Part 1

The Gnome's Gneiss

A NOVELET BY KENDELL FOSTER CROSSEN

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Startling Stories, May 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

I

A mood was upon Kevan MacGreene. As of the moment, he did not consider this the best of all possible worlds. In fact, many arguments to the contrary were running through his head--on shoes of iron, it seemed. Only twenty-five years of age, Kevan MacGreene was foot-loose and fancy free, but his thoughts were cast in gloom and darkly shaped.

It was 1952 and the threats of atomic warfare appeared almost daily in the newspapers. The cost of living continued to go up. The prisons and asylums were overflowing. Congress, having investigated everything else, had formed a Goober-Natural Committee (fifteen governors had misunderstood and resigned the first day it was announced) and were knee-deep in peanuts. The Soviet representative had just stormed out of another U.N. meeting. The American representative wanted to lock the door so he couldn't get back in. A columnist had written that "the world is going to hell on a street car" and had been forced to apologize to seven railroad companies and a major-interest-owned bus line.

But it was because of none of these things that Kevan MacGreene walked the streets of lower Manhattan and pondered on the frailty of Man. It was now only a few days since he had received his draft notice. Far from objecting, he had welcomed the opportunity to become a hero--even a radioactive one. He had quit his job in Macy's complaint department and the night before he'd spent all of his money financing a binge for himself and a few select friends. It had lasted until morning and then, complete with hangover, Kevan MacGreene had reported for his physical.

It was while being questioned by a fatherly doctor, who, it turned out, was a psychiatrist, that Kevan made his first slip. Usually he was more alert, but the hangover was demanding attention and he automatically admitted that he often heard voices. Under the pressure of questioning, while wondering if his head was really as hollow as it felt, he went into some detail on the voices and what they said. By the time he realized what was happening it was too late. He was classified as an unstable personality and was being ushered through the door reserved for those who weren't wanted.

* * * * *

Broke, hungry, and considerably vexed at being called an unstable personality, especially since everything now combined to make him feel like one, Kevan MacGreene walked through the streets of Greenwich Village. It was in this mood that he arrived on the corner where Fourth Street unaccountably crosses Twelfth Street. Standing there for a minute, he happened to glance up and see the sign over one of the buildings:

TROUBLESHOOTERS, INC.

Below that, in smaller letters, it said:

_Come in._

Kevan MacGreene went in.

The girl at the desk was lovely beyond words. Her hair was like black velvet and her eyes were an emerald green. Just looking at her made Kevan MacGreene feel better.

"I have some troubles I'd like shot," he said, saying the first thing that came into his aching head.

The girl smiled with a distant friendliness. "Do you mean you'd like to employ us?" she asked.

"No," said Kevan MacGreene, realizing what it was that he did want. "I'd like you to employ me."

"I'm sorry," the girl said, "but I'm afraid there are no positions open--none, at least, that you could fill."

"But I need a job," Kevan said. "I--I gave up my last job because I thought I was going to be drafted. Now I have no job and I'm broke. And the draft board rejected me because I hear voices."

For the first time, the black-haired girl looked interested. "What kind of voices?" she asked.

"Thin little piping voices," Kevan said. He didn't know why but he felt that she would understand. "Most of the time I can't understand what they're saying. Sometimes they sing. Like this." Wincing from the pain in his head, Kevan sang in the highest pitch he could reach. "_Gie brownie coat, gie brownie sark, ye'll get nae mair o' brownie's wark._" He stopped and looked at the girl. Her smile was warmer.

"What's your name?" she asked.

"Kevan MacGreene."

She nodded. "I'll see," she said. She picked up the phone and pressed a button. He could hear the faint buzz in the inner office. "There's a young man here," she said into the phone, "looking for a job. He says his name is Kevan MacGreene and that he hears voices." She listened a minute and then put the phone down.

"He'll see you," she said. "Go in." She indicated the door beyond her desk.

Kevan stopped beside the desk and glanced down at the hair that was like a raven's wing. "What's your name?" he asked.

"Kathleen Culanna."

"Ah," he said, "I knew there was a reason for the green in your eyes and the harp's song in your voice. Will you have dinner with me tonight?"

