Clifford D. Simak - The Goblin Reservation

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Title: The Goblin Reservation

Author: Clifford D. Simak

Original copyright year: 1968

Genre: science fiction

Comments:

Source: scanned and OCR-read from a paperback edition with Xerox TextBridge Pro 9.0, proofread in

Microsoft Word 2000.

Date of e-text: November 15, 1999

Prepared by: Anada Sucka

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Goblin Reservation

Clifford D. Simak

Inspector Drayton sat, solidly planted behind the desk, and waited. He was a rawboned man with

a face that looked as if it might have been hacked, by a dull hatchet, out of a block of gnarled

wood. His eyes were points of flint and at times they seemed to glitter, and he was angry and

upset. But such a man, Peter Maxwell knew, would never give way to any kind of anger. There was,

behind that anger, a bulldog quality that would go plodding on, undisturbed by anger.

And this was just the situation, Maxwell told himself, that he had hoped would not come about.

Although, as now was evident, it had been too much to hope. He had known, of course, that his

failure to arrive at his proper destination, some six weeks before, would have created some

consternation back here on the Earth; the thought that he might be able to slip home unobserved

had not been realistic. And now here he was, facing this man across the desk and he'd have to take

it easy.

He said to the man behind the desk: "I don't believe I entirely understand why my return to

Earth should be a matter for Security. My name is Peter Maxwell and I'm a member of the faculty of

the College of Supernatural Phenomena on Wisconsin Campus. You have seen my papers...

"I am quite satisfied," said Drayton, "as to who you are. Puzzled, perhaps, but entirely

satisfied. It's something else that bothers me. Would you mind, Professor Maxwell, telling me

exactly where you've been?"

"There's not very much that I can tell you," Peter Maxwell said. "I was on a planet, but I

don't know its name or its coordinates. It may be closer than a light-year or out beyond the Rim?'

"In any event," said Drayton, "you did not arrive at the destination you indicated on your

travel ticket."

"I did not," said Maxwell.

"Can you explain what happened?"

"I can only guess. I had thought that perhaps my wave pattern was diverted, perhaps

intercepted and diverted. At first I thought there had been transmitter error, but that seems

impossible. The transmitters have been in use for hundreds of years. All the bugs should have been

ironed out of them by now."

"You mean that you were kidnaped?"

"If you want to put it that way."

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"And still will tell me nothing?"

"I have explained there's not much to tell."

"Could this planet have anything to do with the Wheelers?"

Maxwell shook his head "I couldn't say for sure, but I don't believe it did. Certainly there

were none of them around. There was no indication they had anything to do with it."

"Professor Maxwell, have you ever seen a Wheeler?"

"Once. Several years ago. One of them spent a month or two at Time. I caught sight of it one

day."

"So you would know a Wheeler, if you saw one?"

"Yes, indeed," said Maxwell.

"I see you started out for one of the planets in the Coonskin system."

"There was the rumor of a dragon," Maxwell told him. "Not substantiated. In fact, the evidence

was quite sketchy. But I decided it might be worth investigating..."

Drayton cocked an eyebrow. "A dragon?" he demanded.

"I suppose," said Maxwell, "that it may be hard for someone outside my field to grasp the

importance of a dragon. But the fact of the matter is that there is no scrap of evidence to

suggest such a creature at any time existed. This despite the fact that the dragon legend is

solidly embedded in the folklore of the Earth and some of the other planets. Fairies, goblins,

trolls, banshees-we have all of these, in the actual flesh, but no trace of a dragon. The funny

thing about it is that the legend here on Earth is not basically a human legend. The Little Folk,

as well, have the dragon legend. I sometimes think they may have been the ones who transmitted it

to us. But the legend only. There is no evidence..."

He stopped, feeling a little silly. What could this stolid policeman who sat across the desk

care about the dragon legend?

"I'm sorry, Inspector," he said. "I let my enthusiasm for a favorite subject run away with

me."

"I have heard it said that the dragon legend might have risen from ancestral memories of the

dinosaur."

"I have heard it, too," said Maxwell, "but it seems impossible. The dinosaurs were extinct

long before mankind had evolved."

"Then the Little Folk..."

