bauble in my world, Langford—a toy!
“I am alone, my friend. Alone in a ship that utterly dwarfs me. But you like large ships, too; we’re curiously alike in some respects. We’d never be satisfied with mechanical mastery on a puny scale!”
“Mechanical mastery?” Langford’s lips had gone cold. “Just what kind of mastery? Why did you attack Commander Gurney and his men?”
The shape of flame seemed to pulse with a curious, inward merriment. Langford could feel the merriment beating into his brain, waves upon waves of it.
“I didn’t attack them. I can no more divide by fission than you can. But when I saw them crouching by the river, their faces merciless, waiting to seize you, I got inside their minds and drove them into the river.
“Like chattering monkeys they fled from the terrifying images I planted in their minds. They were prepared to believe I was not one, but many, a swarming multitude. They floundered and swam until their strength gave out. When they could no longer swim they dragged themselves from the river, and went floundering through the jungle, fleeing from shapes that had no real existence.
“Good Lord!” Langford muttered.
“Their weapons are now at the bottom of the river. That stern and silly little man, who is nothing more than a jumble of bones, fell face down in the river; before I could reach his side you were lifting him up. You have won his undying gratitude. He will grumble and fume, but when he sees my ship disappearing into deep space you will wear ribbons, my friend. You will become—yes, a senior commander!”
“A senior—”
“Perhaps you’d like to see me as I really am, Langford, my friend! You’ll promise not to laugh? I may look a little ridiculous to you.”
Langford’s eyes were suddenly moist. “You couldn’t possibly look ridiculous to me,” he said.
“Well … I wouldn’t like to show myself to just anybody. Certainly not to Skin-and-Bones! But it’s terribly important that you know how completely I trust you. How else can I prove my gratitude?”
Slowly the shape of flame began to contract. Its edges became brighter, sweeping inward to become a small, dazzling circle of radiance that hovered in the air like a blazing signet ring.
In the middle of the ring a tiny form appeared. Amidst Langford’s rioting thoughts one thing stood out with mind-numbing clarity. The form was minute, so tiny that the mantis shape it had shot into the void would have utterly dwarfed it. The form was minute, and yet—it did resemble a mantis. Its arms were upraised, and its pinpoint eyes fastened on Langford with a blazing intensity that seemed to bore deep into his brain.
But there was no enmity in that stare. Only complete gratitude, trust and friendship. Yes, and a certain greatness!
“Now you see me as I really am!” the voice said. “I am so small that you could crush me between your thumb and forefinger. But I would not hesitate to alight on your thumb, my friend!”
A strange wonder throbbed in Langford’s brain. And suddenly he found himself thinking: “Jimmy Cricket!”
Yes, that was it! The tiny shape was as friendly, as puckish, as noble in essence as that little nursery rhyme will-o’-the-wisp, Jimmy Cricket. And it did look like a cricket; a chirping, gleeful, truly great cricket.
Suddenly down the long sweep of the years Langford saw two small human figures advancing over a path of golden bricks toward a glittering distant palace.
One of the forms was himself, the other his sister. They moved in awe and terror, because the palace was inhabited by a mighty wizard with truly terrifying powers. But when they reached the palace they met a human, likeable little man who wasn’t terrible at all. And they knew then that the mighty wizard was a humbug. But somehow in his simple humanness the wizard seemed even greater than he had been. Greater, but no longer terrifying.
Jimmy Cricket was—the Wizard of Oz. And he was something more. A lonely, wayfaring stranger, blown from his course by ill cosmic winds, taking reasonable precautions, but seeking only a responsive friendliness in the gulfs between the stars.
For a moment Langford felt a swirl of energy brush his fingertips, like the clasp of an intangible hand. Then the mental voice said: “Good heavens, Langford! You’re dripping wet! See how the dry leaves of the forest cling to your feet!”
Startled, Langford lowered his eyes.
When he looked up the circle of radiance was gone.
“Forgive me, Langford!” a faint, diminishing voice said. “But partings should not be prolonged! Goodbye, my friend!”
When Langford emerged on the riverbank, sunlight struck down over his tall, straight body, giving him the aspect of a Greek god emerging from a forest glade in the morning of the world.
He paused for an instant on the sloping bank to wave to his wife. Then he plunged into the river and swam straight toward her.
The Mississippi Saucer
Jimmy watched the Natchez Belle draw near, a shining eagerness in his stare. He stood on the deck of the shantyboat, his toes sticking out of his socks, his heart knocking against his ribs. Straight down the river the big packet boat came, purpling the water with its shadow, its smokestacks belching soot.
Jimmy had a wild talent for collecting things. He knew exactly how to infuriate the captains without sticking out his neck. Up and down the Father of Waters, from the bayous of Louisiana to the Great Sandy other little shantyboat boys envied Jimmy and tried hard to imitate him.
But Jimmy had a very special gift, a genius for pantomime. He’d wait until there was a glimmer of red flame on the river and small objects stood out with a startling clarity. Then he’d go into his act.
Nothing upset the captains quite so much as Jimmy’s habit of holding a big, croaking bullfrog up by its legs as the riverboats went steaming past. It was a surefire way of reminding the captains that men and frogs were brothers under the skin. The
