Higher Mythology (30 page)

“… The man takes pictures of everything he sees—everything! Children, scenery, interesting garbage cans, cats, you name it. He has to get a separate suitcase for all of his film. The customs agents ask him if he bought stock in a foreign branch of Kodak. When he gets home, his best friend calls him up and asks, so, did you have a good time?

“‘I can’t tell,’ the man said.” Keith visualized his tourist shrugging. “‘The pictures haven’t come back yet!’”

Dola laughed delightedly, and the sprites outside the window showed their approval by swooping to and fro in a complicated knotlike dance like happy Japanese kites.

Keith chuckled. “You’re my kind of audience. Oh, and have you heard the one about the man who went door to door selling mud packs.…”

“Keith Doyle,” Holl said, tapping him in the right kidney, “your audience is growing beyond my ability to fend off the attentions of the crowd around us.”

Keith looked up, aware for the first time how the crowd of air sprites had grown, and how numerous the Big Folk tourists were becoming. “Ooops, sorry,” he said sheepishly. “That’s the end of the show, folks. Hey, look, the balloon racers are getting closer.”

“Which one’s Frank’s?” Diane asked. Keith pointed to the Skyship Iris, well back among the pack, but moving towards them in a frisky air current.

“Oh, it’s so pretty!” Dola said.

The flock of sprites broke up, most of them flying up into the clouds, where they instantly blended in and disappeared. One came close to the window, winked at Dola, and fled out over the lake toward the balloons. She stared after it, starry-eyed.

“They’re so nice,” she said, turning her face upward to Tay. “Father, I wonder if we might build a tower on the farm so I can visit with them.”

“We’ll see what your mother says,” Tay said diplomatically, putting an arm across his daughter’s shoulders.

The Master came up to join the group admiring the cluster of colorful balloons. Only a few of the sprites remained, including Keith’s first friend, who hovered at eye level.

“The Professor had to leaf us. I am fery interested in our new friends here,” the Master said, looking up at the sprites with interest. “I vould know more about them.”

“Well, to me, the most important thing is you know you’re not the only ones out there, I mean right here,” Keith said, pointing this way and that. “One day, there ought to be a mass conclave of all the little folk in the world, so you can all get to know each other.”

The air sprites responded to this idea with a mind-numbing display of creatures of all shapes and descriptions.

“You mean these all exist?” Keith said. “Yeah, if I can get them all interested, we could have one fabulous party.”

“You organize it,” the Master said, after a disbelieving stare at Keith, “and ve vill come.”

“You bet,” Keith said dreamily “Maybe we can even find the real
bodachs
of Jura.” An idea struck him. “Say, Master, I wanted to ask. After seeing how the advertising business works, are you sure you don’t want me to make up an ad campaign for Hollow Tree Industries? It’d be a prizewinner.”

“No, thank you,” the Master said, fixing him with a disapproving stare calculated to drive the idea right out of his mind. “After vhat I haf seen I belief ve vould much rather be a vord-of-mouth success.”

***

E
PILOGUE:

“I have this incredible compulsion to go shopping,” Diane said, looking up at the great screen. “I don’t know why.”

Keith plastered innocent fingertips to his chest. “Don’t look at me. Must be something in the air.”

He smoothed the front of his rented tuxedo and looked around at the crowd. It was easy to tell who at the Clio Award banquet was in the business, and who were guests. The advertisers were paying no attention to the commercials being shown on the big screen over the dais, and the visitors couldn’t keep their eyes off it. Too bad, when there were so many more interesting things to look at.

Diane, for example. She looked absolutely incredible in her drop-dead evening gown of black satin and lace, with a cluster of pink-tipped ivory roses clipped to the bosom. Beside her was Dorothy and her boyfriend, Jerome, who had medium brown skin, but startling green-hazel eyes that picked up lights from his date’s metallic lamé gown that was green one way you looked at it, and pewter-black the other. Dorothy looked drop-dead gorgeous, too. She was celebrating getting the offer from PDQ. Her selection, she pointed out, was partly due to Doug Constance, suffering an attack of conscience, throwing his weight behind her.

“I’m happy for you,” Keith said, raising his glass to her. “I really am.”

“Even though you didn’t get it?” Dorothy asked. “We were neck and neck there.”

“It really doesn’t matter to me,” Keith promised. “It never did. And I’m planning to get my Master’s degree, so I couldn’t come to work right away anyhow.”

“He means it,” Diane said.

“If you ever come on the market, I may take you up on your application as a copywriter,” Dorothy said. “No one at PDQ’s as crazy as you. You hear from Sean?”

“Yup.” Keith said. Dunbar Tyres had, as he feared, picked up and moved to a rival agency, but on their recommendation, the new agency had hired Sean on the strength of ‘The Brain.’ “It’s too bad about the shift, but I’m glad he got credit.”

“Okay,” Meier said, “but you and Brendan get credit, too, because Goodling Tyres UK like The English Channel, so nothing’s wasted. You’ll be seeing the commercials over the winter. I’ll call and tell him, but I’m not so sure he’ll be glad to hear my voice.”

“Where is he?” Diane asked.

“Oh, he went back to Daddy’s stockbroker firm,” Meier said with a wink. “We didn’t charge him for the extra billing for Gilbreth, although we could have. Accounting is working it out with her. Her account has been … er, temporarily downsized. She’ll be on her feet again one day. Still, PDQ got the best of the deal.” He leaned over and patted Dorothy’s hand. “We got this talented young lady on our staff, and someday she’s gonna knock ’em dead.”

