Emperor of Gondwanaland (36 page)

The madam could only sip at her beer and mutely nod. The enormous eye had her in its thrall.

“Well, that’s no way to maximize your merchandise, honey. Your fillies could probably pull twice as many tricks as they do. They’re slackin’ and your purse is hurtin’. But you can thank your natal stars, I’m here to introduce some pure
efficiency
into this operation.”

The beer lubricated the madam’s tongue somewhat. “Huh—how?”

“With this here
sundial
. Just watch this magic baby for a few minutes.”

The madam gazed upon the instrument. The projection caused a slim shadow to fall upon the face where the numbers were. As the sun moved across the sky, so did the shadow, tracing out the hours.

Fascinated, the madam said, “Very intriguing. But what of my busy nighted hours?”

Winking briefly, the Hypmogoogoopizin’ Man said, “Can’t put one over on
you
.” He pulled another device from his clothes: a thing of bowls and floats and a measured bar. “I call this one a
clepsydra
. You’re gonna love it.”

Calculations roiled in the madam’s had. If what this odd fellow promised was true, then she would soon be the richest woman in Thebes. “And your price?”

“Can’t even rightly call it a fee,” said the Hypmogoogoopizin’ Man.

The madam suddenly noticed that somehow her skirt had disappeared. Overhead, the always present yet generally unseen maculations on the sun seemed to float and coalesce in the solar center, turning the celestial orb into a giant eye. The Hypmogoogoopizin’ Man was pressed up against her now, his breath hot in her ear.

“You see, honey chile, I’m just interested in a little widespread
dissemination
.”

3. a.d. 1150

The captain of the Spanish caravel stood on the bridge, which was shrouded in fog as thick as wool on a sheep’s back. He knew the Canaries were out there somewhere. But navigation had become impossible in this witch’s broth.

Looking hopefully over the rail for signs of floating vegetal wrack that might hint at the nearness of land, the captain was startled to see a pale swath of luminescence far below the sea’s surface. As he watched, transfixed, the glowing area grew larger and better defined. Soon its nature was plain: a cyclopean eye the size of a kitchen garden. Bulking around and beyond the eye was the creature it belonged to, some kind of kraken or enormous grampus.

The captain began to pray, aloud and with fervency. He was certain his ship was about to be swamped, that he and his crew were downward bound, their new home the hoary nighted seabed that had claimed so many in the past.

But to the captain’s immense surprise and tentative relief, the underwater monster stopped while still some distance beneath the surface. Movement below seemed to indicate the presence and action of a gigantic tentacle. Then the actual limb broke the surface, swept through the air, and deposited something wetly on the deck. Within seconds the kraken was gone.

Hesitantly, the captain advanced toward the object left on his ship. It appeared to be the clothed corpse of a blackamoor. With trepidation, the captain poked the sodden corpse with a finger.

“Boo!”

The captain shrieked as if the gates of hell had opened in his face, and he fell back. When his mind resumed functioning, he saw that the blackamoor, now standing, was alive and laughing. His only hurt—echoing the monster which had delivered him—seemed to be that his vein-threaded, fluid-packed left eye bulged like a hanged man’s.

When his guffaws ceased, the stranger said, “Sorry, man, I just couldn’t resist!”

The captain’s cry and the blackamoor’s laughter had brought sailors armed with belaying pins and swords. Now the captain’s fear turned abruptly to rage. “Seize this caitiff jester! We’ll see if he laughs so heartily after being clapped in irons and given a sound drubbing!”

The sailors began cautiously to move forward. The stranger appeared untroubled, merely raising a hand of caution.

“Now hold on, boys, you don’t want to come across the wrong side of the Hypmogoogoopizin’ Man, do you?”

The men halted. The name stirred vague ancestral memories, evoked fireside whispers and the obscure tales told by gimlet-eyed grannies.

“Besides, I’m here to offer you and Cappy the neatest piece of maritime science since the invention of the astrolabe. We call it the compass.”

From nowhere the Hypmogoogoopizin’ Man whipped out a shallow bowl with markings around the lip. Held out for their inspection, the bowl proved to contain only water and a cork with a needle laid in a groove. One end of the needle was painted red.

The Hypmogoogoopizin’ Man strode briskly up to the captain. “Which way you figure is north, Sinbad?”

The captain paused thoughtfully, then pointed in a certain direction. The Hypmogoogoopizin’ Man made an offensive buzzing noise, then exclaimed, “Wrong! Look how we align the magic north-loving needle, like so—” The Hypmogoogoopizin’ Man rotated the bowl so that the floating needle lined up with the marking on the bowl’s rim representing north. The Captain regarded the bowl thoughtfully before speaking.

“This is always accurate?”

“Always. Lessen you go near certain geomantic bad spots—but they’re rarer than feet on a snake. Plus, this gadget’s so easy to make. The magic’s contagious to regular iron, by the way—all’s you need is a source of lodestone for the needles. And it just so happens I got this here handy map of lodestone deposits.”

Narrowing his eyes, the captain said, “What do you ask for this miraculous device and information?”

“Not one red cent, cuz. Only that you use my little gift to haul your Euro-asses around the whole globe. Go forth and multiply.
Sub
-ju-gate and
dom
-in-nate, that’s all I’m asking. Just what your nature is set up for anyhow. You see, for what I got in mind, I gotta build me up a critical mass of tech-no-
logical
civ-i-lie-
zay
-shun!”

The captain stuck out his hand. “Done!”

Instead of shaking in the normal fashion, the Hypmogoogoopizin’ Man slapped palms. “Now you’re
talking
! This calls for a little celebration!”