"Possibly," said Maxwell, "but it seems unlikely. I know the Little Folk and have talked with

them about it. They are ancient, certainly much more ancient than we humans, but there is no

indication they go back that far. Or if they do, they have no memory of it. And I would think that

their legends and folk tales would easily carry over some millions of years. They are extremely

long-lived, not quite immortal, but almost, and in a situation such as that, mouth-to-mouth

tradition would be most persistent."

Drayton gestured, brushing away the dragons and the Little Folk. "You started for the

Coonskin," he said, "and you didn't get there."

"That is right. There was this other planet. A roofed-in, crystal planet."

"Crystal?"

"Some sort of stone. Quartz, perhaps. Although I can't be sure. It could be metal. There was

some metal there."

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Drayton asked smoothly. "You wouldn't have known, when you started out, that you'd wind up on

this planet?"

"If it's collusion you have in mind," said Maxwell, "you're very far afield. I was quite

surprised. But it seems you aren't. You were waiting here for me."

"Not particularly surprised," said Drayton. "It has happened twice before."

"Then you probably know about the planet."

"Nothing about it," said Drayton. "Simply that there's a planet out there somewhere, operating

an unregistered transmitter and receiver, and communicating by an unlisted signal. When the

operator here at Wisconsin Station picked up their signal for transmittal, he signaled them to

wait, that the receivers all were busy. Then got in touch with me."

"The other two?"

"Both of them right here. Both tabbed for Wisconsin Station."

"But if they got back..."

"That's the thing," said Drayton. "They didn't. Oh, I guess you could say they did, but we

couldn't talk with them. The wave pattern turned out faulty. They were put back together wrong.

They were all messed up. Both of them were aliens, but so tangled up we had a hard time learning

who they might have been. We're still not positive."

"Dead?"

"Dead? Certainly. A rather frightful business. You're a lucky man."

Maxwell, with some difficulty, suppressed a shudder. "Yes, I suppose I am," he said.

"You'd think," said Drayton, "that anyone who messed around with matter transmission would

make sure they knew how it was done. There's no telling how many they may have picked up who came

out wrong in their receiving station."

"But you would know," Maxwell pointed out. "You'd know if there had been any losses. A station

would report back immediately if a traveler failed to arrive on schedule."

"That's the funny thing about it," Drayton told him. "There have been no losses. We're pretty

sure the two aliens who came back dead to us got where they were going, for there's no one

missing."

"But I started out for Coonskin. Surely they reported..."

Then he stopped as the thought struck him straight between the eyes.

Drayton nodded slowly. "I thought you would catch on. Peter Maxwell got to the Coonskin system

and came back to Earth almost a month ago."

"There must be some mistake," Maxwell protested weakly.

For it was unthinkable that there should be two of him, that another Peter Maxwell, identical

in all details, existed on the Earth.

"No mistake," said Drayton. "Not the way we have it figured. This other planet doesn't divert

the pattern. What it does is copy it."

"Then there could be two of me! There could be..."

"Not any more," said Drayton. "You're the only one. About a week after he returned, there was

an accident. Peter Maxwell's dead."

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Around the corner from the tiny room where he'd met with Drayton, Maxwell found a vacant row

of seats and sat down in one of them, rather carefully, placing his single piece of luggage on the

floor beside him.

It was incredible, he told himself. Incredible that there should have been two Pete Maxwells

and now one of those Maxwells dead. Incredible that the crystal planet could have had equipment

that would reach out and copy a wave pattern traveling faster than the speed of light- much faster

than the speed of light, for at no point in the galaxy so far linked by the matter transmitters

was there any noticeable lag between the time of transmittal and arrival. Diversion-yes, perhaps

there could be diversion, a reaching out and a snatching of the pattern, but the task of copying

such a pattern would be something else entirely.

Two incredibles, he thought. Two things that should not have happened. Although if one of them

had happened, the other surely followed. If the pattern had been copied, there would, quite

necessarily, have been two of him, the one who went to the Coonskin system and the other who'd

gone to the crystal planet. But if this other Peter Maxwell had really gone to Coonskin, he should

still be there or only now returning. He had planned a six weeks' stay at least, longer if more

time seemed necessary to run down the dragon business.

