Nick and the Glimmung

  Nick’s father hesitated and then said. “What if I or my wife sec the Nick-thing? Suppose it pretends to be Nick?”

  “That’s what it will do,” the policeman said. “It’ll look like your son; it’ll claim to be your son.”

  “How can I tell the difference?” his father asked. “Suppose Nick goes outside tomorrow morning and then the Nick-thing comes in and says it’s Nick?”

  “The father-things are not exact or perfect imitations,” the policeman told him. “Especially when they speak—they don’t say real words; they just make sounds. Talk to it, if you think it isn’t Nick. That way, I assure you, you’ll be able to tell.” The policeman tipped his hat to Nick’s mother. “Goodnight. And welcome to Plowman’s Planet.”

  “What a welcome,” Nick’s father said, as the policeman left and walked across the yard to his parked hovercar.

  “I’m not afraid of it.” Nick said. And he knew that the spiddles would help, for all their peculiar language.

  Horace, who had been exploring the house, now appeared. He seated himself neatly, his great green eyes fixed on Nick.

  “To think,” Nick’s father said to the cat, “we came here because of you.” To Nick he said, “It wasn’t worth it.”

  “Don’t say that,” Nick said. Now that he was indoors, and the police had come and destroyed the thing-bush, he felt much better. True, the Nick-thing was roaming around outdoors in the darkness, waiting to replace him. But—the Nick-thing had seemed fragile to him, and weak. Perhaps it wasn’t as dangerous as the other father-things. Anyway, as the policeman said, it burned up at the touch of a match. It was, after all, just a plant.

  “I’ll say that it wasn’t worth it,” his father continued fiercely, “until we find the Nick-thing and destroy it.”

  Nick’s mother asked, “Nick, do you think you can strike up a relationship with the spiddles who live near here?”

  “Sure,” Nick said. “In fact I already have.”

  “That relieves my mind,” his father said. He looked much less worried, now.

  In the living room, a fire burned in the fireplace. The house had become warm and friendly, full of the smells of dinner and of crackling logs.

  “The spiddles told me what it was like here before Glimmung came,” Nick said. “‘This was once a happy place,’ they told me.”

  “I believe that,” his father said. “And it will be again, when the war against Glimmung has been won.” To Nick’s mother, he said, “We didn’t know this; we didn’t realize, before we came here, that we’d be part of a war that stretches out through the ages. Involving many kinds of creatures.”

  “The spiddles say,” Nick said, “that the war began before Glimmung came to this planet. ‘As old as time,’ the spiddles told me. Glimmung followed the printers here. It’s the printers he most wants to destroy. They’re ancient enemies.” We’ll have to find out where the remaining printers are, he said to himself. And meet them. “The printers,” he told his father, “need help. ‘They’re almost worn out,’ the spiddles say. So I guess we’ll have to hurry.”

  “Tomorrow,” his father promised.

  Horace had gone to the front door; he waited there, gazing up at the knob, as if trying to will the knob to turn.

  “He wants to go out,” Nick said, going to the door.

  Horace continued to gaze forcefully at the knob, still exerting his powerful will in its direction. His will, fortunately, was not enough. The door remained closed.

  “Too bad we can’t tell him that perhaps as soon as tomorrow he can go out,” Nick’s father said. Bending down, he petted the cat. At this, Horace gave out a low baritone miaow and his black tail twitched. “Anyhow, he was out for a little while.”

  “Long enough to chase a spiddle,” Nick said.

  “Think of the joy he’ll feel,” his father said, “when he runs and frisks. When he shouts to the sky the greatness of his bold spirit. That fine, free spirit will be released from what, for him, must be captivity. Poor old Horace.” Nick’s father continued to pet Horace. Horace continued to try to induce him, by many a dulcet sound and many an intense look, to open the door.

  “Tomorrow,” Nick told the cat.

  “A new universe awaits him,” Nick’s father said. “No wonder he’s impatient. It awaits us, too. Once we destroy that plant, that—” He broke off, his face somber.

  “The Grand Four are on our side,” Nick pointed out. “So we’re not alone.” Thank heaven for that, he thought to himself.

