Roger Zelazny - Donnerjack

“But not so pretty,” she said playfully. This was a game they had played before. She knew from his smile that he would take her advice and go to the Donnerjack Institute—the understanding was unspoken between them but no less certain for all that.

“Not so pretty?” Ambry pretended to be affronted. “With those eyes of green and a smile to break hearts? Pretty is not word enough to describe you, Lady Lydia.”

She laughed and pulled him from their stony seat onto the wild flower-flecked meadow. He plucked an anemone and set it behind her ear and she wove a solemn purple grass stem into his beard. Beyond them, the North Wind blew stronger, making them safe.

To Jay’s great surprise, when they came to the train station, the Brass Babboon was waiting for them. Sleek, giving the impression of great speed even when motionless, it rested on the tracks, huffing lazy sparkler puffs from its stack. When it saw them, the grin permanently etched onto its babboon-faced front broadened. It chuckled, sparks lime and lilac flurrying forth to glitter and then vanish.

“So you’re the Engineer’s son,” it said by way of greeting. “I can’t say that I would have known you anywhere, but there’s enough of old J. D. in you that I don’t doubt you’re who they claim.”

Jay, who had counted on having some time in the station to prepare his speech, could hardly think what to say.

“There is? Who claims? Did you really call my father J. D.?”

“How do I answer all of that?” it asked, still good-natured. “Let’s see: Yes, you do bear your father some resemblance. There are those who knew old J. D., who have spoken of you since you began toddling about Virtu and some knew you for Donnerjack kin—though many did not know that you were his son. I did, though, since I was with him when J. D. battled Death for your freedom.”

“And you called him ‘J. D.’ ” Jay said, fascinated by this irreverent treatment of his father, a person who had been presented to him as hero,

asgenius, even as tragic figure, but never as someone so human that lie might be nicknamed.

“I did and he never quibbled, though perhaps even the Engineer might hesitate to quibble with one such as me.”

The Brass Babboon punctuated this last with a cascade of sky rockets ending in a blue and silver chrysanthemum burst.

“How did you know I would be coming here?” Jay asked.

“To where else would a boy and a monkey ride the most ancient of phants guided by memory, curiosity, and a dog created by the Lord of Entropy?”

“Mizar was created by Death?”

“He was, and better proof was never seen that Entropy and Creation are poor bedfellows. The Lord of Deep Fields did better with your mother, but then he had some help there.”

“He did? Who?”

“You’re full of questions, J. D., Junior. Would you prefer me to call you just ‘Junior’?”

“I’d prefer that you call me ‘Jay’ as my friends do.”

“Arrogance and humility in one. Tastes like sweet and sour soup, you know. Rests oddly on the tongue, but the hankering for just a bit more remains.”

Jay stared, letting the words roll off of his resisting mind. When he had imagined the Brass Babboon, he had imagined something dark and terrible, something fit to intimidate the Lord of the Lost. How could this peculiar and irreverent entity win him through to Deep Fields? Perhaps it had been created for just one use. Perhaps he should seek elsewhere for his passage.

The Brass Babboon must have divined something of his indecision.

“I’d guess you want to take passage on me and there’s one journey for which I became instant legend.” He paused, expectant.

“The journey in which you carried my father into Deep Fields,” Jay said.

“And out again alive,” the Brass Babboon added. “The fact that he returned is what most remember, though frankly, I think the Lord of Deep Fields was pleased enough to see us go.”

“Can you take me there?”

“Can Ior will I?”

“Both, I guess.” Jay straightened, recalled his purpose, the courage that had melted from him at the train’s first words. “I suspect that you can. Will you?”

“What’s in it for me?”

“A remission from your boredom.”

“Who said I’m bored?”

“I was just guessing. A creature of your power must have finished the tourist route long ago. Very well, if a remission from boredom is not enough, how about a chance to add to your legend?”

The Brass Babboon farted cherry bombs.

“I’m legend enough, but I could be convinced to carry you for the fun of it. Are the phant and the monkey coming?”

“And Mizar.”

“Hey! I always wanted to be a circus train. Climb aboard!”

Jay glanced back and noticed that a flatbed, suitable for Tranto, had appeared among the boxcars and coal cars. A broad ramp slid out and the phant lumbered up, Mizar at his heels. Once they were aboard, the door to the front cab opened of its own accord. On the seat rested a striped engineer’s cap. Jay picked it up, hit it against his knee so that the dust flew.

“That was your father’s,” the Brass Babboon said. “If you look around, there should be a red bandanna as well.”

Jay found the bandanna, tied it around his neck. The cap was a perfect fit. He grinned at Dubhe.

“All aboard!” the Brass Babboon howled. “All aboard for Deep Fields.”

Jay took his place, Dubhe beside him. The monkey stretched a skinny arm and pulled the whistle.

Jay shouted above the tumult. “Can we make a stop for strange attractors first?”

“Consider it done,” the train replied, wheels turning rhythmically, increasing in speed. “I’m glad you reminded me.”

Outside the cab, the landscape began to blur: arctic ice, jungle tangle, desert sand, plains flat and golden, mountains purple, green, white with snow. In each virt site, the genius loci muttered about the intrusion. None, needless to say, cared to do more than mutter.

On Main Street Virtu, the place from which many lesser sites— conference rooms, bowling alleys, boutiques, Roman baths, and skating rinks—could be accessed, Link Crain wandered, looking for a birthday present for her mother. The street was pleasantly crowded, designed for browsing anonymously without risking a sensation of claustrophobia.

Stopping where a sidewalk vender had spread out a blanket displaying a variety of African pots and carved wooden fetishes, Link examined the wares. Intellectually, she knew that these were just scanned images of pieces that were no doubt stacked and crated in a warehouse in Verite, but the illusion was convincing. She could feel the roughness of the glaze on the piece she held, see the whorl of the potter’s fingerprints partially preserved in the clay. The mixture of artistry and error would appeal to Lydia, who never ceased to note that medicine was an art, not a science.

As Link set the pot down and reached for another, she noticed a neat stack of tee-shirts off to one side. The plain white fabric was printed with a slogan in square black letters. Glancing at the vendor, Link removed a shirt from the stack and shook it out. The words read: “Ginger Rogers Did Everything That Fred Astaire Did, Only She Did It Backwards And In High Heels.” On the back of the shirt was a simple, Art Deco style drawing of a man and a woman waltzing.

“What’s this?” Link asked.

“It’s a tee-shirt,” the vendor said, helpfully. “That slogan is very popular right now.”

He gestured, and following his motion, Link noticed that several of the people sauntering along the sidewalk wore them as did many of the sidewalk vendors.