neetha Napew - The Paths Of The Perambulator

In shape it was more than recognizable; it was quite familiar. Certainly he had not expected to see anything like it. His throat was sore and his fingers numb from the effort he’d put into the song. Carefully, painfully, he slid the duar back around his shoulders so that the instrument rested against his back. Then he approached the product of his spellsinging. The lingering glow that attended to it was fading rapidly.

Sorbl flew out from behind the tree, circled the manifestation a couple of times, and then landed next to Jon-Tom. “What in the name of the seven aerial demons is it?”

Jon-Tom ignored him as he touched it. There was no burning sensation. Neither was it dangerously cold to the touch. The surface was smooth and shiny, like the skin of a L’borian riding snake. He walked completely around it, inspecting it from every possible angle as Clothahump joined them.

“As I feared, not what you wished for, my boy, but an interesting piece of work nonetheless. Though I recognize neither its origin nor composition, it is clear that it is a vehicle of some kind. For one thing it has wheels.” He tapped one. “They appear to be fashioned not of wood or metal but of some flexible alien substance.” He wrinkled his nose as best he was able. “It possesses a most disagreeable smell.”

“I know what it is, though,” Jon-Tom told him. “I didn’t think anything like it actually existed. I should say it’s considerably rarer than a L’borian riding snake. But it look like we’ll be riding to Lynchbany and beyond, after all. in style and I agree that it stinks, but at least we won’t have to walk.

“Where I come from there are books, magazines, other cheap publications, and they all have advertisements for this thing in them, but I never believed they actually existed, and I never heard of anyone actually obtaining one of them. The ads are for army surplus materials.”

“I do know what an army is,” said Clothahump thoughtfully, “but I have yet to encounter one that boasted a surplus of anything.”

“In my world,” Jon-Tom informed him, “armies exist for the sole purpose of acquiring the taxpayers’ money so they can spend it on things they don’t need and then turn around and sell the stuff to these surplus stores. The armies have less material and need more money than ever, and there are also more surplus stores each year than before. It’s a miraculous cycle that bears no relationship to anything else in nature.

“These publications I mentioned are always carrying ads for many things that are quite useful. In addition to what they actually have for sale, they also try to get your attention with items that I’m sure have never existed. The most famous of these is the army surplus jeep for twenty-five dollars.

“It’s impossible to sell a jeep for twenty-five dollars, but despite post office regulations, ads like that have been appearing for decades. But not one of those twenty-five-dollar jeeps ever existed. And now I know why. The only way to actually get one is by using magic. The wonderful aroma you’re inhaling, by the way, is the delightful fragrance of leaded gas. One of the more common smells on my world.”

“My profoundest sympathies,” said Clothahump, sniffing ostentatiously.

“I still can’t believe it,” Jon-Tom murmured as he stared at the uncovered, olive-drab, open-bodied stripped-down, but nonetheless serviceable twenty-five-dollar genuine army surplus jeep. His wonder was not misplaced, for true to his suspicions he was actually the first person in history to set eyes on one of those fantastic, mythical machines. There must be a special place for such things, he told himself. A special, near-impossible-to-locate corner of the cosmos where hundreds of twenty-five-dollar army surplus jeeps were arraigned side by side with such other imaginary beasts as vegetable choppers that worked with the lightest of pressures, bust-developing creams, two-dollar X-ray tubes that enabled adolescent boys to see through walls, and income tax forms that could be comprehended and filled out by human beings who had not yet obtained their Ph.D.’s in accounting.

He hefted his backpack and plopped it down in the backseat. “What are we waiting for? Let’s go.”

Gothahump eyed the alien manifestation warily. “Are you sure this thing is safe?”

“We’re not likely to run the risk of meeting another one in a blind intersection,” Jon-Tom told him, “so I imagine it’s safe enough.”

“I would have preferred a snake.” Grumbling, the wizard clambered in on the passenger side, tried to make himself comfortable. “Odd sort of seat, but I expect it will have to do.”

Sorbl lifted himself oflf the ground and settled down on the back of the rear bench seat, which made a convenient and stable perch. He would probably be more comfortable bouncing over the rough terrain ahead, Jon-Tom reflected, than either of his flightless companions.

“Let’s see.” The dash was less than basic. The keys dangled from the ignition. He turned them, stomped the gas a couple of times, and waited. The engine turned over smoothly. He raced it a couple of times, enjoying the look of surprise on Clothahump’s face, then depressed the clutch and put it in gear. They started off fast, got approximately halfway around the tree, and stopped. The engine died. He frowned, wrenched the key a couple of times. The battery jolted the engine, but it refused to catch.

There was nothing magical about the reason. His gaze dropped to the ancient gas gauge. The needle was over past the E, as motionless as a corpse.

He took a deep breath. “Well, we almost got to ride. I came as close as I could, but even a L’borian riding snake needs fuel.”

Clothahump considered the mysterious gauge and the motionless needle contained therein. “I see. What does this thing eat?”

“Gasoline, like I told you.” Jon-Tom wore a sour expression. “What we’re smelling is the bottom of the tank.”

“Where do you get this gasoline stuff?” Sorbl asked him.

“Oh, anywhere,” he replied bitterly. “Hey, I’ll just walk up to the nearest Shell station and fill up a can.”

“You are not thinking, my boy.” Clothahump was shaking a stern finger at him. “You are feeling sorry for yourself. Wizards are not permitted the luxury of feeling sorry for themselves. An occasional pout, yes, but nothing more. It is bad for appearances. Now think. This gasoline: what does it consist of?”

“It’s a refined fuel.” Jon-Tom wondered even as he explained why he was taking the time. “It’s reduced from oil. You know, oil. Petroleum. A thick black liquid that oozes out of the ground. So what? Even if we could find some oil, it wouldn’t do us any good. I don’t happen to have a refinery in my pocket.”

“Speak for your own pockets, my boy.” There was a twinkle in the wizard’s eye. Reaching into one of the lower drawers in his plastron, he produced a single marble-sized black pill.

“Where is the ingestion point, the mouth?”

Frowning, Jon-Tom climbed out and moved to the rear of the motionless vehicle. “Over here, on the side.”

“Deposit this within.” Clothahump handed him the black pill. Jon-Tom took it, rolled it between his fingers. It had the consistency of rubber and the luster of a black pearl.

Well, why not? It couldn’t damage what they didn’t have. Wondering why he was bothering but having learned to trust the wizard’s abilities, he dropped the pill in the gas tank. There was a faint thunk as it struck bottom.

Clothahump raised his right hand and muttered to the sky.

Then he spat over the side. Jon-Tom thought, but couldn’t be sure, that the wizard’s sputum was distinctly black.

“Now try it, my boy.”

Shrugging, Jon-Tom slipped back behind the wheel and dubiously cranked the ignition. The engine rumbled a couple of times, caught weakly. He pumped the gas pedal, and the rumble became a steady roar. When he lifted his heel off the pedal, the jeep was idling smoothly. The needle on the gas gauge had swung over to “full.”