clothes, somewhere under the spotlight.
“No, indeed. By, ah…no means.” The old man’s voice was now richer, deeper, more
of a baritone. It was clear that the cracked and reedy tenor was reserved for
abnormal rather than normal speech.
“Get to the bits about her tits!” bawled another voice. There was a rustle of
subdued laughter.
“The, ah…tits. Yes.” The man in the black clothes pondered this, a hand to his
brow. Close-up, he could be seen to be sweating, the rivulets of perspiration
cutting shallow channels through a good deal of grime. “Yes. It is… somewhere…
somewhere here. Up in the, ah… cerebrum…” he laughed, somewhat apologetically.
“One forgets, my dear sirs. One forgets so easily.”
“Get on!”
“Yes. Yes, by all means. Was it not… the girl? The girl warning him? Warning the
traveler? Ahh…” He held one hand in the air, forefinger upstretched, pointing
toward the ceiling. On his face was a singular expression, the eyes now bulging,
a terrible frown concentrated on his brow. He intoned,
Beware the pine tree’s withered, ah… branch!
Beware the, ah… awful avalanche!
Beware…
He paused, squeezed his eyes suddenly shut. His hand dropped to his brow, the
fingers digging into the flesh as though trying to claw their way into his
brain. He was shaking, shuddering as though in the grip of an ague. His left
hand now shot up from his side to his head, the fingers clamping themselves
around the hand already there. A sound like a steam whistle came from his mouth.
Near the spotlight muzzle-flashes flared twice. The roar of a handgun crashed
through the room, reverberated around it, the sound of the two shots running
together. The rounds smacked into the floor inches from the man, whined off into
the darkness beyond the light’s penumbra. There was a wild yell from the side.
“Nukesucker! Watch what ya doin’!”
At the sound of the shots the man in the ragged black clothes came alive again
and skipped backward. It was as if he had been expecting something of the sort,
as if the experience was by no means a new one.
“I have it! I have it!” he cried. “The maiden is warning him, warning him of the
fearful disasters that may befall a lone traveler amid those eternal Alpinic
snows!” Again the hand shot up, forefinger quivering.
“O stay,” the maiden said, “and rest
Thy weary head upon… my breast!”
There was a howl of laughter and a roar of obscenities from the hidden watchers
around the huge room.
Which suddenly died to silence as another man strode into the spotlight.
Tall and gaunt, he, too, was dressed in black, though his clothes were not
shabby but clean and pressed, his black riding boots sending off a sparkle of
highlights from their polished surfaces. His head had a fringe of dark hair at
the back but was otherwise bald except for a line of mustache on his upper lip.
His skin was yellowish, the flesh drawn over the bones of his face like thin
parchment. His eyes were narrowed slits; his lips were drawn back into a grin
that held no humor whatsoever.
Reaching the center of the room he halted. The man in the ragged clothes watched
him warily, licking his lips.
“Pathetic!” spat out the man with the skull-like face. “You’ve got it wrong
again, you old fool.”
The other shook his head, a look of abject terror now sliding across his grimy
features.
“No, sir. No, Mr. Strasser, I… I don’t believe so.” His voice was pitching
higher even as he spoke. “I… I may misremember the odd word, sir. Here and
there. Now and then. But I don’t believe I—”
Strasser lashed out suddenly with his right foot, the toe of his boot cracking
into the other’s right knee. The man screamed, staggered, collapsed on the floor
and clutched his knee in agony.
Strasser bent over him, hissed at him, “We shall have to put you in with the
sows again, Doc.”
The man on the floor cringed away from his tormentor, his voice a whimper of
mingled horror and revulsion. “Please. Not that, Mr. Strasser. Please just tell
me, tell me where I went wrong.”