Thjalf, rose reluctantly. «I’ll speak a word for ye to Uncle Fox in the morning,» he murmured in farewell. Working for these Æsir is no fun. They’re an ornery lot, but I suppose we’re better off with ’em than without ’em, what with the Time coming. Ye know what Ulf, the poet says:
Bare is the breast Without banner before it
When heroes bear weapons To the wrack of the world.
«Good night.»
Shea was not at all sure he wanted to work for Loki as a warlock, whatever that was. There was something sly about the man, uncomfortable The graceful and forthright Heimdall had impressed him more in spite of the latter’s lack of a sense of humour, he mused.
A small noise at the door was Sverre, putting his head in for a look around and then vanishing again. Of the buxom young women nothing had been seen since they took up the wooden platters. Though the house was obviously going to bed, Shea found himself not in the least sleepy. It could hardly be much after nine o’clock. But in a world without artificial light other than that of torches, people would rise and set with the sun. Shea wondered whether he, too, would come around to that dismal habit. Probably, unless he succeeded in getting back to his own world. That was a rather upsetting thought. But, hell, he had taken the risk with his eyes open. Even if this was not the world he had expected to land in, it was still one in which his twentieth-century appliances should give him certain advantages. It would be time enough to worry when —
«Hai, turnip man,» said Heimdall suddenly from his corner. «Fill a couple of mugs and bring them hither, will you?»
Shea felt his temper rise at this dictatorial manner. But whatever or whoever Heimdall was, he looked fully capable of enforcing authority. And though the words were peremptory, the tone of voice was evidently meant for kindness. He obeyed.
«Sit down,» said Heimdall. «You have been called Harald. Is that correct?»
«Yes, I was told you are Heimdall.»
«Nothing less than the truth. I am also known as the Watcher, the Son of Nine Mothers, the Child of Fury, and the Golden. I prefer the titles.»
«Well, look here, Heimdall, what’s all this —»
«Children of men use the titles or call me sir,» said Heimdall severely and rather pompously.
«Sorry, sir.»
Heimdall Looked down his long nose and condescended a smile that showed the gold teeth. «To me this familiarity is not unpleasant, for I have also been called the Friend of Men. But the Lord of Asgard disapproves.»
«You mean Odinn?»
«None other.»
«The old guy — pardon me, I mean the elderly one-eyed gentleman?»
«You are a well of knowledge.»
«I ran into him out on the moor yesterday and followed him here.»
«That is not hidden. I saw you.»
«You did? Where were you?»
«Many miles eastaway. I also heard your remarks to him. Lucky you were not to have been struck dead.»
Shea almost said, «Aw, don’t try to kid me.» Just in time he remembered the piercing, icy glance Odinn had given him and held his tongue. It wouldn’t do to take chances till he knew more about what chances he was taking, what system of natural laws governed this world into which he had fallen. Heimdall was watching him with a slightly amused smile.
«I also heard you tell Thjalfi that you are no warlock, but you know not what it means. You must be from far. However» — he smiled again at Shea’s expression of consternation — «few are sorry for that. I’ll keep your secret A joke on the Master of Deception — ho, ho ho!»
He drank. «And now, child of an ignorant mother,» he went on, «it is yet to be seen that you have knowledge of strange things. I propose that we amuse ourselves with the game of questions. Each shalt ask of the other seven questions, and he who answers best shall be adjudged the winner. Ask, mortal!»
Seven questions. Shea considered a moment how he could make them yield him the most information. «Where has Odinn gone?» he asked finally.
«One,» said Heimdall. «He has gone to the gates of Hell to summon from her grave a woman centuries dead.»
«Did you say Hell, honest?» asked Shea.
«It is not to be doubted.»
«Well, well, you don’t say so.» Shea was covering his own incredulity and confusion. This man — god — individual was more difficult than any psychopathic he had ever questioned. He gathered his mental forces for the next try.
«What is Odinn doing that for?»
«Two,» replied Heimdall. «The Time is coming. Balder dies, and the Æsir need advice. The Wanderer believes that the spae-wife buried at the gates of Hell can tell us what we need to know.»
The vaguely ominous statements about the Time were beginning to get on Shea’s nerves, He asked, «What is meant by the statement, ‘the Time is coming’?»
«Three. Ragnarök, as all men know. All men but you alone, dewy-eyed innocent.»
«What’s Ragnarök?»
«Four. The end of the world, babe in a man’s body.»
Shea’s temper stirred. He didn’t like this elaborate ridicule, and he didn’t think it fair of Heimdall to count his last question, which had been merely a request to explain an unfamiliar word in the previous answer. But he had met irritatingly irrelevant replies at the Garaden Institute and managed to keep himself under control.
«When will all this happen?»
«Five. Not men, or gods, or Vanir, or even the dwarfs know, but it will be soon. Already the Fimbulwinter, the winter in summer that precedes Ragnarök, is upon us.»
«They will say there’s going to be a battle. Who will win?» Shea was proud of himself for that question. It covered both the participants and the result.
«Six. Gods and men were glad to have the answer to that, youngling, since we shall stand together against the giant folk. But for the present there is this to be said: our chances are far from good. There are four weapons of great power among us: Odinn’s spear, Gungnir; the Hammer of Thor that is called Mjollnir; Frey’s sword, the magic blade Hundingsbana; and my own good sword which bears the name of Head.» He slapped the hilt of the sword that hung by his side. «But some of the giants, we do not know how or who, have stolen both the great Hammer and Frey’s sword. Unless they are recovered it may be that gods and men will drink of death together.»
Shea realized with panic that the world whose destruction Heimdall was so calmly discussing was the one in which he, Harold Shea, was physically living. He was at the mercy of a system of events he could not escape.
«What can I do to keep from getting caught in the gears?» he demanded, and then, seeing Heimdall look puzzled, «I mean, if the world’s going to bust up, how can I keep out of the smash?»
Heimdall’s eyebrows went up. «Ragnarök is upon us, that not gods know how to avoid — and you, son of man, think of safety! The answer is nothing. And now this is your seventh question and is is my turn to ask of you.»
«But —»
«Child of Earth, you weary me.» He stared straight into Shea’s eyes, and once more there was that sensation of an icicle piercing his brain. But Heimdall’s voice was smooth. «From which of the nine worlds do you come, strangest of strangers, with garments like to none I have seen?»
Shea thought. The question was a little like, «Have you quit beating your wife?» He asked cautiously, «Which nine worlds?»
Heimdall laughed lightly. «Ho — I thought I was to be the questioner here. But there is the abode of the gods that is Asgard, and that is one world; and the homes of the giants, that are Jöunheim, Musspellheim, Niflheim, and Hell or five worlds in all. There is Alfheim where Live the dwarfs; and Svartalfheim and Vanaheim which we do not know well, though it is said the Vanir shall stand with us at the Time. Lastly there is Midgard, which is overrun with such worms as you.»