He found that his hands were shaking and, ashamed of this, he clasped them hard together and

held them in his lap.

He couldn't go to pieces, he told himself. No matter what might be facing him, he had to see

it through. And there was no evidence, no solid evidence. All that he had was what a member of

Security had told him and he couldn't count on that. It could be no more than a clumsy piece of

police trickery designed to shake him into talking. Although it could have happened. It just could

have happened!

But even if it had happened, he still had to see it through. For he had a job to do and one he

must not bungle.

Now the job might be made the harder by someone watching him, although he could not be sure

there'd be someone watching. It might not, he told himself, make any difference. His hardest job,

he realized, would be to get an appointment with Andrew Arnold. The president of a planetary

university would not be an easy man to see. He would have more with which to concern himself than

listening to what an associate professor had to say. Especially when that professor could not

spell out in advance detail what he wished to talk about.

His hands had stopped the trembling, but he still kept them tightly clasped. In just a little

while he'd get out of here and go down to the roadway, where he'd find himself a seat on one of

the inner, faster belts. In an hour or so he'd be back on the old home campus and then he'd soon

find out if what Drayton said was true. And he'd be back with friends again-with Alley Oop and

Ghost, with Harlow Sharp and Allen Preston and all the rest of them. There'd be rowdy midnight

drinking bouts at the Pig and Whistle and long, slow walks along the shaded malls and canoeing on

the lake. There'd be discussion and argument and the telling of old tales, and the leisurely

academic routine that gave one time to live.

He found himself looking forward to the trip, for the roadway ran along the hills of Goblin

Reservation. Not that there were only goblins there; there were many other of the Little Folk and

they all were friends of his-or at least most of them were friends. Trolls at times could be

exasperating and it was rough to build up any real and lasting friendship with a creature like a

banshee.

This time of year, he thought, the hills would be beautiful. It had been late summer when he'd

left for the Coonskin system and the hills still had worn their mantle of dark green, but now, in

the middle of October, they would have burst into the full color of their autumn dress. There'd be

the winy red of oak and the brilliant red and yellow of the maples and here and there the flaming

scarlet of creeping vines would run like a thread through all the other colors. And the air would

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smell like cider, that strange, intoxicating scent that came upon the woods only with the dying of

the leaves.

He sat there, thinking of the time, just two summers past, when he and Mr. O'Toole had gone on

a canoe trip up the river, into the northern wilderness, hoping that somewhere along the way they

might make some sort of contact with the spirits recorded in the old Ojibway legends. They had

floated on the glass-clear waters and built their fires at night on the edges of the dark pine

forests; they had caught their fish for supper and hunted down the wild flowers hidden in the

forest glades and spied on many animals and birds and had a good vacation. But they had seen no

spirits, which was not surprising. Very few contacts had been made with the Little Folk of North

America, for they were truly creatures of the wilds, unlike the semicivilized, human-accustomed

sprites of Europe.

The chair in which he sat faced the west and through the towering walls of glass he could see

across the river to the bluffs that rose along the border of the ancient state of Iowa-great, dark

purple masses rimmed by a pale blue autumn sky. Atop one of the bluffs he could make out the

lighter bulk of the College of Thaumaturgy, staffed in large part by the octopoid creatures from

Centaurus. Looking at those faint outlines of the buildings, he recalled that he had often

promised himself he'd attend one of their summer seminars, but had never got around to doing it.

He reached out and shifted his luggage, preparing to get up, but he stayed on sitting there.

He still was a little short of breath and his legs seemed weak. What Drayton had told him, he

realized, had hit him harder than he'd thought, and still was hitting him in a series of delayed

reactions. He'd have to take it easy, he told himself. He couldn't get the wind up. It might not

be true; it probably wasn't true. There was no sense in getting too concerned about it until he'd

had the chance to find out for himself.

