Лайон Спрэг Де Камп Array: The Incomplete Enchanter

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It is doubtful whether Shea’s colleagues noticed any change in his somewhat irregular methods of working. They would hardly have suspected him of dropping Havelock Ellis for the Ulster and Fenian legendary cycles with which he was conditioning his mind for the attempted «trip.» If any of them, entering his room suddenly, had come on a list with many erasures, which included a flashlight, a gun, and mercurochrome, they would merely have supposed that Shea intended to make a rather queer sort of camping expedition.

And Shea was too secretive about his intentions to let anyone see the equipment he selected: A Colt.38 revolver with plenty of ammunition, a stainless-steel hunting knife — they ought to be able to appreciate metal like that, he told himself — a flashlight, a box of matches to give him a reputation as a wonder worker, a notebook, a Gaelic dictionary, and, finally, the Boy Scout Handbook , edition of 1926, as the easiest source of ready reference for one who expected to live in the open air and in primitive society.

Shea went home after a weary day of asking questions of neurotics, and had a good dinner. He put on the almost-new riding clothes and strapped over his polo coat a shoulder pack to hold his kit. He put on the hat with the green feather, and sat down at his desk. There, on sheets of paper spread before him, were the logical equations, with their little horse-shoes, upside-down T’s, and identity signs.

His scalp prickled a trifle as he gazed at them. But what the hell! Stand by for adventure and romance! He bent over, giving his whole attention to the formulas, trying not to focus on one spot, but to apprehend the whole:

«If P equals not-Q, Q implies not-F, which is equivalent to saying either P or Q or neither, but not both. But if not-P is not implied by not-Q, the counter-implicative form of the proposition —»

There was nothing but six sheets of paper. Just that, lying in two neat rows of three sheets, with perhaps half an inch between them. There should he strips of table showing between them. But there was nothing — nothing.

«The full argument thus consists in an epicheirematic syllogism in Barbara, the major premise of which is not the conclusion of an enthymeme, though the minor premise of which may or may not be the conclusion of a non-Aristotelian sorites —»

The papers were still there, but overlaying the picture of those six white rectangles was a whirl of faint spots of colour. All the colours of the spectrum were represented, he noted with the back of his mind, but there was a strong tendency toward violet. Round and round they went — round — and round — «If either F or Q is true or (Q or R) is true then either Q is true or (P or R) is false —»

Round and round — He could hear nothing at all. He had no sense of heat or cold, or of the pressure of the chair seat against him. There was nothing but millions of whirling spots of colour.

Yes, he could feel temperature now. He was cold. There was sound, too, a distant whistling sound, like that of a wind in a chimney. The spots were fading into a general greyness. There was a sense of pressure, also, on the soles of his feet. He straightened his legs — yes, standing on something. But everything around him was grey — and bitter cold, with a wind whipping the skirts of his coat around him.

He looked down. His feet were there all right — «hello, feet, pleased to meet you.» But they were fixed in greyish-yellow mud which had squilched up in little ridges around them. The mud belonged to a track, only two feet wide, On both sides of it the grey-green of dying grass began. On the grass large flakes of snow were scattered, dandruffwise. More were coming, visible as dots of darker grey against the background of whirling mist, swooping down long parallel inclines, growing and striking the path with the tiniest ts . Now and then one spattered against Shea’s face.

He had done it. The formula worked!

«Welcome to Ireland!» Harold Shea murmured to himself. He thanked heaven that his syllogismobile had brought his clothes and equipment along with his person. It would never have done to have been dumped naked onto this freezing landscape. The snow was not atone responsible for the greyness. There was also a cold, clinging mist that cut off vision at a hundred yards or so. Ahead of him the track edged leftward around a little mammary of a hill, on whose flank a tree rocked under the melancholy wind. The tree’s arms all reached one direction, as though the wind were habitual; its branches bore a few leaves as grey and discouraged as the landscape itself. The tree was the only object visible in that wilderness of mud, grass and fog. Shea stepped towards it. The serrated leaves bore the indentations of the Northern scrub oak.

But that grows only in the Arctic Circle, he thought. He was bending closer for another look when he heard the clop-squosh of a horses hoofs on the muddy track behind him.

He turned. The horse was very small, hardly more than a pony, and shaggy, with a luxuriant tail blowing round its withers. On its back sat a man who might have been tall had he been upright, for his feet nearly touched the ground. But he was hunched before the icy wind driving in behind. From saddle to eyes he was enveloped in a faded blue cloak. A formless slouch hat was pulled tight over his face, yet not So tight as to conceal the fact that he was full-bearded and grey.

Shea took half a dozen quick steps to the roadside. He addressed the man with the phrase he had composed in advance for his first human contact in the world of Irish myth:

«The top of the morning to you, my good man, and would it be far to the nearest hostel?»

He had meant to say more, but paused uncertainly as the man on the horse lifted his head to reveal a proud, unsmiling face in which the left eye socket was unpleasantly vacant. Shea smiled weakly, then gathered his courage and plunged on: «it’s a rare bitter December you do be having in Ireland.»

The stranger looked at him with much of the same clinical detachment he himself would have given to an interesting case of schizophrenia, and spoke in slow, deep tones: «I have no knowledge of hostels, nor of Ireland; but the month is not December. We are in May, and this is the Fimbulwinter.»

A little prickle of horror filled Harold Shea, though the last word was meaningless to him. Faint and far, his ear caught a sound that might be the howling of a dog — or a wolf. As he sought for words there was a flutter of movement. Two big black birds, like oversize crows, slid down the wind past him and came to rest on the the grass, looked at him for a second or two with bright, intelligent eyes, then took the air again.

«Well, where am I?»

«At the wings of the world, by Midgards border.»

«Where in hell is that?»

The deep voice took on an edge of annoyance. «For all things there is a time, a place, and a person. There is none of the three for ill-judged questions, and empty jokes.» He showed Shea a blue-dad shoulder, clucked to his pony and began to move wearily ahead.

«Hey!» cried Shea. He was feeling good and sore. The wind made his fingers and jaw muscles ache. He was lost in this arctic wasteland, and this old goat was about to trot off and leave him stranded. He leaned forward, planting himself squarely in front of the pony. «What kind of a runaround is this, anyway? When I ask someone a civil question —»

The pony had halted, its muzzle almost touching Shea’s coat. The man on the animal’s back straightened suddenly so that Shea could see he was very tall indeed, a perfect giant. But before he had time to note anything more he felt himself caught and held with an almost physical force by that single eye. A stab of intense, burning cold seemed to run through him, inside his head, as though his brain had been pierced by an icicle. He felt rather than heard a voice which demanded, «Are you trying to stop me , niggeling?»