Norton, Andre - Anthology (6 page)

 
          
 
"He'd never let us leave. But take heart,
child; this may indeed be the veritable Elixir."

 
          
 
"If it is, he'll probably slit our
throats to keep the secret. And that is a very small bottle of whatever-it-is.
How far will it stretch? And won't we have to test it?"

 
          
 
They fell to planning a test that would use as
little as possible of the flask's precious contents. Master Ambroses' first
suggestion was to cut me with a knife and put a drop of the liquid on the wound
to see if it healed.

 
          
 
Margaret objected violently and suggested he
use the knife on himself instead. The notion did not appeal. It would be
impossible to test for immortality in two weeks; and the contents of such a
tiny vessel would be unlikely to transmute enough gold to satisfy the Baron.
Finally they decided to put one drop on a piece of base metal to see what would
happen. Master Ambrosius broke the seal, which immediately crumbled into
fragments, and removed the stopper, which did likewise. He sniffed cautiously
at the flask. "Pungent," he commented, and sneezed. Margaret placed
the fire shovel on the table, and he carefully tipped out one drop of liquid.

 
          
 
There was a faint sizzle and a wisp of vapor.
I leaped onto the table and took a wary sniff, wrinkling my nose. There was a
minute hole where the drop had fallen, and the sizzling sound continued. My
keen ears caught a faint "Plop!" from under the table, and I dropped
down to investigate. There was another tiny hole in the stone floor directly
under the hole in the shovel (and the table). Cocking my head, I caught a
faint, ever-receding sizzle. The humans dropped to their knees beside me.

 
          
 
"Merciful Mercury! It's the
Alkahest!" gasped Master Ambrosius. "The Universal Solvent!"

 
          
 
Margaret leaped to her feet, wadded up some
discarded paper, and thrust it into the neck of the bottle, which she placed on
the mantelpiece. We stared at one another in wonder and confusion. Not even
Master Ambrosius had anything to say.

 
          
 
We knew that we had something of great rarity
and value, but in the next few days we were completely unable to find a way to
make our fortune with it. At first Master Ambrosius thought it might be
possible to put one drop into a large quantity of pure water and use the
resulting solution to purify antimony ore, which is the first stage in the
manufacture of the Stone and the Elixir; but when he tried it, the drop of Alkahest
dissolved its way through the water and on through the bowl, the table, and the
floor as before. After this failure he ceased to experiment for a while,
stoppering the bottle with wadded paper again and putting it back on the
mantel.

 
          
 
Since this warm and lofty shelf was my
favorite perch, I had to nap with one eye open to avoid being chased away. As
if I, who had found the treasure in the first place, would carelessly knock it
over!

 
          
 
It then occurred to him that the Solvent might
do something interestingly transmutational to one of the Baron's silver coins,
but Margaret absolutely refused to let him try. She had hidden the purse the
night before our expedition to the ruins; and no matter how her father stormed
and ranted, she would not produce it. I noticed also that whenever he was out
of the house, or totally absorbed in his researches, she would surreptitiously
pack up more of our belongings in the satchels stowed under her bed. Clearly
she was going to be ready to scamper at a moment's notice. Clever as a cat, my
Margaret.

 
          
 
The stalemate continued until two days before
the Baron's deadline. Master Ambrosius was half out of his mind with
frustration and indecision. He had in his possession one of the rarest
treasures of alchemical science, and he had not the faintest idea of what to do
with it. Or rather it would be more accurate to say that he had far too many
ideas and not enough Alkahest. And since the only experiments he had managed to
bring himself to attempt had been dismal failures, he lacked the courage to try
again. As was his wont, he retreated into his books.

 
          
 
Margaret, on the other paw, was all decision.
She had held onto almost all of the Baron's last contribution, doling out a few
coins to her father for alchemical supplies—fortunately for us, the village
didn't offer much of a selection—and necessary foodstuffs. That morning she
confronted Master Ambrosius immediately after breakfast.

 
          
 
"Father, you have got to listen to me. In
two more days the Baron will be coming back, and we have nothing— nothing! —for
him. He is a tyrant, and we are completely at his mercy. Do you think that
miserable little bottle of Alkahest is going to impress him enough that he will
spare us? You may be willing to give your life for alchemy, but Quincunx and I
are not!"

 
          
 
Master Ambrosius blinked bleary eyes at her.
"Child, you are worrying for nothing. Of course the Baron will appreciate
the value of the Alkahest. And in any case, what could we do? We're stranded
here till he gives us leave to go and funds to travel with."

 
          
 
"I still have the last pouch of silver he
gave us. There's more than enough in it to purchase two tickets on the
stagecoach. It comes through the village today at
noon
. By the time he misses us, we'll be across
the border. I have everything packed except your alchemical paraphernalia. And
we don't really need that."