"Go along with you," the girl said, but there was no rebuke in her voice. "He's waiting for you."

"Will you have dinner with me tonight?"

"Ask me when you come back," the girl said. "If I'm still here, I will."

"I'll be back," he said. He walked through the door and closed it behind him. He stopped there, gazing at the man who sat at the desk in the small room.

He was a short man, with a face Kevan thought of as jolly even though it seemed pinched with worry. Tufts of golden blond hair ringed a bald head, resembling a halo. He looked up from his cluttered desk and studied Kevan.

"MacGreene, is it?" he said finally. "Where were you born?"

"In New York," Kevan answered, wondering at the question.

"And your father?"

"Fergus MacGreene. He was born in the old country, Ulster, I think, but he became a citizen as soon as he could after arriving here." He wondered if this was some sort of loyalty check.

"You hear voices, do you?" the little man asked.

"I do," Kevan said shortly, thinking that it had been a mistake to mention it. "As did my mother, and her mother before her. But it's never interfered with a job I've held."

"Of course not." The worried expression was fading from his face. "You're hired. My name is Brian Shanachie."

"But--but I don't understand," Kevan said. He was feeling confused and he wasn't sure whether it was the hangover or the company. "Don't you want to know my qualifications?"

"You've already told me," said Brian Shanachie. "Your name's MacGreene and you hear voices. What more could I ask--even though it's true I'm in a bit of a pinch? Here I was, with every one of my men out on a job and me with an emergency on my hands, when, Finbheara be praised, in you walked. You'll be quite ready to go to work at once?"

* * * * *

Kevan MacGreene was more confused than ever, but a generous streak of stubbornness came to his aid. "You may be satisfied," he said, dropping into the chair in front of the desk, "but I want to know something about the job before I take it. What does Troubleshooters, Inc., do?"

"You don't know?" the little man asked in surprise.

Kevan shook his head, an act which painfully reminded him of his headache.

"Oh, well," sighed Brian Shanachie, "but it'll have to be brief. There is an emergency. Tell me, Kevan MacGreene, you know of the Little People?"

It was Kevan's turn to be surprised. "Gnomes?" he asked.

"Gnomes, dwarfs, brownies, leprechauns, fairies, druids, apuku, the Wanagemeswak, it matters little what you call them. You know of them?"

"My mother used to tell me about them," Kevan said, "but she was a woman without education. I've been through college and while they are interesting legends--"

"Agh!" interrupted Brian Shanachie. "There's the trouble with the world. Too much education in the wrong things. If it weren't for people like you, Kevan MacGreene, who've given up the old ways, I wouldn't have to be working here, slaving away all hours--"

It was obvious that he was working himself into a rage, so Kevan interrupted. "Okay, so there _are_ Little People," he said. He thought he might as well humor his prospective employer. He glanced at him more closely. "Don't tell me you're one? You're too big."

"Too big for a gnome, too small for a mortal," said Brian Shanachie, his humor restored, "No, I'm neither. My father was the son of Finbheara himself, but my mother was a mortal. So I am well suited for this job."

"Which is what?"

"I'm telling you," said Brian Shanachie, with a scowl. "In the days when people had enough sense to believe in the Little People, diplomatic relations were handled on an individual basis. The individual who aroused the anger of a gnome would himself put out an offering of milk, with perhaps a wee drop of brandy in it, or offer him a new cloak and hood. But with the coming of such fine education that the Little People were forgotten there was a problem. It was then that my little organization was started. More properly it should be known as the Bureau of Mortal-Gnomic Adjustments, but there are too many non-believers who would only plague me with their silly questions, so I called it Troubleshooters, Inc."

"But what do you do?" Kevan asked. He had a strange feeling that the more it was explained the less he understood.

"Adjust matters between mortals and gnomes, of course," snapped the other. He picked up some papers on his desk. "Now, take the case I'm assigning you to, the emergency--I'm putting it in the files as The Case of the Gnome's Gneiss...."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Gneiss," said Brian Shanachie with some irritation. "G-N-E-I-S-S. Everybody certainly knows what gneisses are."

