Solomon's Stone

Chapter II.

How did a dashing cavalier dash? He couldn't go everywhere at a dead run, especially in those boots. Though d'Artagnan had come pretty close to it, at least in the old Douglas Fairbanks movie.

Time enough to worry about that later. The room now held Nash's attention.

Nearby sat a solitary gent in plate armor, trying to drink beer out of a mug the size of a child's sand bucket. Something was wrong with the catch that should have held up the visor of his armet. The knight carefully pushed up the visor, where it stayed for the nonce. He picked up the mug in both hands—it had no handle—and almost got it to his lips when the visor fell down with a clang. The knight carefully set down the mug and repeated the process. After the fourth try he just sat there with slow tears coursing down his ruddy cheeks.

At the next table a man in a matador outfit was talking to a beautiful girl dressed like a movie producer's idea of an Egyptian princess. Beyond them was an earnestly conversing group: a samurai in several gorgeous kimonos, the outer one with yard-wide sleeves that stuck out like wings; and two others with long blond hair and bearskin bathing suits.

The astralites were certainly a colorful lot, thought Nash; the men—even the massive bartender—ruggedly handsome; the women, from the three or four in sight, inhumanly beautiful. Were they all astral bodies of real people like himself, or was the whole astral plane a product of the imagination of J. Prosper Nash? Well, maybe the so-called real world, was too—no, stop it; that's a goofy philosophy called sol—solastice—solipism! You ended up in a nice warm cell telling the keepers they didn't exist. Skip it; worrying over such questions would be like trying to rectify a trial balance by an investigation of the Foster-Catchings monetary theories.

The customers were, if anything, a little too orderly. They spoke in the consciously subdued tones of people who not only do not want to be overheard, but expect somebody to try to overhear them. The sharp unsmiling eyes of the monolithic bartender roved from table to table with a "Just start something!" look.

Nash turned his attention back to his new body. A broad leather strap encircled his torso, over the right shoulder and under the left. At its lower end, where it hung loose against his left hip, there was a leather collar, empty, but the right size for a scabbard.

There should be some mark of identification on him. He began to search for pockets. There were none in his breeches, and for a while it seemed that there were none in his jacket, either. At last he located two small ones inside the bottom edge in the rear—in what would have been the tails if the coat had had tails. One was empty; the other contained a slightly soiled handkerchief with the initial N. Did that mean that his astral body was also named Nash?

When he moved he was aware o£ a massive, heavy belt under his coat. His exploring fingers identified this as a money belt which held up his pants by friction alone, since the latter garment had no belt loops. Investigation of the compartments of the belt located a couple of wads of bills and a fistful of change, but no papers or calling cards, except one little green square of cardboard bearing the numeral 67.

It was a comfort to know you were well heeled, but it would be still nicer to know who you were. Nash twirled the empty wine glass in his fingers, pondering, until a voice said: "Another of the same, sir?"

The speaker was evidently a waiter, but a very gorgeous waiter for such a mediocre-looking place; a veritable Adolphe Menjou of a waiter.

"Yes," said Nash. As the waiter started to go with a swish of coat tails, Nash added: "Wait. Who do you think I am?" At least that was what he intended to say, but it came out as "Oo do you senk I om?"

Oh, Lord, he thought, now he had a French accent to wrestle with!

"I wouldn't know, sir," bowed the waiter."This is the first time you've been here."

As the waiter left, a new customer entered the taproom: a man in a uniform with a scarlet tunic and a stiff-brimmed hat. Nash recognized the uniform as that of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.

"Scotch and soda," the new man told the bartender.

The little buzz of conversation died, except for the tail-end of a sentence that was being spoken by one of the men in bearskins, with a jerk of his thumb toward the new arrival: "—diejenigen Feiglingen?"

Then the silence was complete. The Mounty turned his head slowly."What was that?"

The man in the Siegfried getup ostentatiously ignored the question, and spoke to his companions. The redcoat walked slowly over to the table where the three sat. Prosper Nash saw that his pistol holster was empty.

"Hey!" cried the bartender.

"What did you say?"

He of the bearskin glanced up, snapped: "V'steh' nicht," and turned back to his pals.

A twinkle drew Nash's eye; it was the sparkle of empty bottles being lined up on the bar by the barkeep.

Fssh!

Nash turned back toward the group at the table in time to see a steinful of beer envelop the Mounty's face. Then the fur-clad ones pushed their table over and climbed across it to get at their enemy. Other tables went over booming, too.

Nash's right hand made an instinctive grab for his left hip—more of his astral body's habits, he thought. There was no sword there, of course, and, anyway, it was not his business to get mixed up in barroom brawls, even if this one might have been deliberately staged to rouse his strongest prejudices—

And then he had a glimpse of the samurai drawing a dagger from one of his sleeves, which were big enough to contain a whole arsenal. Since everybody else was disarmed, this was going too far. If he, Nash, weren't nearly blind without his glasses, he'd—

Then he realized that his astral body wore no glasses, and saw perfectly well without them. Moreover this body had, without a direct order from its occupant, risen from the table and stridden halfway across to the nucleus of the developing fight. By the time he got it under control, it was squaring off in front of one of the furry gentlemen.

