The Undesired Princess (16 page)

“Oh, yeah?” Hobart pondered blackly for a few seconds. So they thought they had him at last, eh? He called: “Hoimon!”

“Yes, Lord?”

“How’d you like to be Nois?”

“Ow!” yelled Hoimon in sudden anguish. “Spare your servant, O Nois! What would become of my humility, my self-abasement? What of my spiritual perfection? For lo these many years have I striven to erase all personal desires, to abandon all material pleasures! To me, the occupation of such a lofty seat would be the worst fate imaginable! Destroy me if you will, or transmute me to the vilest of hedonists: that is one thing I cannot, will not do! And now, if my lord pleases, I go to resume my solitary life of service and humility, free of all joys save those of the spirit!”

Hobart grinned: “Well, if you want misery, and being Nois is the worst thing you can think of, it’s just the ticket for you! Hey,
come back here!”
Hoimon cowered back to the foot of the throne. Hobart continued: “This is going to be a dirty trick in a way, but after all you started it.” He filled his lungs and cried: “When I say ‘bang,’ let the following things be accomplished: First, that all the damage done during the recent crumbling of this world shall be repaired. Second: that Hoimon the ascetic shall be not only the kind of guy that would make a good Nois, but the kind that would be glad to take the job. Third: that the said Hoimon, otherwise known as the party of the first part, shall be Nois, in the throne and everything. Lastly: that I, the present Nois, shall be just plain Rollin Hobart again, and back in my own apartment in New York City, in the three-value world!

“BANG!”

###

He was standing in his own living-room.

He ran his eyes hungrily over every detail, and almost cried at the sight of his old textbooks and other unglamorous but highly individual possessions.

He stepped to the door, wincing as he realized that he had a sprained ankle again, and looked cautiously out through the crack. No rock tunnel; just the good old apartment-house corridor . . .

He unbuckled his sword—nice souvenir—and lowered himself into his big armchair. He pulled up the left leg of his shabby brown pants. The caveman’s bite had left a double row of blue-black bruises, but the teeth had not actually pierced the skin, which was a blessing. His right leg deserved more attention. He pulled off his shoe and then the sock, whose pattern was stretched all out of shape by the swelling of the ankle. He could move the foot a little without pain, so the sprain was not so bad as he had thought at the time. But he’d been stupid not to fix those injuries while he was Nois . . .

He reached over to his battered smoking-stand and got out a cigar. Nois, it felt good to relax!

Perhaps half the cigar had gone up in smoke when a sound from the kitchenette made Hobart prick up his ears. He had thought he heard movement before, but dismissed the idea as imagination. Now however came a definite sound: the
shlink, shlink
of a cocktail shaker. Who the devil would be mixing drinks in his apartment?

“George?” he called. “Say, George, remember my saying you couldn’t even conceive of a world run on Aristotelian logic? Well, I was wrong. I’ve just been there, and it’s the damnedest thing you—”

The cocktail-mixer appeared, shaker and glasses on a tray. It was the Princess Argimanda, clad, not in a gauzy whatnot, but in Saks’ best.

“Ugk,” said Hobart. When his wits returned from their vacation, he got out: “Thanks—I can sure use this—you look like a million dol—say, Argimanda, what are you doing in my apartment anyway?”

She smiled with a trace of mischief. “Hoimon brought me, three days ago. I wanted to see your world, so I prevailed on the old dear to take me through his tunnel. Good heavens, what’s the matter with your foot?”

“Turned it. If you could get something full of cold water to soak it in, it’d be just dandy. Oh yeah, and you’ll find some Epsom salts in the bathroom. You dump ’em into the water.”

Argimanda departed and presently returned with a stove-pot full of solution. She continued: “So-o-o, your little country girl looked your world over, and decided she’d like to live there. Hoimon said you’d be along in a few days.”

“I almost wasn’t,” said Hobart.

“What happened? Hoimon spoke of danger.”

“Ouch!” He lowered his foot. “Tell you some other time; it’s a long story and I’m tired.”

“Mad?” She looked slantwise up at him.

“N-not exactly—”

She patted his knee. “Don’t worry about me,
Mister
Hobart. I’m moving right away, to the Y.W. until my job starts.”

“Job?”

“Sure thing. I’m with Funk & Wagnalls. I’m a lexicographer, you know, though I had a time convincing them of the fact without any references.”

Hobart took another drag on his butt, and said: “You’ve changed, Argimanda.”

“How?”

“Clothes—and slang—and everything; you’re actually human!”

“Thanks for the compliment. But I really haven’t. It’s merely the application of Kyzikeia’s first gift to her fairy goddaughter: intelligence.”

Hobart shook his head wonderingly. “You know, I’ll be kind of helpless for a couple of days, and there won’t be anybody to get my meals, and—ah—”

“You’d like me to cook them for you?” snapped Argimanda. “Sorry, Rolly, but I shall be busy, I’m afraid. I’ll tell the nearest restaurant to send a man up, if you like.” She finished her cocktail and set the glass down in a marked manner. “I’m leaving right now.”

She clicked decisively into the bedroom, and reappeared with a traveling case.

Hobart said anxiously: “Argimanda, you know I’ve been thinking. Maybe I was—uh—hasty—uh—”

“Rollin Hobart!” said Argimanda dangerously. “I’ve tried to treat you nicely, because after all you did save my life. But if you’re going to offer me another chance, allow me to inform you that I don’t accept other chances from gentlemen, including you for the sake of courtesy. I’m doing very nicely, thank you; I’ve got six dates for the next two weeks already.”

“You’re actually angry!” he gauped.

“You’re jolly well right I’m angry! The very sight of you makes my hot Logaian blood boil. If you want to call me up at the end of a year, look for Argimanda Xerophus in the phonebook. I may be able to endure your society by then, if I haven’t married a college president or a munitions manufacturer. Good bye!”

“A year! Wait a minute, please,” pleaded Hobart. “I know I’m a heel and a stuffed shirt. But I do love you. I don’t know for how long, but I suspect from the first time I saw you, though I wouldn’t have admitted it. I worship the ground you walk on. All I’ll do for the next year is watch the calendar. When the time’s up I’ll come running to offer heart and hand, for whatever they’re worth, of one self-centered old bachelor. And I’ll bring a spanner to use on your college president if necessary.”

She sighed. “Well, in that case, Rolly—wouldn’t a year be an awful waste of time?”

Then they were in each other’s arms, whispering long-withheld endearments.

“Miaow!”
It was Theiax, pushing the door open. The social lion cocked an eye at the spectacle, then complacently sat down and began to lap tea out of a cup on the floor.

Argimanda, over Hobart’s shoulder, caught the pussy-lion’s eye and winked.

Theiax smiled into his mane. He purred: “Prince, you need not worry about my size anymore. I have my dignity even if I am small. I just chase biggest dog in New York clear into Hudson River!”