  “I wish we still had that book,” Nick’s mother said. “If only we could have at least read it.”

  “Maybe we can get it back,” Nick said. But, at the moment, he had no idea how.

  Chapter 10

  THE next morning, after a moderately sufferable sleep, Nick awoke, dressed, and, with his mother and father, had breakfast in the kitchen at the little table which had been there when they arrived. Horace worried away at a dish of synthetic shrimp-pellets, this, too, having been supplied by the government.

  A knock sounded on the front door.

  “I’ll get it,” Nick’s father said. He rose from the table, walked to the living room and peered out through the window. “People,” he said. “Possibly neighbors.” He unlocked and opened the front door.

  A man, short and round and almost bald, stood on the porch. With him a thin woman, her hair tied up in a black net, stood fussily waiting. “I’m Jack McKenna,” the man said to Nick’s father. “And this is my wife, Doris. We’re from down the road. We saw you move in last night, and we would have come and helped you…except that at night the trobes and the werjes roam this world, looking for stray colonists so unwise as to venture out after dark.”

  Mrs. McKenna said, “We saw a police hovercar come to your place last night. What happened?” Her eyes were big with curiosity.

  “A father-thing,” Nick’s dad said. “Growing by the house. Come in.” He ushered the McKennas into the living room. “We’re just finishing breakfast. Would you like a cup of coffee?”

  “Please join us.” Nick’s mother said. “I’m Helen Graham; this is my husband, Pete.” She nodded towards Nick. “And our boy. Nicholas.”

  “You have a cat,” Mrs. McKenna said, noticing Horace. “He won’t last long, here. A werj will fly off with him.”

  “The werjes already flew off with Horace,” Nick said. “But they gave him back.”

  “Strange,” Mr. McKenna said, his brow wrinkling. “Werjes very rarely do that, I wonder why.”

  Nick’s mother served coffee to the McKennas, who seemed glad to be offered it; they seated themselves in the living room, across from Nick’s father, and sipped from their plastic cups.

  “You realize, don’t you,” Mr. McKenna said presently, “that the native life forms here on Plowman’s Planet are locked in a death struggle which has been going on for centuries?”

  “Yes.” Nick’s father said, nodding. “We’re aware of it. The werjes told us.”

  “Most of the human colonists who have come here,” Mrs. McKenna said, “would like to go elsewhere, because of this war. Even back to Earth, as overcrowded as it is.”

  “We can’t go back,” Nick said. “Because of Horace.”

  “Is a cat a big enough reason to become castaways from your own world?” Mrs. McKenna asked, in a haughty voice.

  Nick’s father said quietly. “It’s a matter of principle. We feel there should be room enough for animals, no matter how crowded the planet gets.”

  “You’re going to farm, here?” Mr. McKenna asked. “You’re going to plough the land and plant a crop?”

  “Exactly,” Nick’s father said, nodding.

  “Any experience doing that?” Mrs. McKenna asked.

  “Not yet,” Nick’s father admitted. “But I’ve brought books along with me, about farming. I intend to read up on it.”

  “You won’t be able to make a go of it,” Mrs. McKenna said in a gloomy voice.

  “I think Pete will,” Nick’s mot
her said. “He’s always been a determined and original man. And a man who lives out his convictions to the fullest.”

  An evil, long face appeared at the living room window. Its eyes gleamed: tiny slits like aged celluloid. Nick realized it was wearing a pair of dark glasses.

  “Good lord!” Nick’s father said, leaping up. “What’s that?”

  “A trobe,” Mr. McKenna said calmly. “They know you’re here and they want to get a look at you. The werjes probably told them.”

  “Isn’t there anything we can do?” Nick’s mother asked nervously. “Is it dangerous?”

  “You can drive it off with this,” Mr. McKenna said; he handed Nick’s father a small metal device which had hung from his belt. “A trobe-beam. It emits a bright light, and trobes faint in the presence of extreme light, despite their dark glasses. Just show it the trobe-beam and it’ll probably go.”

  The trobe, however, had already disappeared. Perhaps it had seen the trobe-beam which Mr. McKenna carried.