Slowly he got to his feet and reached down to pick up his luggage, but hesitated for a moment

to plunge into the hurried confusion of the waiting room. People-alien and human-were hurrying

purposefully or stood about in little knots and clusters. An old, white-bearded man, dressed in

stately black-a professor by the looks of him, thought Maxwell-was surrounded by a group of

students who had to come to see him off. A family of reptilians sprawled in a group of loungers

set aside for people such as they, not equipped for sitting. The two adults lay quietly, facing

one another and talking softly, with much of the hissing overtones that marked reptilian speech,

while the youngsters crawled over and under the loungers and sprawled on the floor in play. In one

corner of a tiny alcove a beer-barrel creature, lying on its side, rolled gently back and forth,

from one wall to the other, rolling back and forth in the same spirit, and perhaps for the same

purpose, a man would pace the floor. Two spidery creatures, their bodies more like grotesque

matchstick creations than honest flesh and blood, squatted facing one another. They had marked off

upon the floor, with a piece of chalk, some sort of crude gameboard and had placed about upon it a

number of strangely shaped pieces, which they were moving rapidly about, squeaking in excitement

as the game developed.

Wheelers? Drayton had asked. Was there any tie-up with the crystal planet and the Wheelers?

It always was the Wheelers, thought Maxwell. An obsession with the Wheelers. And perhaps with

reason, although one could not be sure. For there was little known of them. They loomed darkly,

far in space, another great cultural group pushing out across the galaxy, coming into ragged

contact along a far-flung frontier line with the pushing human culture.

Standing there, he recalled that first and only time he had ever seen a Wheeler-a student who

had come from the College of Comparative Anatomy in Rio de Janeiro for a two-week seminar at Time

College. Wisconsin Campus, he remembered, had been quietly agog and there had been a lot of talk

about it, but very little opportunity, apparently, to gain a glimpse of the fabled creature since

it stayed closely within the seminar confines. He had met it, trundling along a corridor, when

he'd gone across the mall to have lunch with Harlow Sharp, and he recalled that he'd been shocked.

It had been the wheels, he told himself. No other creature in the known galaxy came equipped

with wheels. It had been a pudgy creature, a roly-poly suspended between two wheels, the hubs of

which projected from its body somewhere near its middle. The wheels were encased in fur and the

rims of them, he saw, were horny calluses. The downward bulge of the roly-poly body sagged beneath

the axle of the wheels like a bulging sack. But the worst of it, he saw when he came nearer, was

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that this sagging portion of the body was transparent and filled with a mass of writhing things

which made one think of a pail of gaily colored worms.

And those writhing objects in that obscene and obese belly, Maxwell knew, were, if not worms,

at least some kind of insect, or a form of life which could equate with that form of life on Earth

which men knew as insects. For the Wheelers were a hive mechanism, a culture made up of many such

hive mechanisms, a population of colonies of insects, or at least the equivalent of insects.

And with a population of that sort, the tales of terror which came from the far and rough

frontier about the Wheelers were not hard to understand. And if these horror tales were true, then

man here faced, for the first time since his drive out into space, that hypothetical enemy which

it always had been presumed would be met somewhere in space.

Throughout the galaxy man had met many other strange and, at times, fearsome creatures, but

none, thought Maxwell, could match fearsomeness with a creature that was a wheel-driven hive of

insects. There was something about the whole idea that made one want to gag.

Today outlandish creatures flocked to the Earth in thousands, to attend the many colleges, to

staff the faculties that made up that great galactic university which had taken over Earth. And in

time, perhaps, thought Maxwell, the Wheelers might be added to this galactic population which

swarmed the colleges of Earth-if only there could be some kind of understanding contact. But so

far there hadn't been.

Why was it, Maxwell wondered, that the very idea of the Wheelers went against the grain, when

man and all the other creatures in the galaxy contacted by the humans had learned to live with one

another?

Here, in this waiting room, one could see a cross section of them-the hoppers, the creepers,

the crawlers, the wrigglers, and rollers that came from the many planets, from so many stars.

Earth was the galactic melting pot, he thought, a place where beings from the thousand stars met

and mingled to share their thoughts and cultures.

"Number Five-six-nine-two," shrilled the loudspeaker.

"Passenger Number Five-six-nine-two, your departure time is only five minutes from now.

Cubical Thirty-seven. Passenger Five-six-nine-two, please report immediately to Cubical Thirty-

seven."

