His Moira pirouetted on the desk top, displaying herself. "And," she said, "for some men I'll do a really extraordinary favor."
"What's that?" asked Hemming, fighting with himself to keep his hands off her. He was plainly terrified of squashing this gorgeous creature.
"I could make you," she said, "my size. Only a little taller, of course.
Women like that."
"You can?" he asked, his voice breaking. "Then go ahead!"
"I have your full consent?"
"Yes," he said. "Full consent."
"Then—" A smile curved her lips as she swept her hands through the air in juggling little patterns.
A lizard about ten inches long reared up on its hind legs, then frantically skittered across the tabletop. Almarish looked for Hemming; could not see him anywhere. He picked up Moira. In a sleepy, contented voice she was saying:
"My size. Only a little taller, of course."
8
Back in the tube from which they had been shunted into the Halls of the Eternal Eaters, as the ghouls fancied calling themselves, Almarish couldn't get sense out of Moira. She had fallen asleep in his pocket and was snoring quietly, like a kitten that purred in its sleep.
And more than ever he marveled at this cold-blooded little creature.
She had had the routine of seduction and transformation down so pat that he was sure she had done it a hundred times—or a thousand. You couldn't tell ages in any of these unreal places; he, who should be a hundred and eight, looked just thirty-five and felt fifteen years younger than that.
All the same, it would be a good thing not to give Moira full and clear consent to anything at all. That must be an important part of the ceremony.
He hoped that the ghouls would straighten themselves out now that their president was a ten-inch lizard. But there were probably twenty villainous vice-presidents, assorted as to size, shape and duties, to fill his place. Maybe they'd get to fighting over it, and the ghouls-in-ordinary would be able to toss them all over.
Just like Ellil. A good thing he'd gotten out of that.
Not that he liked this way of traveling, he assured himself. It couldn't be anything half so honest as it seemed—a smooth-lined tube slanting down through solid rock. It was actually, of course, God-knew-what tricky path between the planes of existence. That thirteen-hour clock was one way, this was another, but more versatile.
Lights ahead again—red lights. He took Moira from his pocket and shook her with incredible delicacy.
"You ox!" she snapped. "Trying to break my back?"
"Sorry," he said. "Lights—red ones. What about them?"
"That's it," she said grimly. "Do you feel like a demigod —particularly?"
"No," he admitted. "Not—particularly."
"Then that's too damn bad," she snapped. "Remember, you have a job to do. When you get past the first trials and things, wake me up."
"Trials?"
"Yes, always. Egyptian, Greek, Roman, Norse—they all have a Weigher of Souls. It's always the same place, of course, but they like the formality. Now let me sleep."
He put her back into his pocket and tried to brake with his hands and feet. No go. But soon he began to decelerate. Calling up what little he knew of such things, he tried to draw a desperate analogy between molecules standing radially instead of in line and whatever phenomenon this was which made him—who was actually, he knew, not moving at all—not-move more slowly than before, when he had been standing still at an inconceivably rapid pace.
The lights flared ahead into a bloody brilliance, and he skidded onto another of the delivery tables of sardonyx. A thing with a hawk face took his arm.
"Stwm stm!" it said irritably.
"Velly solly," said the sorcerer. "Me no spik—whatever in Hades you're speaking."
"R khrt sr tf mtht," it said with a clash of its beak. Almarish drew his invincible dirk, and the thing shrugged disarmingly.
"Chdl nfr," it grinned, sauntering off.
A Chinese approached, surveying him. "Sholom aleichim," he greeted Almarish, apparently fooled by the beard.
"Aleichim sholom," replied the enchanter, "but you've made a mistake."
"Sorry," said the Chinese. "We'll put you on the calendar at General Sessions. Take him away!" he called sharply.
Almarish was hustled into a building and up a flight of stairs by two men in shiny blue uniforms before he had a chance to ask what the charge was. He was hustled through a pen, through innumerable corridors, through a sort of chicken-wire cage, and finally into a courtroom.
"Hurrah!" yelled thousands of voices. Dazedly he looked over a sea of faces, mostly bloodthirsty.
"Tough crowd," one of the attendants muttered. "We better stick around to take care of you. They like to collect souvenirs. Arms …
scalps…."
"See him?" demanded the other attendant, pointing at the judge. "Used to be a Neminant Divine. This is his punishment. This and dyspepsia.
Chronic."
Almarish could read the sour lines in the judge's face like a book. And the book looked as though it had an unhappy ending.
"Prisoner to the bar," wheezed the justice.
THE COURT: Prisoner, give your name and occupation.
PRISONER: Which ones, Your Honor? There are so many. (Laughter and hisses.)
A VOICE: Heretic—burn him!
THE COURT: Order! Prisoner, give the ones you like best. And remember—We Know All.
PRISONER: Yes, Your Honor. Packer, ex-overlord of Ellil.
THE COURT: Read the accusation, clerk.
CLERK: (several words lost) did willfully conspire to transform said Hemming into a lizard ten inches long. (Laughter in the court.) THE COURT: Poppycock!
RECORDING CLERK: How do you spell that, Your Honor?
THE COURT: Silence! I said Poppycock!
RECORDING CLERK: Thank you, Your Honor.
PRISONER'S COUNSEL: Your Honor, (several words lost), known (several words lost) childhood (several words lost).
THE COURT: Prisoner's counsel is very vague.
PRISONER: My God—is he my lawyer?
THE COURT: So it would appear.
PRISONER: But I never saw the man before, and he's obviously drunk, Your Honor!
THE COURT: Hic! What of it, prisoner?
PRISONER: Nothing. Nothing at all. Move to proceed.
PROSECUTING ATT'Y: I object! Your Honor, I object!
THE COURT: Sustained.
(A long silence. Hisses and groans.)
THE COURT: Mr. Prosecutor, you got us into this—what have you to say for yourself?
PROSECUTING ATT'Y: Your Honor, I—I—I move to proceed.
PRISONER: It's my turn, Your Honor. I object.
THE COURT: Overruled.
(Cheers and whistles.)
VOICES: Hang him by the thumbs!
Cut his face off!
Heretic—burn him!
THE COURT: I wish it to go on record that I am much gratified by the intelligent interest which the public is taking in this trial.
(Cheers and whistles.)
PROSECUTING ATT'Y: Your Honor, I see no need further to dillydally.
This is a clear-cut case and the state feels no hesitation in demanding that the Court impose maximum penalty under law—which, if I remember aright, is death per flagitionem extremum, peine forte et dure, crucifictio ultimo and inundation sub aqua regia—in that order.
(Cheers and screams. Wild demonstration.)
THE COURT: I SO―
A VOICE: Hey, blue-eyes!
THE COURT: I SO-
A VOICE (the same): Hey, you, cutie-pants!
THE COURT: Prisoner.
PRISONER: Yes, Your Honor?
THE COURT: Prisoner, are you aware of what you have in your pocket?
PRISONER: Oh—her. Cute, isn't she?
THE COURT: Bring it closer. I shall make it Exhibit A.