  “A trobe,” Mr. McKenna said, “will pelt you with rocks; that is a trobe’s contribution to the war. They are not nearly as harmful as the werjes, and neither werjes nor trobes are as bad as the father-things. But of all of them, father-things, werjes, trobes— Glimmung is the most dangerous and the one to be avoided.”

  “I saw him,” Nick said.

  “Where?” both Mr. and Mrs. McKenna asked, instantly.

  “Inside a werj,” Nick said.

  “So that’s where Glimmung has gone, these days,” Mr. McKenna said, nodding. “I’m not surprised. That way he can direct the werjes so that they can carry off more nunks and spiddles, and possibly a few human colonists. Although humans are a little too heavy for one werj to handle. And we are all armed against werjes.”

  “In what way?” asked Nick’s father.

  Mr. McKenna said, “Werjes fear strong, strange smells. In particular, the smell of things not natural to this planet. All of us carry an onion around with us, or perhaps a dead frog or other minor creature from Earth. You would do well to do so, too.”

  “What about garlic?” Nick’s mother asked.

  “For some reason, werjes like the smell of garlic,” Mr. McKenna answered. “I suggest you try a rose, if you have one. Or a bit of lavender. Or—”

  “Wisteria,” Mrs. McKenna interrupted. “Werjes are terrified of the smell of wisteria. And of carnations. But carnations won’t grow here on Plowman’s Planet. Unfortunately.”

  Nick’s mother said haltingly, “I have a little bottle of perfume.”

  “That would undoubtedly do it,” Mrs. McKenna said.

  Once more the trobe came to the window, or perhaps it was another trobe entirely. Nick could not tell. The trobe peered in, its yellow, tiny face alive with a wild, warped hate. It rapped on the glass with a hairy, skinny knuckle. And spoke.

  “What’s it saying?” Nick’s father demanded.

  “The cat,” Mr. McKenna said. “Something about your cat.”

  The trobe pressed its rubbery lips to the window and repeated what it had said.

  “Good lord,” Nick’s father said, leaping up. “It’s saying they’ve got Horace.” He looked around quickly. “But Horace is in here!”

  “The front door,” Nick’s mother said faintly, “It’s open a crack. He must have got out.”

  “Sorry,” Mr. McKenna said, but he did not seem very concerned. “I guess I forgot to close it. Or maybe it doesn’t fit quite right. A lot of these government-built houses aren’t much good.”

  At the window, the trobe called, “…eat him…best dinner in months…” The trobe then disappeared from sight. It had gone.

  Nick said huskily, “They’re going to eat Horace.” He ran to the front door and out on to the porch.

  “Nick, come back!” his father called from behind him. “The Nick-thing—we have to look for it first!”

  But Nick had already seen two trobes making off with Horace; a trobe holding each end. The trobes were not large, but between them they managed to carry the cat, despite Horace’s vigorous kicking and twisting.

  “Let go of my cat!” Nick yelled. And he started after them.

  Chapter 11

  AS Nick ran after the trobes, something stirred in the orange shrubbery which grew on both sides of the road.

  “Hey, mister,” a voice called. It was a spiddle, standing erect among the bushes, trying to attract Nick’s attention.

  “They’ve got my cat,” Nick panted, halting. “They’re going to eat him.” He started blindly on.

  “Wait, wait,” the spiddle said, gesturing. Another spiddle appeared and then two more. A whole group of spiddles now poked their noses up on both sides of the road, all of them trying to talk at once. “Hold it,” the first spiddle said loudly, waving for silence. “Come on, fellas,” the spiddle said, with irritation. “Okay, all ready.”

  “I can’t listen,” Nick said.

  “Mister, it’s a trap,” the first spiddle said. “They’re not going to eat that nut-head animal of yours; they’re just trying to lure you out of the house.”

  “Why?” Nick said. But he waited to hear. Far down the road the two trobes, wearing their dark glasses, lugging Horace, trotted; he watched them grow smaller.

  “We understand there’s a Nick-thing in action,” the first spiddle said. “We’ve been looking for it all night, but no luck. It’s you that’s going to get eaten, if you’re not more careful. This is danger city, out here, as long as that thing is wandering around.”