And where, Maxwell wondered, might No. 5692 be bound? To the jungles of Headache No. 2, to the

grim, windswept glacial cities of Misery IV, to the desert planets of the Slaughter Suns, or to

any of the other of the thousands of planets, all less than a heartbeat away from this very spot

where he stood, now linked by the transmitter system, but representing in the past long years of

exploratory effort as discovery ships beat through the dark of everlasting space. As they were

beating out there even now, slowly and painfully expanding the perimeter of man's known universe.

The sound of the waiting room boomed and muttered, with the frantic paging of late or missing

passengers, with the hollow buzz of a hundred different tongues spoken in a thousand different

throats, with the shuffling or the clicking or the clop of feet across the floor.

He reached down, picked up his luggage, and turned toward the entrance.

After no more than three steps, he was halted to make way for a truck carrying a tank filled

with a murky liquid. Through the cloudiness of the liquid, be caught a suggestion of the

outrageous shape that lurked within the tank- some creature from one of the liquid planets,

perhaps, and one where the liquid was not water. Here, more than likely, as a visiting professor,

perhaps to one of the colleges of philosophy, or maybe one of the science institutes.

The truck and its tank out of the way, he went on and reached the entrance, stepped through

the opening onto the beautifully paved and terraced esplanade, along the bottom of which ran the

roadway belts. He was gratified to notice that there were no waiting lines, as often was the case.

He drew a deep breath of air into his lungs-clean, pure air with the sharp tang of frosty

autumn in it. It was a welcome thing after the weeks of dead and musty air up on the crystal

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planet.

He turned to go down the steps and as he did he saw the signboard just beyond the gate to the

roadway belts. The sign was large and the lettering was in Old English, screaming with solid

dignity:

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, ESQ.

Of Stratford-on-Avon, England

"How It Happened I Did Not Write The Plays"

Under the sponsorship of Time College

Oct 22, 8 P.M. Time Museum Auditorium

Tickets available at all agencies

"Maxwell," someone shouted and he swung around. A man was running from the entrance, toward

him.

Maxwell put down his luggage, half-raised his hand in greeting and acknowledgment, then slowly

dropped it, for he realized that he did not recognize the man.

The man slowed to a trot, then a rapid walk.

"Professor Maxwell, isn't it?" he asked as he came up. "I'm sure I'm not mistaken."

Maxwell nodded stiffly, just a bit embarrassed.

"Monty Churchill," said the man, thrusting out his hand. "We met, a year or so ago. At one of

Nancy Clayton's bashes."

"How are you, Churchill?" Maxwell asked, a little frostily.

For now he did recognize the man, the name at least if not the face. A lawyer, he supposed,

but he wasn't sure. Doing business, if he recalled correctly, as a public relations man, a fixer.

One of that tribe that handled things for clients, for anyone who could put up a fee.

"Why, I'm fine," said Churchill happily. "Just back from a trip. A short one. But it's good to

be back again. There's nothing quite like home. That's why I yelled out at you. First familiar

face I've seen for several weeks."

"I'm glad you did," said Maxwell. "You going back to the campus?"

"Yes. I was heading for the roadway."

"No need of that," said Churchill. "I have my flier here. Parked on the strip out back.

There's room for both of us. Get there a good deal faster."

Maxwell hesitated. He didn't like the man, but what Churchill said was true; they would get

there faster. And he was anxious to get back as quickly as he could, for there were things that

needed checking out.

"That's very kind of you," he said. "If you're sure you have the room."

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The motor sputtered and went dead. The jets hummed for a second and then fell silent. The air

sighed shrilly against the metal hide.

Maxwell glanced swiftly at the man beside him. Churchill sat stiff-perhaps in fear, perhaps

only in astonishment. For even Maxwell realized that a thing like this should not have happened-

was, in fact, unthinkable. Fliers such as the one in which they rode were regarded as foolproof.

Below them lay the jagged rocks of the craggy cliffs, the spearlike, upthrusting branches of

the forest covering the hills, clinging to the rocks. To the left the river ran, a silver ribbon

through the wooded bottom lands.

Time seemed to drag, to lengthen out, as if by some strange magic each second had become a

minute. And with the lengthening of time came a quiet awareness of what was about to happen, as if

it might be happening to someone else, Maxwell told himself, and not to him, a factual and

dispassionate assessment of the situation by an observer who was not involved. And even as he knew

this, he also knew, in a dim, far corner of his mind, panic would come later and when that came

time would take up its usual pace again as the flier rushed down to meet the forest and the rock.