 
          
 
The notion of leaving his books and apparatus
behind truly horrified Master Ambrosius. Margaret attempted to argue, then to
persuade him to pack a bare minimum; but he was angry and obstinate, lost to
what little common sense he possessed. He was shouting at her when the door
flew open and slammed against the wall. There stood the Baron in all his hairy
splendor. His tiny, boarlike red-rimmed eyes glittered, and he positively
reeked of genever.

 
          
 
"Well, my witches!" he bellowed,
staggering forward and flinging the door shut behind him. "Where's my
gold?"

 
          
 
Margaret shrank back into a corner. Master
Ambrosius smiled ingratiatingly. "Welcome, my lord. We weren't expecting
you for another two days. Won't you have a glass of something?" He stared
bemusedly at the breakfast table, which offered nothing but the dregs of a pot
of small ale.

 
          
 
"I've been drinking all night. It's gold
I want! Gold, or that Elixir of yours. Or I'll skin you alive—you and that
damned cat! But you, my pretty," he snatched at Margaret's arm, "you
can pay me in other coin. Let's have a kiss for starters?"iHc dragged her
into his arms despite her screams and struggles. He was twice her size, and
Master Ambrosius could do nothing but wring his hands and plead with the Baron
to desist. Clearly rescue was up to me.

 
          
 
The Baron had Margaret bent back over the
table and was forcing slobbering kisses on her. I leaped onto the table, rose
up on my hind legs, and raked his ugly face with the claws of both forepaws. He
screamed and lurched backward. I sprang to the safety of the mantelpiece.

 
          
 
Roaring what I presumed were filthy curses
(they were in Almaine so I couldn't be sure), he snatched a dagger from his
belt. Master Ambrosius moaned and closed his eyes. The Baron swiped his sleeve
across his bloody face and turned to look for me. I froze, but he spotted me
and flung the dagger with a snarl. It clipped an ear and stood quivering in the
plaster. I squealed, more in shock than in pain.

 
          
 
"No!" screamed Margaret. "Leave
my cat alone, you animal!" She swept up the only weapon to her hand, the
empty ale pot, and clouted the Baron across the back of the head. It wasn't
much of a blow, but he was off balance from the dagger-throw as well as more
than half drunk. He staggered forward and fetched up against the fireplace.

 
          
 
I snarled and lashed my tail. It caught the
tiny flask and decanted it squarely on top of the Baron. The makeshift cork
dissolved at once, and the Alkahest streamed out onto his forehead. He
screamed, a thin, high, burbling shriek more befitting a dying vole. His head
simply vanished. It was the strangest sight. All that spectacular
wickedness—melted. Soon there was nothing left but an oily little puddle; then,
nothing but an oddly-shaped hole in the hearth.

 
          
 
Margaret was simply splendid. She pulled
herself together and restored her garments and person to their customary
neatness, washing off every trace of the Baron's touch. (I think she could have
done with more washing; but time was short, and she is only human.) She
straightened the room and fetched a rug from her father's bedchamber to cover
the hole in the floor. She scolded and bullied Master Ambrosius into packing
his personal possessions and alchemical impedimenta, ruthlessly discarding
anything that could be replaced later. We caught the stagecoach with minutes to
spare.

 
          
 
We are two days past the Almaine border, and
so far there has been no hue and cry after us. This is a pleasant inn in which
to recuperate and make plans. I am sprawled on a broad windowsill, enjoying the
spring sunshine and toying with a chicken wing, idly eavesdropping on my
people. Master Ambrosius wants to go to some place called
Wittenberg
which is famous for scholarship. He has
heard that there is a vacant professorship in alchemical studies there, and he
wants to apply for it. Margaret, who has developed a good deal of spirit
lately, thinks it would be rank folly to return to Almaine lands and is roundly
saying so. She wants to go somewhere warm and sunny, perhaps
Languedoc
, which she argues persuasively is a
treasury of Saracen lore. (The Saracens were great ones for alchemy.)

 
          
 
Warm and sunny
Languedoc
sounds just fine to me. It borders the
Middle
Sea
; surely there will be fish.

 
          
 
My people rise from the luncheon table. Master
Ambrosius announces his intention of exploring the town in search of bookshops.
Margaret, who has a more proper appreciation of leisure, comes to curl up on
the window-sill beside me and bask in the sun. She ruffles my ears with a
gentle hand.

 
          
 
"Good old Quincunx. Enjoy your comforts,
my lad; you've earned them. If you had not chanced to knock over that bottle on
top of the Baron, heaven knows what would have become of us!"

 
          
 
Dear Margaret! So wise, and yet so foolish in
some ways. Surely she should have realized by now that cats seldom do things by
chance—and we never, never, NEVER knock things over by accident.

