A supernatural wail split the air.
"Someone has just checked the books," Chalmers said. Shea looked puzzled.
"FRESTON, YOU HAVE OVERDRAWN YOUR ACCOUNT BY MORE THAN A MILLION PERCENT!" the demonic voice roared. "ALL IN GOOD WORKS. YOU HAVE NO CHANCE OR HOPE OF REPAYING WHAT YOU OWE—THEREFORE, WE ARE COLLECTING YOUR SOUL NOW!"
Freston abruptly ceased to exist.
"There's nothing deadlier than an angry accountant," Chalmers said with a bright laugh.
An instant later, the same demonic voice screamed, "WHAT IS THIS? MAIAMBROSO, YOU ALSO HAVE OVERDRAWN YOUR ACCOUNT BY MORE THAN A MILLION PERCENT, AND IN TOTALLY NON-TRANSFERABLE GOOD WORKS! AAAGH! HOW HAVE YOU DONE THIS?—NO MATTER, I'LL HAVE YOUR SOUL NOW—" Malambroso did not vanish the way Freston had, however. There was a moment of silence, and then the voice returned. The invisible speaker was obviously in a snit. "I'VE BEEN INFORMED THAT YOU ARE FROM A UNIVERSE OUTSIDE OF THIS ONE. APPARENTLY, BECAUSE OF THAT, I CAN'T CLAIM YOUR SOUL IN LIEU OF PAYMENT—BUT I CAN BANISH YOU AND EVERYTHING OF YOURS FROM THIS UNIVERSE FOR ALL OF ETERNITY. I DO SO NOW!"
Malambroso vanished. Florimel went with him.
"NO!" Reed Chalmers screamed. "Fenwick, dammit, bring her back here!
Fenwick answered. "REED CHALMERS—YOU WERE RESPONSIBLE FOR THAT PLAGUE OF GOODNESS. YOU HAVE TOTALLY RUINED MY REPUTATION, AND EVEN SATAN IS PISSED AT ME!" The demon snarled. "I'M REVOKING YOUR ACCOUNT AND BANISHING YOU."
Chalmers grabbed Shea's arm and held on. Light began to swirl around them, howling assaulted their ears, and the world of Don Quixote dribbled away as if it had been buried in a deep fog. The last sound the two psychologists heard was Fenwick, squawking, "I'M SENDING YOU WHERE WE SENT MALAMBROSO—AND I HOPE HE FINDS YOU!"
"I hope so, too," Chalmers said.
-
ARMS AND THE ENCHANTER
John Maddox Roberts
This time the millions of whirling spots of color underwent a color change during passage. They began a nice, restful blue, a sort of sky-blue reminiscent of a pleasant summer day. It did not last long. The blue shaded to a purple that seemed, somehow, ominous. The purple went to blood-red, then to a lurid yellow-orange. And it got hot. Then they were standing on a broad pavement and the yellow spots coalesced into flames that shot skyward for hundreds of feet. It got even hotter.
Even over the roaring of the flames they heard an unearthly screeching, wailing racket that could only be likened to banshees being fed into a buzzsaw. For a moment the screeching was drowned out by a thunder of crashing masonry. They were in a city, and the city was in flames.
Shea looked up. "I don't see any bombers." Surely nothing else could account for such wholesale destruction.
"I would think not," Chalmers said. "The technological level would seem to preclude them. Look there." He pointed to the far end of the huge plaza upon which they stood. There, men waving long, bronze swords and oversized spears were herding hundreds of women and children into a sort of impromptu corral made of stacked furniture, hangings, platters and cups made of gold and silver, lamps and tripods of bronze, chains, sculptures, wine jars, tables inlaid with ivory, chests, in fact a whole department store of valuable goods. This was the source of the horrid screeching, which was set up by the women. They tore at their hair, rent their garments and scratched their faces. Mostly they wailed, in a demonstration of terror and grief that seemed exaggerated even in the midst of such a catastrophe.
"That's the worst acting I've seen since our sophomore production of MacBeth," Shea commented.
With a roar, a tower at least four hundred feet high began to topple on some buildings that capped a low hill just beyond the plaza. Its fall began in slow and stately fashion, picking up velocity as it reached forty-five degrees, flames shooting from its windows in a dazzling display of pyrotechnics. It crashed down like a bomb, hurling flames, stones, smoke, and dust over a vast area. The men guarding the prisoners cheered and waved their weapons.
"Somebody wants to take this city right off the map!" Shea said.
"I think this is not a good place to be," Chalmers observed. "Perhaps we should find a quiet corner to think things out."
"Right. Maybe we can find a bar still open somewhere. Let's ... who's that?"
They had turned to go down a side street and found their way blocked by a large man who was speaking to an even larger woman. The man was dressed in bronze armor, with a lion skin thrown over his shoulders and back. He was spattered from head to foot with blood. The woman stood more than a head taller, her height boosted even more by the fact that her feet were three or four inches off the ground.
The man wore a look of utter distress but the prevailing racket prevented Shea and Chalmers from hearing what he was saving. He reached up, as if to embrace the woman around the neck, but his arms passed right through her. He had another try, with the same result. Apparently he was slow to learn from experience, because he had another try at it. This time, the woman faded from view. He seemed on the verge of bursting into tears, but the appearance of Shea and Chalmers distracted him. His facial expression switched from grief to grim determination so quickly that it was like an optical illusion.
"You two slaves," he called. "Come here and pick these up." He pointed to a pile of weapons on the pavement by his feet.
"We aren't slaves!" Shea said indignantly.
"Foreigners, then. Pick these up and follow me, if you would leave this city alive. They are sparing only comely women and children fit for slavery."
"It might be the best idea," Chalmers said.
"I don't know," Shea said hesitantly. "It looks like joining the losing side to me.
"Jump to it!" the huge man roared. They jumped.
"You seem somewhat the sturdier," the man said to Shea. "You bear my shield. Your companion may be my spear-bearer for my last walk through my beloved city. Be ready to hand me a trusty, ashen spear at my call, and have my shield ready for my left hands grasp." With that, the warrior strode down the street.
Shea stooped and pulled the shield upright. Grasping the straps on its inner surface, he struggled to lift it. The thing was astoundingly heavy, seventy or eighty pounds by his estimation. It was as tall as he was, a convex oval with small oval cutouts giving it a narrower "waist" section. It seemed to be made of multiple layers of hide faced with decorated bronze. He staggered along beneath this load, Chalmers beside him having similar difficulty with his armload of spears. Their polished shafts slithered around as if they were oiled.
They caught up with the man just as he strode out into another great square. This one was lined with lofty, templelike buildings, all of them spouting the now expected flames. Bodies lay everywhere; on the pavement, on the temple steps, hanging out of windows. The square was dominated by some sort of immense sculpture, an animal figure that towered over the rooftops. It was a sinister thing with its fierce, painted eyes and upstanding mane, despite the incongruous trapdoor hanging from its belly. Chalmers gasped.
"The wooden horse!"
"Aye," said their leader. "It was with this ruse that the Greeks took storied Ilium, not with valor. We were mad, for the gods made us so. We heeded not the warnings of Laocoön the priest, but dragged it through the gates and celebrated with drunken revelry. Thus are we punished for our impiety.
"We're in the Iliad!" Shea groaned.