David Grace - The Accidental Magician

Grantin carried a blanket in his arms. He closed the library door behind him and then carefully hung the cloth over the window. When he was certain it was secure he ignited a crude oil lantern and then removed the scribbler's great masterpiece. Settling himself into the softest chair, he opened the book and began again to read:

Amis Hartford stared for a moment at the spot where the Fanist had slipped between the crates. By some unknown method the native had disappeared. After a moment Hartford slowly shook his head and turned back to the captain. Clearly the colonists must be allocated guns. Captain Marvin disliked passing out arms to passengers, but these were strange circumstances. He hesitantly agreed to honor Hartford's demand.

The colonists went back to their duties. Those without specific tasks relaxed in the warm afternoon sun. Several of the criminals borrowed decks of cards from the crewmen. Only Gogol and his assistant, Windom, remained aloof. Standing at the edge of the clearing, Gogol seemed to fidget. He turned this way and that and scented the air like a predatory beast.

A few minutes later crewmen bearing boxes of weapons left the ship. One of the crates was opened and pistols were brought forth. They consisted of hundreds of long, slender rods bundled together side by side, polished and shiny on each end. The cylinder of glass rested upon a thick baseplate, underneath which extended a metal handle.

One by one the colonists marched up to receive their weapons. The sixth man in line was a laborer named Blotho who, having gotten into trouble on the docks of his native world, had joined the Lillith as an apprentice colonist.

Blotho was large, even for a human, and towered more than twice my height. His skin was the color of copper. Curly black hair sprouted from between the openings of his garments, the wire-like tendrils protruding at his throat, hands, ears, eyebrows, and toes. Blotho grasped the pistol firmly in one great fist, then walked toward the edge of the clearing where he waved the weapon back and forth like a scythe. Amis Hartford noticed his reckless behavior and shouted to Blotho to stop playing with the gun as if it were a toy.

At the sound of the order Blotho suddenly turned. Catching his foot in a root, he fell, landing in an ungainly sprawl. The pistol flew from his hand and smashed against one of the rocks which marred the face of the meadow. Showers of pulverized crystal erupted from the barrel and Blotho uttered a roaring oath:

"Damn the idiots who gave us guns of glass! Blast them and all their broken toys!"

The words had hardly left his throat when his body seemed to change. The colonist's skin began to harden. It glistened even as he struggled to his feet. Barely had Blotho arisen before his joints froze and his voice strangled into silence. His flesh became like polished mail. Light danced in shimmers through his arms. In a few minutes every inch of him, even his hair, teeth, and eyes, had become a glowing crystalline material. His ship-issued clothes were the only aspect which remained untainted, his few pieces of clothing rustled free in the breeze. Blotho's head was as hard as diamond, his fingers as unbreakable as steel. All of us sensed, in that instant, that what the native had said was true: Fane was a very special world and we did not know the words or the way.

When the sun set two moons appeared, one shortly after the other. The first cast a pale pink light across the meadow and Amis Hartford named it Dolos. About an hour later the second, promptly named Minos, rose into the sky and shed a pale yellow glow, filling the fields with twin, jagged shadows as if a Fane were bathed in the radiance of some strange crooked moon.

Grantin sat up and thrust back first his left shoulder, then his right. Arching his neck he lolled his head around in a counterclockwise motion. The book was too awkward to hold in his lap and he huddled over it, like a miser counting his gold. Awkwardly he twisted his torso in an attempt to quiet a host of complaining aches.

Grantin leaned forward again. One by one he lifted the lower right-hand corners of the remaining pages, counting as he went. Only a few more and he would finish volume one. He adjusted the chair until his stomach was only a foot and a half from the edge of the table, then slid the book toward him until it lay tilted, one edge resting on his belt buckle, with the spine against the table's edge. In this condition he pressed on, anxious to finish before Greyhorn's return.

All of us crowded around Blotho's statue. A few of the more adventurous persons walked close. Hesitantly they slid their palms along the surface of his cheek. There the flesh was cool, hard, and slick like finely polished marble. Dr. Milton, the geologist, closed his hand into a tiny fist and rapped lightly three times against Blotho's temple. The knocks produced a sonorous thump, thump, thump, as though Milton had been rapping on a solid piece of soft, light wood. Experimentally one of the crewmen brushed a questing palm across the top of Blotho's head. He yipped in surprise and yanked back a bleeding hand. So hard and sharp were the individual strands of hair that he might as well as have petted a cactus. Small drops of blood oozed from the tips of two of his fingers. At the sight of this injury the crowd retreated a pace or two, then halted in a frightened, nervous circle.

One of the crewmen ran to fetch the captain. In a few moments Captain Marvin shouldered his way through the spectators. He looked first at Blotho, then turned an inquiring gaze to Dr. Milton.

"What in the bloody blue blazes happened to him?"

"As best I can tell he's turned to stone, or, more accurately, a crystalline substance similar to diamond."

"He smashed one of the pistols," Able Starman Norberg volunteered.

"Just before it happened he cursed the glass," Mary Allen chimed in.

"It's witchcraft, just like the native said," another voice whispered from the edge of the crowd. "Sorcery."

"Nonsense!" Amis Hartford pushed his way to the captain's side. "Don't let your imagination run away with you. There's no such thing as spells and witchcraft."

Captain Marvin stared quizzically at Blotho, then strode forward and gave the head a backhanded rap on the point of the nose. Blotho remained as insensate as a tree while the captain pulled back his hand and thrust a skinned knuckle between his lips.

Marvin looked truculently around the clearing. He saw only golden afternoon sunlight slanting through the trees and dappling the heavy grasses with yellow specks.

"Everyone back in the ship," he called. 'Tomorrow I'll decide what to do."

Reluctantly, the colonists climbed the gangplank. Inside the Lillith they split into pairs and returned to their bare metal cubicles. In the meadow, crewmen armed with rifles mounted a watch where the grass met the trees.

The next morning the colonists arose early. Without consultation with the captain, Amis Hartford ordered them to finish unloading. So determined was Hartford to complete the job that even the criminals were pressed into service. The work was done quietly. Few words were spoken. After the incident with Blotho, each person took care with what he said. No shouts or arguments marred the early-morning silence. All worked diligently, even Gogol and Windom, although these two were often seen muttering softly to each other.

Shortly after breakfast Captain Marvin left the Lillith. Descending the gangplank, he was amazed to see such furious activity. He wandered through the camp and found Amis Hartford chairing a meeting with his subordinates.

"Hartford, I want to talk to you," Marvin said brusquely.

Hartford spoke to his associates, then turned to join the captain. The two men walked to the edge of the meadow to a point where they could converse more or less in private.