A Little Hospitality

shrieked, covered her head, and collapsed to the ground. Differel couldn't help bursting with laughter.

  Margaret sat up and looked out over the meadow. A huge raptor soared low over the ground. Even in the bright sunlight the wing tips glowed with St. Elmo's Fires as sparks danced between the pinions of its crest. Once it reached the river it gave a ponderous flap and rose into the air.

  "What the bleeding hell is that?!"

  "That's my faithful Wakiya, Eleanor d'Aquitaine." She held out her hand. "We share an empathic bond, so she always knows when I'll arrive. That's just her way of saying hello."

  Margaret took it and Differel hauled her to her feet. "A what?"

  "Another name is 'thunder bird'. She can pick up and store static electricity in her feathers, and discharge it at will as lightning."

  "You and your dodgy companions."

  "Hmph. You're one to talk."

  They started off again, but just before they reached the river they came to a road. Differel crossed over and went on down to the river to fill the canteen, but Margaret paused and squatted, running a hand over the rust-red surface. "Is this concrete?"

  She looked back as she pulled the brown glass jug out of the leather pouch. "No, it's called laterite. It's a form of subsoil rich in iron. When mixed with sand, small stones, and water, it forms a slurry that can be poured like concrete, but it dries in the sun, forming a hard, brick-like surface. It's brittle, so it cracks easily, but it can be repaired with minimum effort."

  She knelt by the bank to fill the jug, and Margaret kneeled beside her. "This is the River Skai, and it's one of the major waterways in this part of the Dreamlands."

  But she didn't seem to pay attention as she examined her cute round face in the water. "Oh, bugger. I wanted to see what I looked like."

  Differel understood what she meant. The water appeared so clear it seemed invisible.

  Margaret eyed the canteen. "You sure that's safe to drink?"

  She stood up as she stopped it. "Perfectly. Further down it picks up junk from the fields, but here it's practically pure." She placed the jug back in the pouch.

  Margaret took off a glove and filled her hand, then slurped it up. "Mmmm, fantastic! I've never tasted water that fresh and clean before!"

  "Part of it's because there's no pollution, but part is due to the nature of Lands themselves. Hungry?"

  "I could eat." She stood up and Differel handed her a piece of bread and a handful of jerky.

  She chuckled when Margaret made a face. "The bread looks like hardtack, but it lasts three times longer and tastes like pastry. But you can only get it in the Cavern of Flame." She watched as she nibbled at it, and laughed when he face lit up in surprised enjoyment.

  While Margaret ate, she loaded her pistols. She took a practice shot with each and reloaded them.

  "I thought you said this place was sword and sorcery." She spoke around a mouthful of food.

  "That's basically correct, but not strictly so. Nothing that was invented after 1500 in the Waking World can exist here. No one knows why, though most believe it's because it takes 500 years for something to become embedded in the collective unconscious. Regardless, there are exceptions, but there are also items and technologies that people think are modern but are actually much older. Firearms and gunpowder are two examples. These are called wheellock pistols. The mechanism was invented just before the sixteenth century. They look like flintlocks, but they use an internal spring-loaded wheel to create sparks. They're bloody complicated to maintain and clean, but I feel more comfortable with one of them in my hand than a sword. I have quite a collection by now; these two will put it at nearly 400."

  "You always were a packrat, Dribble."

  She felt her irritation flare. "At least I collect something other than men, Maggot."

  Coming in April.

  From "We Deliver"

  It is a curious biological event, but whenever someone enrolls at a university, metabolic changes occur within every cell, creating a nutritional need for pizza and beer. Fortunately, most students revert to a normal biochemistry upon graduation, but some never fully recover.

  Pizza is big business in Delasalle, Illinois. There are over two dozen parlors alone, and virtually every restaurant offers pizza in some form on its menu. Yet by far the most popular store is Checker's Pizza. It is a small shop, without a parlor; instead, it bases its entire business on delivery. While other establishments make deliveries as an optional service, at an extra charge, Checker's makes it a way of life, at no extra charge. The owner, Michele Horne, believes that what students want most is dependable delivery right to their door. So, she makes it standard policy to guarantee 25 minute delivery to any spot within the Delasalle or Tamarack city limits, or that order is free.