“Maybe you’ll hire me next year, huh?” Keith asked playfully.

“I may be forced into it,” Paul said.

“Why?” Keith asked. “Because of working with Dorothy?”

Paul shook his head, his usual wry smile on his face. “No, but you never know.”

There were network cameras set up all over the room, gathering what Paul described as ‘pick-up shots.’ Keith concentrated on eating neatly to avoid looking like a slob when the camera panned their table. The technicians running the equipment became more energetic, and started passing hand signals to each other.

“It’s starting,” Paul said, turning around in his chair.

A tall man with gleaming white teeth stood up behind the podium and raised his hand. Everyone stopped talking to listen to him. He made a short speech and went straight to the nominations. Another man in evening wear handed award after award to a gowned woman, who passed them to the happy recipients. Speeches of thanks were short and frequently witty. Keith enjoyed the spectacle.

“… Winner of the honorable mention, Judge Yeast, ‘All Rise’, Perkins Delaney Queen,” the master of ceremonies said. Bob, the account executive, accepted the statuette as the big screen showed the Judge Yeast commercial.

“I’m proud of the two of you,” Paul said, leaning over the table. “First crack out of the box,” he said when Bob sat down, “and you got an honorable mention. You can hope for better in the future.”

“I hope so,” Keith said.

“Count on it,” said Paul.

The account executive was effusive. “This young lady,” he said, framing Dorothy with his hands, “This brilliant young woman had the vision. The client was crazy about it, and you can always tell when a team really loves their product.” Dorothy and Keith exchanged glowing glances. Diane squeezed Keith’s arm, sharing their triumph.

“I hope that means a raise, Bob,” Dorothy said slyly.

“Praise is free,” Paul said, shaking his head. “You gotta do better than an honorable mention for a raise.”

The M.C. went on with his presentations. Paul stopped the conversation at the table with a wave of his hand as the America’s Shoe commercial featuring Dola appeared over the M.C’s head.

Keith admired the way the production team had taken his idea and run with it. In the aired commercial, Dola sat in a field of tall grass with a wreath of flowers on her head until the music began. The whole thing had been shot with a soft focus filter. She sprang up and ran lightly down a path of short-cropped grass, to join an animated circle of dancers on a fairy mound. The camera followed the motions of her feet, then cut to the delight on her face.

“What a cute little girl she was,” Dorothy whispered. “You were right. She was absolutely perfect for the campaign. Relative of yours?”

“Sort of a cousin,” Keith whispered back. “She loved acting. I think we’ve created a monster.”

Dorothy shook her head. “She’s going to break hearts when she grows up, you know.”

He exchanged wry glances with Diane. “She nearly broke mine already.”

Diane leaned over to whisper to him. “I forgot to tell you, Holl says the water is pure again.”

“Great!” Keith whispered back.

“Shh!” Paul hissed.

The announcer’s voice interrupted him. “And the award goes to America’s Shoe, Fairy Footwear, Paul Meier, Scott Milliard, Dorothy Carver, and Keith Doyle.”

“Go on, go get it,” Keith urged Paul.

“Nope, you do it,” Paul said, the half-smile becoming a full grin. “You deserve it. Here’s to this one and many more.” He raised his glass.

“Huh?” Keith said.

“Accepting this award,” the M.C. said, “will be Keith Doyle.”

Keith looked at Paul, who winked. “You knew about it.”

“I set it up! Everything’s on purpose in advertising, kid. I told you. Now, go. Enjoy.”

Flushed, Keith made his way to the podium, shook hands with the M.C. and the award presenter, and accepted the small statuette. He leaned over the mike and cleared his throat. The room became silent. Diane held up her hands and blew him a kiss.

Keith smiled at the audience and looked into the lens of the television camera. I sure hope this is being televised downstate, he thought.

“I don’t have a prepared speech, so I’d just like to thank my team, Paul Meier, Scott Milliard, Dorothy Carver, Sean Lopez … and,” his eyes twinkled mischievously, “all the Little People who made this possible. Thank you.”

***

A
UTHOR
B
IOGRAPHY

Jody Lynn Nye lists her main career activity as ‘spoiling cats.’ When not engaged upon this worthy occupation, she writes fantasy and science fiction books and short stories.

Before breaking away from gainful employment to write full time, Jody worked as a file clerk, bookkeeper at a small publishing house, freelance journalist, and photographer, accounting assistant and costume maker. For four years, she was on the technical operations staff of a local Chicago television station, ending as Technical Operations Manager.

Since 1987 she has published 45 books and more than 110 short stories. Although she is best known as a collaborator with other notable authors such as Anne McCaffrey (the Ship Who series, the Dinosaur Planet series), Robert Asprin (Dragons and the Myth-Adventures), John Ringo (Clan of the Claw) and Piers Anthony, Jody has numerous solo books to her credit, mostly fantasy and science fiction with a humorous bent. Her newest book is
Fortunes of the Imperium
(Baen Books), the second of the Lord Thomas Kinago books, which she describes as “Jeeves and Wooster in space.” Over the last twenty-five years or so, Jody has taught in numerous writing workshops and speaks at schools and libraries, and teaches the two-day writers’ workshop at DragonCon in Atlanta. When not writing, she enjoys baking, calligraphy, travel, photography and, of course, reading.

Jody lives in the northwest suburbs of Chicago with her husband, Bill Fawcett, and Jeremy, their cat.

Her website is www.jodylynnnye.com.