pervect’s skinny shoulder to the opposite hip. One threw a white fur cloak over her shoulders, another tied the ribbons in front. Yet another trio came toward her with a huge bouquet of red thorn-roses, a scepter with a gleaming jewel in it, and a glittering tiara that Oshleen had to duck down slightly to have placed upon her scaly green head. The pages led her out on the catwalk to take a victory lap out into the audience, who continued to applaud loudly.

  “Yes, there she is, your queen of love! Oshleen!”

  The Pervect returned to the center of the stage, and the Deveel took her hand and Bunny’s.

  Well, that was that.

  “Now, we have a special presentation to make. You all know about our grand prize. The great and powerful Bub Tube!” He pointed to the plinth above the judges’ table. “Now, there are always a few irregularities in a contest of this size. There are many rules, and many of them are broken by accident, but in other cases, they are openly defied to gain an unfair advantage. To be blunt, contestants cheat. We know that you, the audience, would feel it was wrong to give our grand prize to someone who skirted the regulations under which our contest was run. The judges have been keeping a running tally of tricks and subterfuge, magikal and otherwise, and subtracted these totals from the overall scores. They have come up with a winner. They are unanimous on this decision. It is not Oshleen.”

  “What?” the Pervect bellowed, trying unsuccessfully to free her hand. The Deveel must have had a pure heart because his strength was as the strength of ten. She stayed where she was, as if bound there.

  “Yes, indeed,” the Deveel continued, smoothly. “And so, for cheating less than any of the other contestants, the citizens of Trofi are pleased to award the Bub Tube to Bunny! Take a bow, Bunny!”

  Startled, Bunny lurched forward a pace, and offered a deep curtsy to the audience, then another one to the judges. By the time she stood fully upright the truth had dawned on her at last. She began beaming.

  The pillar sank into the floor until the Bub Tube was within arm’s reach of the stage. The Pervect stretched out a hand to take it, but the Deveel beat her to it. He snatched it off the plinth and, with a deep bow, handed it to Bunny. “Congratulations, you lovely lady! Would you like to say a few words?”

  The truth had also dawned upon her fellow contestants. The last-place loser was getting the prize! Outrageous! In a mass, they started to move in on Bunny.

  No one was paying attention to me. I dashed back to her dressing room, snat
ched up the D-hopper, and shoved my way through the crowd. I would never make it before they would be on her in a mob.

  “Bunny!” I shouted, hoping to be heard. “Catch!”

  She looked up at the sound of my voice, and held up a hand just in time to catch the short baton. Then I was knocked off my feet by the rush of furious women. I’d never make it to her. Dropping to my hands and knees, I crawled back through the sea of threshing legs to her dressing room and locked the door behind me. The cubicle was too small to lie down, but I huddled against the wall to nurse my bruises.

  Unperturbed by the chaos going on around him, the Deveel host put his arm around Oshleen and began to sing. “There she is! / How beautiful! /Your queen of love! / How magikal! / How beautiful and magickal! / Your queen of love she is.”

  I scrabbled backward as a body appeared in the middle of the small space. It was Bunny, clutching both the D-hopper and the Bub Tube.

  “Hurry,” she said. “They’re tearing the place apart.”

  “You don’t have to tell me twice,” I said, springing to my feet and putting my hand on her arm so the spell would carry both of us out of Trofi for good. In a moment I felt the wrenching sensation that accompanied any trip by D-hopper.

  “Whew!” I said, as I looked around at familiar surroundings. We were back at the inn, with my string of laundry drying across an open window, dirty dishes on the table, Gleep and Buttercup bearing down on us as if we were the last sausages at a picnic. I staved off my dragon’s slimy tongue, but I was smiling. “This is the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in three days—present company excepted, of course.”

  “Thank you for helping me,” Bunny said, giving me a big kiss on the cheek. “Uncle Bruce is going to be so pleased to get the Bub Tube. You saved my life.”

  “Well, you saved mine just now,” I pointed out, enjoying the sensation. “A favor for a favor. Let’s call it even. What are friends for?”