  I joined Checker's as a driver after losing my teaching assistantship because of poor performance. I studied biochemistry at Keekishwa University, and I had depended on the stipend to support myself. Summer was not Checker's best season. With no dormitory students on campus, and relying solely on the permanent residents of Delasalle and Tamarack for business, Michele could afford to hire only a total of five drivers and work only three a night. Business would usually be brisk until 10:00 P.M., but afterwards she always sent one driver home and the other two filled the empty time between deliveries as best as they could.

  I remember that particular Wednesday vividly. It had been Checker's busiest night so far that summer, but as usual, orders dropped off after ten. In fact, business became so slow that by eleven Michele sent the other driver home, leaving me to deliver any orders that might come in. None did, and by midnight Michele had exhausted all ideas to keep me busy. So, while she caught up on her paperwork, I simply waited for a telephone to ring.

  Typically for central Illinois in high summer, the evening was warm and humid, though not unbearably so. Yet the interior of the store felt intolerable. Michele had turned off three of the four ovens located at the rear of the shop, but the heat from the one still stifled. I stood in the open doorway, seeking relief through any small breeze. Outside, beyond the semicircle of light from the entrance, the night looked absolutely black. The parking lot lights had been turned off a few minutes earlier as the other stores prepared to close. Far across the street, I could see the tiny glow of lights above an apartment front; nothing filled the emptiness between. Even the street seemed deserted of both cars and pedestrians.

  I turned around and took a few steps inside, just enough to peer into the office. Michele sat at the desk, a fan blowing her loose blond hair about her oval face. Her long fingers effortlessly worked the desktop calculator as she totaled the day's receipts. Michele struck me a pretty woman, let's make no mistake about that, but she stood taller than I did, with virtually no figure. Besides, her husband could have been the inspiration for Bad Leroy Brown.

  She paused and looked up at me, her green eyes slightly magnified by her wire-rim glasses.

  "I was just wondering if you wanted me to start cleaning up."

  One corner of her thin mouth turned upward a little. "What time is it?"

  I looked over my shoulder and up at the clock over the door. It had black plastic cards with white numbers printed on them attached to a rolodex-style spool. I watched as the minutes spool flipped from eleven to twelve.

  She frowned when I told her. I had a good idea of what she thought. Ordinarily she preferred to stay open as late as possible, which on a summer weeknight meant three in the morning. Some of the other drivers complained that it was due to pure greed, but I suspected that, as popular as Checker's was, it was an expensive enterprise to run. She needed these extra hours simply to break even during the summer, despite the expense of keeping a driver that late. She probably compared her accumulating loss against possible profit if a late night rush developed.

  "Let's wait and see what happens till one. If we don't get any orders, I'll shut down the phones and you can get started."

  I nodded and turned to step back into the door
way--and almost collided with a figure standing right behind me. I didn't hear him come in, which was unusual. I was generally alert enough to know when a customer had entered the store, even while talking to someone else.

  "I'm sorry..." I began out of reflex, then I took a closer look.

  That night had been too warm to allow a pedestrian to comfortably wear anything other than a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. The person before me, however, had bundled himself up as if for winter. Aside from a pair of rather baggy trousers, he wore a heavy coat that covered him from neck to knees. A wide-brimmed hat sat low over his head, and a meter-long muffler wrapped around his face hid everything beneath the nose. I could see only two, deep-set, and very disturbing, bloodshot eyes. His posture looked stooped and bent, as if he was extremely old or crippled, and he stank of mold and loam.

  My first thought was that he might be a robber, trying to hide both his appearance and a weapon, but he simply stood in the doorway, staring at me, with both hands thrust into the coat pockets. I didn't like the look of him (at least, I assumed it was a "him"). Even so, he made no threatening move, so I couldn't just dismiss him without a reason.

  Overcoming what I thought was simply my natural paranoia, I asked if I could help him. His only response was to pull his left hand from the pocket and extend it towards me. That hand had tannin-brown skin, with black,