Putting fingers between his lips, the Hypmogoogoopizin’ Man emitted a piercing whistle. Instantly, the sounds of many medium-sized creatures breaking the water were heard. Everyone rushed to the ship’s rails. In the sea floated dozens of beauteous mermaids, their naked bosoms exposed as they rode high on their tails.

“Get your nets, boys!” called the Hypmogoogoopizin’ Man. “It ain’t every day you make a catch like this’un!”

4. a.d. 1878

Illuminated by a crazily flickering, sharp-nippled prototype of his as-yet unperfected “electric light,” Thomas Alva Edison lay on his workbench, napping. It was midnight on Easter Sunday, and his lab was empty of coworkers. Only the dedicated Great Man remained behind, ever diligent, ready after this short restorative to resume his inspired creation. All was quiet and peaceful, until the door to the lab was violendy hurled open.

In strode the Hypmogoogoopizin’ Man, all dancing flash and prancing sass.

“Wake up, T.A.! Time’s a-wastin’! We’re almost there! End of the millennium’s right around the corner, but there’s still a
shitload
of work to be done! Chop-chop!”

Edison came awake quickly. He swung his legs around to dangle off the bench and sat up. “Who are you? What do you want?”

“The Hypmogoogoopizin’ Man don’t want nothing, Eddie. He
causes to be
! Now, rumor has it you’re looking to perfect a device for the recording of sound. ’Zat true?”

“Yes, that is one of the many projects I am working on. What is it to you?”

“I really need you to finish this one quick, Eddie. Move it up to the top of the queue. Lotta important voices and music we gotta get down on wax. It’s all crucial to the plan. Now, I got a few mechanical suggestions involving cylinders and disks and such—”

Edison levered himself off the counter. “Forget it. I don’t take advice or outside help—mercenary pressure least of all. Being steered removes all my intellectual pleasure. If you’re any kind of inventor yourself, you should understand that.”

The Hypmogoogoopizin’ Man cupped his chin with one hand and his elbow with the other. His outsized eye throbbed as if in anticipation of being put to work, then subsided. “Hmmm, you got a point, T.A. I could coerce you, of course—bathe you in the slosh of my optojism—but that might skew the results of your undisturbed creativity somehow, throw all my schemes off. Let me see now—is there any bribe I could offer you to accelerate the phonograph work?”

Edison waved a hand dismissively. “I am confident that my patents will soon bring me all the wealth and power I could use. What else is there?”

“Well, Eddie, I’m talking about your Faustian dee-
lights
, stuff no amount of regular worldly influence could ever get you. Interviews with ghosts, assignations with famous women—”

Now it was Edison’s turn to ruminate. “Women, you say?”

“You name the babe, and she’s yours.”

“Now that my mind moves in that direction, well, I—”

“Spit it out, son. Don’t be shy. We’re all bull moose here.”

Edison took the plunge. “I have always wished to witness Madame Blavatsky engaged in a catfight with Jenny Lind, culminating in Sapphic sex.”

“Is
that
all? I thought you were gonna give me a
challenge
.” The Hypmogoogoopizin’ Man snapped his thick fingers, and the two denominated women appeared, blinking and confused. “In this corner, wearing red knickers and a whalebone corset, the Swedish Nightingale. And her opponent, the lama-robed author of
Isis Unveiled
. Okay, girls, show us what you got.”

Instantly the women dashed at each other and began tussling. Clothes were rent, and hair pulled. The women tumbled to the floor and rolled back and forth in violent struggle. A stool went down with a crash, followed by a rack of test-tubes jostied off a bench.

Fascinated, Edison resumed his seat. The Hypmogoogoopizin’ Man joined him. Reaching beneath his jacket, the monocularly magnanimous mojo man took out a large paper tub.
 

“Popcorn, Eddie?”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

5. The Present

You sit behind the wheel of your speeding car, which is encapsulated as if in a featureless golden cloud.

The hands on the analogue watch on your wrist offer the hour as 13:99.

The needle of a compass suction-cupped to the dashboard is spinning wildly.

You pop a CD into the onboard player; out of the speakers emerge alien wailings in an unknown language.

From the rearview mirror hangs a small stuffed effigy of a black man, pimpishly dressed with one protuberant eye.

The effigy comes alive, winks, and demands: “Now tell me, son: where the
hell
you think you’re
going
?”

V

Counterfactual Curiosities

Lately, the “alternate history” story has become both popular and reviled. SF purists claim that mucking about with historical trivia is not intellectually equal to fabricating vast cosmological speculations or blue-skying biological riffs. Yet many SF readers seem to appreciate stories that use history as a laboratory, showing us how mere accidents of place and person and circumstance can divert the course of the world. At their best, these “uchronias” do indeed serve as rigorous examples of historical speculation. At their worst, they become nothing more than excuses to parade the lives of celebrities across the page, lending the stories a cheap glamour that the author would otherwise have failed to invent by employing an original character.

I’ve probably perpetrated some of each type. Here are three of my counterfactual curiosities so that you may decide for yourself.

The theme of America in decline first appeared at least as long ago as 1889, with John Mitchell’s
The Last American
, in which a triumphant Persia gloats over the ruin of the United States. Since then, America’s possible downfall has become a perennial topic, one that provokes joy in the country’s enemies and despair in her friends. But it’s a useful lesson for both parties to contemplate a world where the United States no longer bestrides the global stage in quite so majestic a manner.

And you just can’t beat the mandatory image of the Statue of Liberty’s torch sticking up out of the sand or ice or water that these stories allow. It’s iconic.

I almost included this story in my
Lost Pages
collection, until I realized that while a famous writer was central to the tale, he wasn’t precisely the protagonist—a prerequisite for inclusion in that volume. Now at last the piece finds a new home, long after the gracious Gordon Linzer first published it.