            
Jayge Carr has had
four novels published, and stopped counting short stories at fifty. On the
personal front, she is a native-born Texan with pioneer roots, married with two
grown children, has a degree in physics, and worked for NASA as a nuclear
physicist. She and her husband live in an ordinary (except for her disorganized
study) house with a cat who makes sure they don't sleep in unhealthily late in
the morning.

            
The circus is coming!
The message flashed through the news and personal nets. Download
circus.schedule. red.

            
The circus owners
knew the value of publicity. All kinds of teasers could be downloaded off the
net. Colorful holoposters and holobillboards appeared on major

ground routes and on public buildings in the cities. Commercial channels
carried paid ads, and even the blasé news'porters smiled as they interviewed
advancefolk on

the newest acts added to the circus.

            
The five ships that
brought the circus left colored contrails (thanks to additions of harmless
chemicals to the final exhaust) over every populated region of the planet.

            
News channels covered
the landing and unloading of the wagons and then simulcast it all around the
planet.

 
          
 
The wagons were all designed on the same plan.
The bottom section, including the wheels, were opaque vehicles, concealing
living quarters, equipment, whatever. The top was a display platform, with
transparent roof and sides (that could be taken off and stored in good weather,
or in cities with domes in bad).

 
          
 
Once the circus folk loaded all the wagons,
their journey to the first site was also broadcast.

 
          
 
Loi Mandela-Takahuri, aged seven, was watching
the parade on the big screen in the main room. "Daddy, are you going to take
me to the circus when it comes here?" she called over the intercom.

 
          
 
Her father, working over his computer in his
study, groaned to himself. "Can't your mother?" The large white
angora cat purring at his feet stirred slightly.

 
          
 
"Oh, DAD-dy." Loi pouted. "You
know she'll have an operation or something scheduled."

 
          
 
Boris Mandela-Andrews frowned to himself. She
would. Either that or a class she couldn't trade off. Odd how he always seemed
to get stuck with the one-off chores involving Loi or the house, especially
since his wife had won the coveted teaching channel slot for "Advanced
Micro Neural Splicing Techniques." Not that her course hadn't been
oversubscribed ever since, but . ..

 
          
 
"Ohhhh!" Loi was watching a screen
showing a wagon with its sides up, full of pacing animals. "Lions and
tigers, oh my!"

 
          
 
Boris, hearing her because she'd forgotten to
turn off the intercom, smiled. Lions and tigers indeed. The smile broadened as
he remembered circuses when he was young. Maybe this was one "chore"
he'd make durn sure he got "stuck" with. te

 
          
 
"Ohhhh!" Loi's voice was filled with
awe.

 
          
 
Boris glared at his own screen, with the all
important work on the upgrade of the planetary satellite system, hit Save, and
flicked over to a repeat of what Loi was seeing. A platform with three clowns
chasing a fourth rolled under the camera relaying the parade. The clown in
front, all floppy orange shoes and billowing purple clothes, suddenly tripped
over something, and rolled across the platform. Suddenly, purple-and-orange was
in back of the three pursuers. They stopped, making exaggerated gestures of dismay,
tumbling over each other, clouds of colored smoke appearing from their clothes.
Boris chuckled, and heard a startled Pur-rup from the floor.

 
          
 
Yes, he'd take this chore! He gave a little
gasp as several kilos of cat thumped into his lap. He leaned down to pet the
circling animal. The screen now showed a collection of exotics, non-Terran
animals, each (he assumed) in its own sealed-off area. He whistled. Whew.

 
          
 
"Look at that. Oberon," he said.
"Look at those big boy relatives of yours, fella." Oberon gave the
collection of exotics an uninterested stare, and settled down to his usual: a
nap. But Boris continued to watch, as fascinated as his daughter. It was his
turn to take Loi on a field trip, wasn't it?

 
          
 
Harry Harper had been a lion tamer for a long
time. His father was a lion tamer, his grandfather, his greatgrandfather. When
backers had organized the Greatest Show in the Universe some ten years ago, he
had jumped at the chance to have an act of his own, instead of being an
assistant. In ten years, he had acquired a wife, three children, and a fine
reputation of his own.

 
          
 
"It's Harry the lion tamer!" someone
on the circus parade's physical route squealed. The sound was coming from
above, so he looked upward toward it and smiled and waved at the young happy
face leaning precariously out a fourth-story window over the street the circus
parade was traveling down.

 
          
 
"Get back in here this second, son!"
"But, guardie, it's the lion tamer! Harry!" Harry smiled again, as a
second face joined the first. Behind him, there was a lion's warning cough.
"Harry!" the child screamed. "He's after you." It was an
old routine. Harry turned. The single lion sharing his platform had slyly
slipped off his crimson and black drum. Harry snapped the whip, nowhere near
the animal, and it gave a mighty roar. "Harry!" the child screamed.

