individual was more difficult than any psychopathic he had ever questioned. He gathered his mental forces for the next try.
«What is Odinn doing that for?»
«Two,» replied Heimdall. «The
The vaguely ominous statements about the
«Three. Ragnarok, as all men know. All men but you alone, dewy-eyed innocent.»
«What’s Ragnarok?»
«Four. The end of the world, babe in a man’s body.»
Shea’s temper stirred. He didn’t like this elaborate ridicule, and he didn’t think it fair of Heimdall to count his last question, which had been merely a request to explain an unfamiliar word in the previous answer. But he had met irritatingly irrelevant replies at the Garaden Institute and managed to keep himself under control.
«When will all this happen?»
«Five. Not men, or gods, or Vanir, or even the dwarfs know, but it will be soon. Already the Fimbulwinter, the winter in summer that precedes Ragnarok, is upon us.»
«They will say there’s going to be a battle. Who will win?» Shea was proud of himself for that question. It covered both the participants and the result.
«Six. Gods and men were glad to have the answer to that, youngling, since we shall stand together against the giant folk. But for the present there is this to be said: our chances are far from good. There are four weapons of great power among us: Odinn’s spear, Gungnir; the Hammer of Thor that is called Mjollnir; Frey’s sword, the magic blade Hundingsbana; and my own good sword which bears the name of Head.» He slapped the hilt of the sword that hung by his side. «But some of the giants, we do not know how or who, have stolen both the great Hammer and Frey’s sword. Unless they are recovered it may be that gods and men will drink of death together.»
Shea realized with panic that the world whose destruction Heimdall was so calmly discussing was the one in which he, Harold Shea, was physically living. He was at the mercy of a system of events he could not escape.
«What can I do to keep from getting caught in the gears?» he demanded, and then, seeing Heimdall look puzzled, «I mean, if the world’s going to bust up, how can I keep out of the smash?»
Heimdall’s eyebrows went up. «Ragnarok is upon us, that not gods know how to avoid — and you, son of man, think of safety! The answer is nothing. And now this is your seventh question and is is my turn to ask of you.»
«But —»
«Child of Earth, you weary me.» He stared straight into Shea’s eyes, and once more there was that sensation of an icicle piercing his brain. But Heimdall’s voice was smooth. «From which of the nine worlds do you come, strangest of strangers, with garments like to none I have seen?»
Shea thought. The question was a little like, «Have you quit beating your wife?» He asked cautiously, «Which nine worlds?»
Heimdall laughed lightly. «Ho — I thought I was to be the questioner here. But there is the abode of the gods that is Asgard, and that is one world; and the homes of the giants, that are Jounheim, Musspellheim, Niflheim, and Hell or five worlds in all. There is Alfheim where Live the dwarfs; and Svartalfheim and Vanaheim which we do not know well, though it is said the Vanir shall stand with us at the Time. Lastly there is Midgard, which is overrun with such worms as you.»
Shea yawned. The mead and warmth were beginning to pull upon him. «To tell the truth, I don’t come from any of them, but from outside your system of worlds entirely.»
«A strange answer is that, yet not so strange, but it could be true,» said Heimdall, thoughtfully. «For I can see the nine worlds from where I sit and nowhere such a person as yourself. Say nothing of this to the other ?sir, and above all to the Wanderer. He would take it ill to hear there was a world in which he held no power. Now I will ask my second question. What men or gods rule this world of yours?»
Shea found himself yawning again. He was too tired for explanations and flipped off his answer. «Well, some say one class and some say another, but the real rulers are called traffic cops. They pinch you —»
«Are they then some form of crab-fish?»
«No. They pinch you for moving too fast, wheres a crab pinches you for moving too slowly.»
«Still they are sea gods, I perceive, like my brother ?gir. What is their power?»
Shea fought a losing battle against another yawn. «I’m sorry I seem to be sleepy,» he said. «Aren’t you going to bed soon, Golden?»
«Me? Ho, ho! Seldom has such ignorance been seen at the Crossroads of the World. I am the Watcher of the Gods, and never sleep. Sleepless One is, indeed, another of my titles. But it is to be seen that it is otherwise with you, youngling, and since I have won the game of questions you may go to bed.»
An angry retort rose to Shea’s lips at this calm assumption of victory, but he remembered that icy glare in time. Helmdall, however, seemed able to read his mind. «What! You would argue with me? Off to bed — and remember our little plot against the Bringer of Discord. Henceforth you are Turnip Harald, the bold and crafty warlock.»
Shea risked just one more question. «What is a warlock, please, sir?»
«Ho, ho! Child from another world, your ignorance is higher than a mountain and deeper than a well. A warlock is a wizard, an enchanter, a weaver of spells, a raiser of spirits. Good-night, Turnip Harald.»
The bedroom proved to have a sliding door. Shea found it no bigger than a Pullman section and utterly without ventilation. The bed was straw-stuffed and jabbed him. He could not find comfort. After an hour or so of tossing, he had the experience, not uncommon on the heels of a day of excitements, of finding himself more wide-awake than in the beginning.
For a time his thoughts floated aimlessly; then he told himself that, since this was an experiment, he might as well spend the sleepless hours trying to assemble results. What were they?
Well, firstly that there had been an error either in the equations or his use of them, and he had been pitched into a world of Scandinavian mythology — or else Scandinavian history. He was almost prepared to accept the former view.
These people talked with great conviction about their Ragnarok. He was enough of a psychologist to recognize their sincerity. And that icy stare he had felt from Odinn and then Heimdall was something, so far as he knew, outside ordinary human experience. It might be a form of hypnosis, but he doubted whether the technique, or even the idea of hypnotism, would be known to ancient viking chiefs. No, there was something definitely more than human about them.
Yet they had human enough attributes as well. It ought not to be beyond the powers of an experimental psychologist to guide his conduct by analysing them a little and making use of the results. Odinn? Well, he was off to the gates of Hell, whither Shea had no desire to follow him. Not much to be made of him, anyway, save a sense of authority.
What about Loki? A devastatingly sharp tongue that indicated a keen mind at work, Also a certain amount of malice. Uncle Fox, Thjatfi had called him, and said he was fond of jokes. Shea told himself he would not be surprised to find the jokes were often of a painful order. Working for him might be difficult, but Shea smiled to himself as he thought how he could surprise the god with so simple an object as a match.
Frey he had hardly noticed. Thor apparently was no more than a big, good-natured bruiser, and Thjalfi, the kind of rustic one would find in any country town, quoting Eddic lays instead of the Bible.
Heimdall, however, was a more complex character, certainly lacking in Loki’s sense of humour. And he quite evidently felt he had a position of dignity to maintain with relation to the common herd — as witness his insistence on titles. But equally evidently, he was prepared to accept the responsibilities of that position, throw himself heart and soul and with quite a good mind into the right side of the scales — as Loki was not. Perhaps that was why he hated Loki. And Heimdall, underneath the shell of dignity, had a streak of genuine kindness. One felt one could count on him — and deciding he liked Heimdall the best of the lot, Shea turned over and went to sleep.