Leaning forward, he scanned the terrain that stretched ahead, and as he did he caught sight of

the tiny opening in the forest, a rift in the dark ranks of the trees and the hint of green

beneath.

He nudged Churchill, pointing. Churchill, looking where he pointed, nodded and moved the

wheel, slowly, carefully, tentatively, as if he were feeling for some response of the craft,

trying to determine if it would respond.

The flier tilted slightly, wheeled and swung, still falling slowly, but jockeying for

position. For a moment it seemed to balk at the controls, then slid sidewise, losing altitude more

rapidly, but gliding down toward the rift between the trees.

Now the trees rushed upward at them and, close above them, Maxwell could see the autumn color

of them-no longer simply dark, but a mass of red and gold and brown. Long, slender spears of red

reached up to stab them, clawlike hands of gold grasped at them with an angry clutch.

The plane brushed the topmost branches of an oak, seemed to hesitate, almost to hang there in

midair, then was gliding in, mushing toward a landing on the small greensward that lay within the

forest.

A fairy green, Maxwell told himself-a dancing place for fairies, but now a landing field.

He switched his head sidewise for a second, saw Churchill crouched at the controls, then

switched back again and watched the green come up.

It should be smooth, he told himself. There should be no bumps or holes or hummocks, for at

the time the green had been laid down, the blueprints would have called for smoothness.

The craft hit and bounced and for a terrifying moment teetered in the air. Then it was down

again and running smoothly on the green. The trees at the far end of the grass were rushing at

them, coming up too fast.

"Hang on!" Churchill shouted and even as he shouted, the plane swung and pivoted, skidding. It

came to rest a dozen feet from the woods that rimmed the green.

They sat in deadly silence, a silence that seemed to be closing in on them from the colored

forest and the rocky bluffs.

Churchill spoke out of the silence. "That was close," he said.

He reached up and slid back the canopy and got out Maxwell followed him.

"I can't understand what happened," Churchill said. "This job has more fail-safe circuitry

built into it than you can well imagine. Hit by lightning, sure; run into a mountain, yes, you can

do that; get caught in turbulence and bounced around, all of this could happen, but the motor

never quits. The only way to stop it is to turn it off."

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He lifted his arm and mopped his brow with his shirt sleeve.

"Did you know about this place?" he asked.

Maxwell shook his head. "Not this particular place. I knew there were such places. When the

reservation was laid out and landscaped, the planning called for greens. Places where the fairies

dance, you know. I wasn't looking for anything, exactly, but when I saw the opening in the trees,

I could guess what might be down here."

"When you showed it to me," said Churchill, "I just hoped you knew what you were doing. There

seemed to be no place else to go, so I did some gambling..."

Maxwell raised his hand to silence him. "What was that?" he asked.

"Sounds like a horse," said Churchill. "Who in the world would be out here with a horse? It

comes from up that way."

The clattering and the clopping was coming closer.

They stepped around the flier and when they did, they saw the trail that led up to a sharp and

narrow ridge, with the massive bulk of a ruined castle perched atop the ridge.

The horse was coming down the trail at a sloppy gallop. Bestriding it was a small and dumpy

figure that bounced most amazingly with each motion of its mount. It was a far from graceful

rider, with its elbows thrust out on either side of it, flapping like a pair of wings.

The horse came tearing down the slope and swung out on the green. It was no more graceful than

its rider, but a shaggy plow horse, and its mighty hoofs, beating like great hammers, tore up

clods of turf and flung them far behind it. It came straight at the flier, almost as if intent on

running over it, then at the last moment wheeled clumsily and came to a shuddering halt, to stand

with its sides heaving in and out like bellows, and snorting through its flabby nostrils.

Its rider slid awkwardly off its back and when he hit the ground, exploded in a gust of wrath.

"It is them no-good bummers!" he shouted. "It is them lousy trolls. I've told them and I've

told them to leave them broomsticks be. But no, they will not listen. They always make the joke.

They put enchantment on them."

"Mr. O'Toole," Maxwell shouted. "You remember me?"

The goblin swung around and squinted at him with red-filmed, nearsighted eyes.