"I don't."

"College education," the little man sneered. "Gneisses are rocks made of thin layers of minerals. Now, a gnome, or a dwarf, if you prefer--he's been called both--named Alviss is one of the finest gneiss-makers in the world. Recently, he had just finished what he considered his masterpiece, a gneiss composed of some fifteen different minerals, and all of fifty feet long, when directly over the spot where it was located an atom bomb test was held. You can imagine the results. The gneiss was cracked beyond repair. Alviss, with certain provocation you must admit, is angry. In fact, he grows angrier every minute and I understand that he is on the verge of declaring open war against all mortals."

"So what?" asked Kevan. "What could he do?"

"What could he do?" echoed Brian Shanachie in horror. "Why, there is no end to what he could do. Sour milk, make cows go dry, put changelings in the place of mortal infants, make the hens lay square eggs. Water might run uphill, hens would crow and roosters cackle, and the sun set in the east. And that, mind you, would be only the work of Alviss. If the others of the Little People helped him, and fully half of them would have to, then you can imagine the chaos.

"No, it's obvious Alviss must be appeased and since the ones who dropped the bomb will not do so, it is up to us to avert the war."

"Why not just explain to--er--Alviss that it was all a mistake?" Kevan suggested.

"'Twouldn't do. Alviss is a sensitive one, as you will see, and it'll take more than that to make him forget his grudge."

"As I will see?"

"Certainly," said Brian Shanachie, nodding his head. "It is you who will go to see Alviss."

* * * * *

It wasn't that Kevan MacGreene was willing to so quickly forego his skepticism and embrace a belief in the Little People, but his head hurt too much to argue and he was in a mood to take what came along and let things work themselves out.

"But what do I do after I see him?" he asked.

"Find out what will keep him peaceful and, if it's within reason, give it to him. If it isn't, then you may have to appeal to the Council of Gnomes, or even to the four kings. I'll be giving you this--" Brian Shanachie came around the desk and fixed what seemed to be a small metal flower in the lapel of Kevan's coat--"by which you can discuss any settlement with me. All you have to do is shout my name and the contact will be made. It is also possible for me to deliver to you, by teleportation, certain mortal materials when they will aid in adjustments. I remember one time when peace was made with Sindri, over the matter of a mortal who tried to steal his treasure, with the presentation of a radio.... But now get along with you, Kevan MacGreene."

"Just a minute," said Kevan, "how much does this job pay?"

"Enough in mortal money that you'll have no complaint," Brian Shanachie snapped. "Be gone with you."

"Where?" Kevan asked. "I mean how do I get there?"

Brian Shanachie looked surprised, then nodded. "Of course, you wouldn't know, would you? I best look it up, to be sure that we still have it right." He took a thick book from his desk, thumbing through it rapidly while muttering to himself. Then he nodded again. "Yes, 'tis still in the proper alignment. And all you have to do, my boy, is walk through yon door."

For the first time, Kevan noticed another door in the office near to the chair in which he sat. He stood up and looked at it uncertainly.

"But be sure and watch the first step," said Brian Shanachie. "It's been a bit broken since the time Regin came to see me and stomped on the step instead of knocking."

"But how do I find Alviss after I get through the door?" Kevan wanted to know.

"Ask," said Brian Shanachie. "You can ask anyone--no, but better, perhaps since you're a new employee you'd best first go and pay your respects to Finbheara, Iubdan, Geanncanac, and Daoine Glas, the four kings. They'll be sure to know where you can find Alviss. Run along with you."

II

Taking a deep breath, Kevan MacGreene put his hand on the door knob and opened it. Then he stepped through.

He felt his foot strike the edge of something solid and then he was falling. He tried to twist and grab, but there was nothing to grab. Down he went--falling, it seemed, slowly and interminably--until finally he landed with a thump. Looking around, he realized he was sitting on the ground of a forest. There was an eerie look to the trees around him, their limbs twisting skyward, their leaves looking like green woven silk.

Sitting there on the ground, Kevan MacGreene became aware of the most startling thing. His hangover was gone as if it had never existed. That, more than anything, made him decide to believe that he was in the land of the Little People. He'd had many a hangover, but never had one vanished so quickly and painlessly.