Because of his mundane body's myopia, Prosper Nash had not been in a fight since childhood, and he had no wish to get involved in one now. Neither did he want to back down in front of the bearskinned barbarian.

The latter soon made up his mind for him by launching a roundhouse swing. Nash was vaguely aware of a violent shock somewhere about his person, and then of slugging back.

A bottle bounced off the furry gentleman's head with a hollow sound, and the blond smiled a kind of sickly smile and sank down to the floor. Nash looked in the direction from which the bottle had come, just in time to duck another. The bartender was loosing them impartially at the heads of the brawlers, who now comprised all the men in the place.

The samurai was still hovering with his dagger. Nash took a step toward him and swung a mighty punch. But something warned the Japanese knight; he spun around and caught Nash's wrist with a smack. The next thing Nash knew he was poised in midair across the fellow's shoulders, and the floor came up and hit him with force enough to stun an elephant.

Nash lay for a second, wondering which bones were broken; then as the dagger flashed into his vision he scrambled up, delighted to find that this new body was apparently made of steel springs and rubber bands. Somebody grabbed him from behind. Nash snapped his head back against the man's nose; his captor howled, but tightened his grip. The samurai glided forward and drew back his arm for a clean, smooth stab.

In a last look around for help, Nash saw something that would have been funny if he had been able to appreciate it. The matador was sitting on the chest of the man in plate armor, and pouring the contents of a bottle into the face opening of his helmet.

"Aw right, you ring-tailed galoots!" cried a voice from the entrance."Reach!"

The sounds of battle died, and hands rose, including those of Nash's assailants. Nash, free, looked to the door, which was filled by a man in cowboy clothes including the largest hat and the widest chaparajos Nash had ever seen. The newcomer covered the room with a pair of revolvers. The face under the sombrero was unmistakably that of Hackman William Averoff.

"Bill!" cried Nash.

"Git your hands up, too, mister," replied the cowboy with no sign of recognition. The pile of men in the middle of the floor disentangled itself, and a much battered Canadian Mounted Policeman crawled out from under. The cowboy asked: "Did they hoit you, partner?"

"Not much," replied the Mounty, flexing his joints experimentally.

The bartender spoke up: "Get out, all of ye! This is neutral territory, and I don't want any customers who can't remember that."

Nash approached the cowboy."Aren't you Bill Averoff?"

"Yep; Arizona Bill Averoff."

"Well, don't you know me? I'm Prosper Nash."

The cowboy looked at him carefully."No, Frenchy, I don't."

Nash remembered that the body he inhabited was not his own, or at least was not his usual one."Don't you know a guy named Nash?"

"Never hoid of him."

"He's all right," broke in the Mounty."He was the first one to try to help me."

"Arizona, me lad," said the bartender, "chase 'em out, will ye? I gotta clean up the joint."

The customers shuffled toward the exit. Arizona Bill Averoff put his head through the open section of the check-room door, and called: "Hey, miss! Reckon you can come up for air."

The check-room girl made a nervous appearance and began handing the customers their effects. The Mounty got his revolver. The samurai got a two-handed sword, which he stuck through, his sash, and a hat shaped like an inverted salad bowl, with a ribbon which he tied under his chin.

The furry gentlemen got broadswords and helmets with wings sprouting from them. One of this pair had a swollen and bloody mouth. Seeing it, Nash became aware of a tingle in his right hand, and found that the knuckles were bruised and cut. He also discovered a tender spot on the side of his jaw. Evidently he and his opponent had landed one good one apiece, though he had no clear recollection of the event.

"You got a check, mister?" asked Averoff.

Nash remembered the little square of green cardboard in his money belt. It obtained for him a pair of fancy leather gloves, a rapier, and a wide-brimmed leather hat. The brim was pinned up on the left, Anzacwise, and an ostrich feather stuck aft from between the turned-up part of the brim and the crown.

Outside, the crowd dispersed slowly, some of them, especially the furry gentlemen, lowering back as they departed. Arizona Bill Averoff kept his pistols out until the last rioter had disappeared. Then he bolstered them, and he and the redcoat unhitched a pair of horses from a rail on the curb.

"Ain't you goin' home, Frenchy?" he asked in a marked manner.

"Well," said Nash, "you see, I don't know where my home is."

"Lost? Thought you looked kinda doubtful. What part of town are you tryin' to find?"

"I don't know that, either. Is this New York City?"

The cowboy whistled."Say, didn't you even know what town you were in? Reckon you are lost."

"Reckon I am," said Nash with a ghost of a smile."Is it?"

"Yeah."

"Have you been sick or something?" asked the Mounty.

