Fantastic Stories Presents: Fantasy Super Pack #1. Fritz Leiber
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Charles had never opened a wine bottle before—the servants did that—but now was the time to learn. The cork broke into pieces when he forced the corkscrew in, and he had to fish the crumbs out of his glass with a fork. The Cyclops pretended not to see his awkwardness, though. Charles decided that Homer had really had the wrong end of the stick—Cyclops were instinctively hospitable. He sniffed the rich garlicky steam rising from his plate and picked up his spoon. “So what kind of job were you Cyclops contemplating?” he asked.
The Cyclops pulled a clam from its shell and chewed it thoughtfully. “I was sort of toying with the idea of starting a Cyclops rap group.” He fixed Charles with a one-eyed gaze.
Charles kept his face absolutely serious. “Do you sing?”
“Rap doesn’t involve singing. I figured if we wore baseball caps turned to one side folks might not even notice our eyes.” The Cyclops put an imaginary cap on, pulling the bill down and to one side of his face.
“Every rap group that I’ve seen has been African-American,” Charles said tactfully. “Perhaps skin color’s not a difficulty, for figures of legend.”
“Well, yeah, it is. No such thing as a black Cyclops. We’re all pasty white—must come of living in caves.” The Cyclops mopped his bowl out with a piece of bread. “You about ready for that pigeon pie?”
“Looking forward to it. Oh, and a red wine to go with, delightful!” This time Charles opened the bottle deftly, and poured the new wine out with justifiable pride. The Cyclops congratulated him and set a large dish down. The glazed and shining piecrust had a unicorn design pressed into the pastry. Charles applauded. “By gum, it’s a masterpiece. Could be on a gourmet magazine’s cover.”
“Well, I’ve always admired the pictures in Food & Wine,” the Cyclops admitted. It served Charles a portion and watched him anxiously as he took a bite.
“Delicious!” Charles pronounced. “There’s something in the sauce, is it basil?”
“And marjoram,” the Cyclops said. “But I bet you eat as good every day, at home.”
“You’d lose your bet,” Charles sighed. “England is famous for its horrible food.”
The Cyclops blinked its eye in surprise. “No kidding? That’s terrible! But you’re the prince, the heir to the throne. Can’t you just wave your sceptre and say, ‘I want roast duck for dinner’?”
Halfway down the fourth bottle of wine, Charles let it all hang out. “It’d be lukewarm by the time the food hit the plate—the kitchen is so far from the dining room in a palace. Not like your charming cave here.”
“It is convenient,” the Cyclops said modestly.
“And I don’t have a sceptre. May never have one. My mother will be Queen of England until she dies. By then I’ll be an old man.”
“That’s terrible. And what’re you going to do, between now and then?”
“The usual routine. Cut ribbons at supermarket openings. Give speeches to Mayoral Assemblies. Listen to preschool choirs sing ‘The Little Drummer Boy.’ Press the flesh at old age homes. You should’ve rescued a shipwrecked MP if you want help,” Charles concluded sadly. “Or Steven Spielberg. The Prince of Wales is just a figurehead. Powerless.”
“Oh, don’t say that,” the Cyclops said, tears brimming in its eye. “Your people like you.”
“They like my ex-wife more.” Charles knew he was getting maudlin, a privilege he could very rarely allow himself. But his host was in no better shape, snuffling dolefully into its napkin. And a Cyclops was perhaps the safest confidante on earth. “To tell the truth, I envy your situation,” Charles continued. “We’re both of us anachronisms. Freaks looking for a role. But once you find your niche, I just know you Cyclops will make your mark in the world. I may never do so.”
“Oh, you will,” the Cyclops sobbed. “I’ll help you, if you need it.”
“Would you? Really?”
“Of course!” The Cyclops extended a three-fingered hand the size of a typewriter and, seizing Charles’s hand, pumped it up and down. “Anything! I promise!”
Charles was almost jerked out of his seat by the vigor of the handshake. “You’re too kind,” he said. “And I am indeed going to lend a hand in your problem too. The least I can do, for my rescuer. Suppose—“ Looking around for inspiration, Charles’s gaze fell on the immense pigeon pie. “Suppose you moved to England, and gave my chef some hints? Can all you Cyclops cook so wonderfully?”
“Well, sure, but—you mean, cooking? As a job?” The Cyclop’s shark-like mouth dropped in amazement. “Hey, we only play around amongst ourselves—we couldn’t cook like pros!”
“You already do, believe me!” Recklessly Charles drained his glass and poured more for both of them. “I’ve got it now. I’ll go on ahead, and sack the kitchen staff at Balmoral. That’s the Scottish castle where my family holidays. Then you Cyclops follow along to take up the jobs. Scotland’s a lot like Greece, mountainous and full of sheep, you’d fit right in. If all goes well, a few of you could branch out a bit in a couple years—start a restaurant, open a B & B, write a cookbook—I could write you a foreword. Maybe get on the telly with a cooking show . . .” The entire scheme seemed to leap, fully grown, from Charles’s head.
The Cyclops goggled at him, if a single eye may be said to goggle. “Are you sure? You don’t think that being fifteen feet tall and one-eyed will spoil people’s appetite?”
“No one will see you in the kitchen,” Charles pointed out. “On your TV show you could stand in a trench on the set, to hide your height—actors do that. You could even bring Phylax the sheepdog. Englishmen love people who love dogs.”
The Cyclops jumped up, overturning his chair, and enveloped Charles in a bear hug. “That’s fantastic. You’re brilliant. We’ll be in your debt forever. And don’t think I’ve forgotten your problem. We’ll reform British cooking if it kills us. And you’re gonna get the credit. You’ll go down in history as the prince who gave England a cuisine.”
Tears rose in Charles’s eyes too. “You do that,” he said, “and Connie Bedlington won’t be the only mythological figure on the Honors List.”
An hour later Charles stood on the rocky shore again while the Cyclops brought around its motorized fishing boat. The storm had almost blown away, with only ravellings of cloud scudding across the moon’s face. His hands were clasped behind his back in his customary stance. He was still a couple sheets to the wind, but Charles’s head was clear. There was no reason why the relationship shouldn’t be mutually profitable. Palace employees had an excellent dental plan, so the Cyclops could get its shark-teeth capped before kicking off its TV career. And Charles could dine, at last, like a prince, for the rest of his life.
It occurred to him that he had even done Odysseus King of Ithaca one in the eye. Charles of England had escaped from a Cyclops too, and without any ungentlemanly poking about with sharpened stakes either. Just sympathetic conversation, solid British diplomacy, and four bottles of good Greek wine. “To each hero his own weapons,” Charles said aloud with satisfaction.
Red Nails
The Skull on the Crag
The woman on the horse reined in her weary steed. It stood with its legs wide-braced, its head drooping, as if it found even the weight of the gold-tasseled, red-leather bridle too heavy. The woman drew a booted foot out of the silver stirrup and swung down from the gilt-worked saddle. She made the reins fast to the fork of a sapling, and turned about, hands on her hips, to survey her surroundings.
They were not inviting. Giant trees hemmed in the small