"It's a pity you wouldn't watch where you're falling," a voice said peevishly.

Kevan looked around, but saw nothing except the trees. "Where are you?" he asked cautiously.

"Right here," answered the voice. And it did sound as though it was right beside him.

"I can't see you," he said.

"Of course, you can't," snapped the voice. "That's because I'm looking at you. Oh, all right, I'll turn, although I don't know why I should."

Then in front of Kevan's eyes there suddenly appeared a little man, no more than two feet high. His face, in profile, was sharp and pointed.

"How did you do that?" Kevan asked with interest.

"Do what?"

"You were invisible. Then suddenly you were visible."

"I wasn't anything of the kind," the little man said. "I was merely looking at you. When I'm looking at you, you can't see me. When you can see me, I can't see you--but I don't start making nasty cracks about you being invisible."

"Why?"

"Because I'm good-natured," grumbled the gnome.

"No, I mean why can't I see you if you're looking at me?"

"Because I'm one of the Wanagemeswak of Penobscot," the gnome announced with pride. "I'm so thin that mortals can only see me when I'm in profile. So when I turn to look at you, you can't see me. Like this." The gnome's head slowly turned to face Kevan--and then it vanished. "Now do you understand?" asked the voice.

Kevan MacGreene blinked his eyes rapidly and then switched his gaze to one of the more solid-looking trees.

"No," he said, "but don't try to explain it to me again. I'm afraid I'd only understand less than I do now. But, if you will, you can tell me how to find the four kings."

"Oh, sure," said the voice. "Just go straight down this path and turn left at the third snail. You can't miss it after that."

"Thanks," said Kevan, waving one hand toward the spot where he thought the gnome was. He set out in the direction indicated, keeping a sharp watch-out for snails.

As Kevan MacGreene walked through the forest, he became aware of the sounds about him. From every side flooded the songs of birds. Somewhere ahead of him two squirrels barked indignantly at each other. He caught sight of huge antlers as a deer crashed through the underbrush to his right. But having lived all of his life in New York City, Kevan was not attuned to these new sounds.

"Noisy place," he said to himself. "It's interesting to visit a place like this, but I'd certainly hate to live here."

After what seemed like a long walk, he sighted his third snail and turned left. For a moment he considered speaking to the snail, remembering that in all the stories he'd heard speech was standard equipment for all forms of life in fairyland, but he refrained because of the petulant look on the snail's face.

The new path seemed well-worn and he strode along at a fast pace. It wasn't long before he saw an impressive castle ahead. Long before he reached it, he could hear the sound of loud and quarrelsome voices coming from it. He wondered if this was the beginning of the riot he was to quell and hesitated. But only for a minute.

"I'll be damned," he muttered under his breath, "if any two-foot fugitive from a Walt Disney movie is going to scare me." He set his jaw grimly and marched on.

* * * * *

When he entered the castle, Kevan MacGreene found himself in what was obviously the throne room. There were four elegant thrones, all empty. From in front of the thrones came the loud voices, even more shrill now that he was nearer. His eyes became accustomed to the dim light and Kevan saw four little old men. They were alike as four peas in a pod. None of them was more than two feet in height, although each wore a peaked hat which gave the illusion of adding eight or ten inches. Each of them had a long white beard, almost reaching the floor. At the moment, four faces were screwed up in rage, while four fists shook themselves in the air.

"Isn't it a grand brawl?" asked a voice near Kevan. He turned and saw another gnome, his eyes fixed admiringly on the four old men.

"What's wrong with them?" Kevan asked.

"There's nothing wrong with them," the other said. "'Tis but a bit of an argument. They're just working themselves up to the interesting stage."

"What are they arguing about?"

"Sure and it's the same old argument--which of them has the longest beard. It's been going on ever since Finbheara endorsed Macushla's Magic Beard Groom, claiming that he had the longest beard in all Midgard. Iubdan brought suit in the Court of the Leprechauns to prove Finbheara a liar, but then Geanncanac and Daoine Glas called both of them liars and so it started."