"Call it lapse of memory," said Nash."I'd like to—" He stopped as a distant but sharp sound broke into his sentence; then another, and a rattle of them.

"Who's shooting?" he asked.

"Oh," said the Mounty, "I suppose the Arries sent a patrol down into loyal territory, and got caught."

"What," asked Nash, "are Arries?"

"Aryans. Wotanists. Like those two who jumped me tonight. I say, don't you know anything?"

The cowboy spoke in fatherly fashion: "Reckon you need a good night's sleep, mister. Then tomorrow, if you still don't know where you are, you mosey over to a public library and find out. Come along, Jim."

"But," cried Nash, "if this is New York, and you're Bill Averoff, you ought to know me—"

"Shore is too bad, partner, but I don't. So long." Nash's two companions swung into their saddles and clattered off into the dark

Nash stood uncertainly in the street, which was illuminated only by lights from a few of the windows. Aside from these yellow rectangles hanging suspended in blackness, there was little to be made out. As Nash's eyes got used to the darkness, they picked out by starlight a few more features, such as an irregular and broken line of roofs, and a tree in what appeared to be a front yard. Nash, who was an indefatigable explorer of his mundane self's adopted city, knew that the only place in Manhattan where front yards were to be found was the Chelsea district. It did not necessarily follow that the same restriction applied to the astral plane's New York.

Pop, went the gunfire far away, and pop-pop-pop. He guessed from what the Royal Canadian had said that there was some local war on. Prosper Nash listened, then strode firmly—away from the sounds of combat.

The popping detonations died away. Nash's high uncushioned heels rang loudly on the pavement; too loudly. He realized the lack of the whir of motor vehicles, which forms a continuous undertone day and night to the sounds of mundane New York. In some neighboring street, hoofs plop-plopped; then this minor sonic competition sank to inaudibility.

The lighted windows were fewer now. If he had more nerve, thought Nash, he'd knock on one of these doors and ask for a night's lodging. Why not? But as he passed each one he found some excuse for not doing so; this one looked like too small a place; the next had such a shabby appearance, from the little he could make out, that goodness knew what sort of people lived there—

And then there were no more houses, and Prosper Nash almost fell on his face as the pavement ended and the street turned into a dirt path. Wouldn't he feel foolish if he walked all night? If not foolish, at least footsore.

The path climbed a little; Nash's boots swished against the weeds that lined it. This was silly; hadn't he better go back? If he didn't like the houses, he could at least ask where a lodging could be had. But no; he arrived at the top of the little vacant hill, and beyond it he could see the dark silhouette of another built-up area.

A slight sound made him prick his ears; a sound that might have been made by a rolling pebble, but too faint to be sure, except that Nash was sure he had not made it. He gripped his scabbard in his left hand to keep it from slapping against his leg, and moved with fair silence except for the slight creak of his boots.

He'd be less frightened, he thought, if he only knew definitely. If somebody was following him, he'd run. That would be the only sensible—

More sounds, small but conclusive, made him turn his head. At the sight of a black shape rushing at him, his mundane mind sent his astral body a frantic command—run! But the astral body had already taken matters into its own hand, literally. Its right one swooped to his sword hilt and swept the blade out, while it spun on its heel with the ease of long practice. Then, heels together, legs straight, left arm up and right straight out, it received the charge on its point.

Nash tightened his grip against the fierce backward thrust of the hilt. The shadow stopped, impaled, and gave a very human grunt. It slowly sagged and toppled.

The body gasped and mumbled something; the next thing Nash knew he was running along the narrow path—anything to get away from there.

Slow down, you fool, he thought; what will the cops think if they catch you running away from the crime with a bloody sticker in your hand?

He stopped, and made himself turn and start back. As he approached the scene of the action he walked more and more slowly.

Go on, go on; you're not a coward.

"Oh, yes I am, and I'm going to keep on being one. I'd like to see you stop me."

Well, anyway, you've got to go back there and see if this man is dead, and then telephone the police. They would take away your assailant, and you, too. After a mild grilling and a lot of waiting around, you would be released, and the Times would carry a brief story headed "ACCOUNTANT SLAYS FOOTPAD."

That is, on the mundane plane. Maybe the astral plane had no Times, no telephones, no cops. He had not seen any.

Nash almost stumbled over the body, silent now. He knelt and reluctantly touched it. It was that of a man, all right, all right. His fingers identified a handkerchief tied around the head, earrings, and a fist with a knife in it. He groped for the pulse; it was throbbing faintly.

Then it stopped.

Gosh!

When Nash had digested the enormous idea of having killed a man, it occurred to him that he need not lug the body around. He'd just leave it, and if anybody asked—hi! In upending his sword to scabbard it, he felt a drop run across his hand. The blade was sticky-wet clear to the hilt. He'd better wipe it off on the garments of the corpse—

There was no corpse.

Nash felt frantically around, and poked with his rapier. The man's clothes were there, even the earrings. They lay flat, as if the body had simply evaporated out of them.