  Nick broke free from his indecision. He ran on down the road, in the direction which the trobes had taken.

  The road led into a vast mass of trees, a lightless place of deep shadow and vines.

  “Stay out of there!” the spiddles called after him. Some of them appeared on the road, as if to follow him.

  Nick entered the dark grove.

  To the right, just off the road, he saw something which he had not expected to see. Shocked, he stood still, staring. The ancient car, Reg Frankis’ water tank. The car had turned over. The water tank, split in half, still leaked out steady streams of liquid, a pool had formed around the car and the broken tank.

  Not far off, amid the twisted bushes, lay the water man, face-down. A shaft of silvery metal projected upwards from the centre of his back. The water man, Reg Frankis, was dead.

  A spiddle, coming up beside Nick, said, “Glimmung’s spear.”

  “In the middle of his back,” Nick said thickly.

  “Thus does Glimmung operate,” the spiddle said.

  The car had been torn open. Parts of it were strewn everywhere, as if a giant had rooted in it, seeking something.

  “Looking for the book,” the spiddle said. “The world-book, the book which changes every time it’s read. The book which is never the same. The only copy, which you gave to the water man.”

  “It’s my fault,” Nick said. “If I hadn’t traded it to him—”

  “Then Glimmung would have done you in,” the spiddle said. “He would do anything to get his book back. Cowardly assault city. Just as we would do anything to get it for ourselves.” The spiddle was silent a moment, thinking. “This is a stunted spot, here in this grove; everything here is misshapen. Forget your animal, mister. Go back to your house. The trobes have lured you here to destroy you. This place is destruction city.”

  Nick said, “I’m staying here.” He had an idea which he did not wish to share with the spiddle. “Go back to my house,” he said, “and tell my father what’s happened. I’ll meet him here.”

  “Stay on the road, then,” the spiddle said. It started back in the direction which the two of them had come. “Don’t let them coax you off the road, as they did the water man.” The spiddle waited a moment, then hurried off once more. In a moment it was gone.

  Nick thought, The book may still be here.

  Where, he asked himself, would the water man hide it? In a car, a driver would put something the size of a book, something small, into the glove c
ompartment. Yes, he remembered the water man doing that. And werjes—and perhaps also Glimmung— would not know that. They would not know, in fact, what a glove compartment was, or where it could be found.

  Opening the bent, broken door of the car, Nick slid carefully inside. His groping fingers touched the button of the glove compartment and he pressed. The door of the glove compartment did not open. He pressed the button again. Still it did not open.

  It’s jammed, Nick said to himself. I’ll have to pry it open.

  Getting back out of the car he searched about, among the strewn, wreckage, until he found a sharp triangle of metal. This will do it, he decided; once more he crawled gingerly into the car, and this time he wedged the piece of metal into the slot around the door of the glove compartment.

  The little door fell open. Nick peered in.

  Lying within, the book. Glimmung’s book.

  Nick lifted it out and crawled back out of the car; he stood in the half-darkness of the trees, reading its cover. One Summer Day, the book he had traded with the water man; the book which the werj, by mistake, had given him.

  Should I tell anyone? he asked himself. I guess not, he decided. They would think it was too dangerous.

  Nick unbuttoned his shirt and put the small, dry book inside it, then buttoned his shirt back up. No one will know, he said to himself.

  From a nearby tree, something flapped. A shape ascended into the morning sky—Nick turned in fear to watch it go. A werj. It had been resting among the branches.

  Did it see me? Nick asked himself. Did it see the book? He did not know. Time would tell.

  The werj flew soundlessly away, in the direction of a distant line of worn, tattered mountains. Nick watched until the werj disappeared from sight. He thought, Maybe it’s gone to tell Glimmung.

  “Nick!” His father and Mr. McKenna came hurrying along the road from the house; ahead of them a spiddle leaped and raced, like a many-tailed squirrel. Behind his father other spiddles hurried, too.

  “I’m fine,” Nick said, as his father and Mr. McKenna entered the gloomy grove of trees.