"Do you think it'll last long?" Kevan asked anxiously.

"Until there's not a hair left on the chin of a one of them," the gnome said with anticipation. "Then they'll retire for a few hours until their beards grow back--and they'll be at it again. Isn't it heavenly?"

"I was hoping to ask them where to find someone," Kevan said.

The gnome turned and looked up at Kevan, who in turn noted that since he could still see the little man he must not be of the Wanagemeswak.

"You're a mortal," said the gnome in tones of accusation.

"Yes," confessed Kevan.

"Then, by the same reasoning," continued the gnome, "it must be that you were sent here by Brian Shanachie and that it's Alviss you're looking for. Now, that will be a donnybrook for fair when you find him. I've a notion to go with you."

"It'll really amount to very little," Kevan said hastily. "I'm sure you'll find this much more interesting. But you could tell me how to find Alviss."

The gnome seemed to be debating with himself, but renewed shrieks of rage from the other side of the throne room drew his gaze back there. He jerked a thumb in the direction from which Kevan had come. "Across the way and into the hill," he said.

Kevan MacGreene stepped back outdoors and saw a small brass door set in the hill. He walked across and entered. As the door swung shut behind him, he found himself in a tunnel running straight back through the hill. It was dimly lighted, but Kevan managed to make his way along it--with some difficulty, however, since he had to walk stooped over to keep from bumping his head.

After walking for some time, around numerous twists and bends, Kevan heard the murmur of a voice somewhere ahead. As he proceeded, it became louder. Finally, he rounded a turn in the tunnel and saw a small, stocky dwarf busily stirring a huge cauldron with one hand while with the other he kept throwing various ingredients into the steaming pot. It was he who muttered and Kevan could now make out the words.

"A pinch of chlorite, a bit of mica, some biotite, spoon of felspar; a little graphite, and now amphibole, dust with kyanite, and top with idocrase--"

"What's idocrase?" Kevan asked.

"_Don't do that!_" screamed the little man. He whirled around, molten rock dripping from the spoon in his hand, to glare at Kevan, his bushy red beard bristling with anger.

"I merely asked what idocrase is," Kevan said mildly.

"You didn't have to sneak up on me like that. And any fool knows that idocrase is a hydrous silicate of calcium and aluminum and that you can't bake a decent gneiss without it." His eyes suddenly narrowed as he took in Kevan's size. "You're a mortal," he said.

* * * * *

Kevan nodded. The little man reached behind him, grabbed a pickaxe and came up swinging. Kevan MacGreene leaped to one side only in time.

"Wait a minute," he yelled. "I claim diplomatic immunity."

The dwarf stopped short and glared. "Diplomatic immunity?" he said. "What's that?"

"It means you're not allowed to attack me," said Kevan. "Brian Shanachie sent me here on a diplomatic errand."

It was plain that the dwarf saw no reason for restraining his anger, but he was sufficiently uncertain to hold back. "Brian Shanachie should mind his own business," he growled.

"Now, I'm looking for Alviss...."

"I'm Alviss."

"Good," Kevan said. He had no idea of how to go about adjusting the matter which he'd been sent to fix, but he had determined on a firm course. "Now, what seems to be the matter, Alviss?" he asked briskly.

"Matter?" repeated Alviss, his voice going up a few octaves. For a moment, it looked as if he might succumb to his rage, but he controlled it. "I made the finest gneiss that has ever been formed in the entire history of Midgard. No sooner had it hardened than you mortals came along and cracked it right down the center."

"But it was an accident," Kevan said. "An atom bomb was being tested and it was by accident that they happened to set it off over your work. You see, these atom bomb tests are a part of our national defense program--"

"So it's defending yourselves you are," Alviss said grimly. "Then you can just defend yourselves against me."

"I'm sure," Kevan said, "that the Combined Command would have been more careful but--well, I'm afraid that the truth of the matter is that the Army doesn't officially believe in gnomes."

"They don't, eh?" said Alviss with a nasty grin. "Then they'll have nobody to blame but themselves when their fine bombs bounce back in their laps and when the barrels of their guns turn to rubber and drop the bullets at their feet."