 
          
 
Harry posed, cracked the whip in front of the
animal several times. With another growl, the lion jumped back on its pedestal.
Harry bowed grandly, then, as the tiny red light that said the camera was on
him went off, he grinned and winked at the child's face in the window, already
receding ... and threw a kiss at the older face, as pretty a woman as he'd seen
in at least ten minutes.

 
          
 
But it was all as automatic as breathing.
Inside, he was still in a total panic.

 
          
 
Once the circus wagons arrived at the first
appointed site, the next steps were automatic. Sometimes they were in an
already prepared auditorium. But this time, they were on a rocky flat outside
of a major city, and would have to supply everything themselves. First the
wagons were arranged in the back of the flat. All the animal acts were in one
sector, and Harry, as the lion tamer, had a primo site in the corner nearest
where the big top would be. The autodrive in his wagon parked him neatly, and
within a minute, the wagons with the other animals had formed a neat U shape,
with his personal wagon at one end.

 
          
 
His oldest child, Linda, spilled out of the
quarters under the tiger wagon as soon as it stopped. ''Can I help, Daddy?"

 
          
 
Harry, who had slung himself down the
unobtrusive "ladder" of neat bars (there was also a trapdoor into the
living quarters, but he needed to be outside, not in), frowned. "Where's
your mother?"

 
          
 
"Petey's still fussy," Linda
informed him.

 
          
 
"Has she rung up Doc?"

 
          
 
"Yes." A shrug. "He says, just
a bug. Petey'll be better soon."

 
          
 
Harry smiled with an effort. "Sure he
will. Well, cat-meat, do you know which wagon the fence is in, and how to set
it up?"

 
          
 
Her lower lip came out. " 'Course I do."

 
          
 
"Think you can do it for me. I want to
take another look at Diavolo's paw."

 
          
 
"Yeah!" Her face glowed. Then,
horrified, "You don't think any thing's wrong with Diavolo. do you,
Dad?"

 
          
 
"No." He forced a smile. "But
you can't be too careful, and I thought his timing was a- little off at the
last practice."

 
          
 
"Oh, Daddy." A smile, and a falsetto
imitation he knew well. "Picky, picky."

 
          
 
He ruffled her short brown hair. "In the
first place, we don't want the local Animal Rights people on us. We know we're
careful, in every way, but not all circuses are."

 
          
 
"Dad-DY. We've never hurt or neglected an
animal!"

 
          
 
"Right. But remember, 'He who checks
'fore every act, Will live to bow, and that's a fact.' "

 
          
 
"Gonna rehearse after?"

 
          
 
" 'Course. You won't need to wear your
costume, though."

 
          
 
Linda giggled, on her way to the wagon storing
the electronic fence.

 
          
 
Harry sighed, his face showing his worry as
soon as she'd turned her back. Then he moved to the wagon with Diavolo and the
other exotics, and started up its outside ladder.

 
          
 
"I watched the rehearsal today."
Harry's wife Amii, part of the Flying Romanovs' High Wire Act, was rocking the
fretful baby Petey when Harry came in that evening.

 
          
 
"I need a shower," he muttered.

 
          
 
Her mouth pursed. "When did you add that
claw on your throat to the exotics' act?"

 
          
 
He shrugged, not meeting her eyes. "Did
they hook the water up yet, or am I going to have to make do with a hot air
scour?"

 
          
 
"We've water," shp bit out.
"Harry, when did you add that claw on the throat?"

 
          
 
He stripped off the padded shirt with the high
protective collar he used during the rehearsal and tossed it carelessly toward
the floor.

 
          
 
"Harry!" Living in small cramped
quarters made for some strict rules.

 
          
 
"All right, sorry." He picked up the
shirt, and headed back for the personal area.

 
          
 
"You're not going to distract me."
She picked up the baby and followed him into the personal area.

 
          
 
He wadded the shirt, and shrugged, not facing
her. "I needed something new, something bigger and better."

 
          
 
"I saw where you had him putting the
claws, Harry. Your dress collar protects the sides and back, but not the front
of your throat."

 
          
 
He still didn't face her, busy swiping his
face with a wet towel. "What do you expect, Amii? It's no thrill for the
rubes if it isn't bare skin."

 
          
 
"No thrill if it isn't incredibly
dangerous, you mean. For heaven's sake, Harry, with the exotics. You know how
unpredictable they are."

 
          
 
He ground his teeth. Then, carefully,
"Have I ever fussed about you working without a net?"

 
          
 
"That's different and you know it. We're
expected to do our act without a net, that's what makes us numero uno."