"The professor!" he screamed. "The good friend of all of us. Oh, what an awful shame! I tell

you, Professor, the hides of them trolls I shall nail upon the door and pin their ears on trees."

"Enchantment?" Churchill asked. "Do you say enchantment?"

"What other would it be?" Mr. O'Toole fumed. "What else would bring a broomstick down out of

the sky?"

He ambled closer to Maxwell and peered anxiously at him. "Can it be really you?" he asked,

with some solicitude. "In the honest flesh? We had word that you had died. We sent the wreath of

mistletoe and holly to express our deepest grief."

"It is I, most truly," said Maxwell, slipping easily into the idiom of the Little Folk. "You

heard rumor only."

"Then for sheer joy," cried Mr. O'Toole, "we three shall down great tankards of October ale.

The new batch is ready for the running off and I invite you gentlemen most cordially to share the

first of it with me."

Other goblins, a half dozen of them, were running down the path and Mr. O'Toole waved lustily

to hurry them along.

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"Always late," he lamented. "Never on the ball. Always showing up, but always somewhat

slightly late. Good boys, all of them, with hearts correctly placed, but lacking the alertness

that is the hallmark of true goblins such as I.,'

The goblins came loping and panting down onto the green, ranged themselves expectantly in

front of Mr. O'Toole.

"I have jobs for you," he told them. "First you go down to the bridge and you tell them trolls

no more enchantments they shall make. They are to cease and desist entirely. Tell them this is

their one last chance. If they do such things again that bridge we shall tear apart, stone by

mossy stone, and those stones we shall scatter far and wide, so there never is a chance of

upbuilding that bridge yet again. And they are to uplift the enchantment from this fallen

broomstick so it flies as good as new.

"And some others of you I want to seek the fairies out and explain to them the defacement of

their green, being sure to lay all blame for such upon them dirty trolls and promising the turf

shall be all fixed smooth and lovely for their next dancing when the moon be full.

"And yet another of you must take care of Dobbin, making sure his clumsy self does no more

damage to the green, but letting him crop, perchance, a mouthful or two of the longer grass if it

can be found. The poor beast does not often get the chance to regale himself with pasturage such

as this."

He turned back to Maxwell and Churchill, dusting his hands together in symbolism of a job well

done.

"And now, gentlemen," be said, "you please to climb the hill with me and we will essay what

can be done with sweet October ale. I beg you, however, to go slowly in very pity of me, since

this paunch of mine seems grown large of late and I suffer most exceedingly from the shortness of

the breath."

"Lead on, old friend," said Maxwell. "We shall match our steps with yours most willingly. It

has been too long since we have quaffed October ale together."

"Yes, by all means," said Churchill, somewhat weakly. They started up the path. Before them,

looming on the ridge, the ruined castle stood gaunt against the paleness of the sky.

"I must beforehand apologize," said Mr. O'Toole, "for the condition of the castle. It is a

very drafty place, conducive to colds and sinus infections and other varied miseries. The winds

blow through it wickedly and it smells of damp and mold. I do not understand in fullness why you

humans, once you build the castles for us, do not make them weathertight and comfortable. Because

we, beforetimes, dwelt in ruins, does not necessarily mean that we have forsook all comfort and

convenience. We dwelt in them, forsooth, because they were the best poor Europe had to offer."

He paused to gulp for breath, then went on again. "I can well recall, two thousand years ago

or more, we dwelt in brand-new castles, poor enough, of course, for the rude humans of that time

could not build the better, being all thumbs and without proper tools and no machinery at all and

being, in general, a slabsided race of people. And us forced to hide in the nooks and crannies of

the castles since the benighted humans of that day feared and detested us in all their ignorance,

and sought, in their ignorance, to erect great spells against us.

"Although," he said, with some satisfaction, "mere humans were not proficient with the spells.

We, with no raising of the sweat, could afford them spades and clubs and beat their spells, hands

down."

"Two thousand years?" asked Churchill. "You don't mean to say-"

Maxwell made a quick motion of his head in an attempt to silence him.

Mr. O'Toole stopped in the middle of the path and threw Churchill a withering glance.

"I can recall," he said, "when the barbarians first came, most rudely, from that fenny forest

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