FSF Magazine, August 2007 Read online

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  Copyright ©2007 by Spilogale, Inc.

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  THE MAGAZINE OF

  FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION

  August * 58th Year of Publication

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  NOVELLAS

  MURDER IN THE FLYING VATICAN by Albert E. Cowdrey

  NOVELETS

  AT THESE PRICES by Esther M. Friesner

  A WIZARD OF THE OLD SCHOOL by Chris Willrich

  SHORT STORIES

  THE MOLE CURE by Nancy Farmer

  THE TOMB WIFE by Gwyneth Jones

  DEPARTMENTS

  BOOKS TO LOOK FOR by Charles de Lint

  MUSING ON BOOKS by Michelle West

  FILMS: AND THE HOLLYWOOD by Kathi Maio

  RATHES OUTGRABE

  COMING ATTRACTIONS

  CURIOSITIES by F. Gwynplaine MacIntyre

  COVER BY TOMISLAV TIKLUN FOR “MURDER IN THE FLYING VATICAN”

  GORDON VAN GELDER, Publisher/Editor

  BARBARA J. NORTON, Assistant Publisher

  ROBIN O'CONNOR, Assistant Editor

  KEITH KAHLA, Assistant Publisher

  HARLAN ELLISON, Film Editor

  JOHN J. ADAMS, Assistant Editor

  CAROL PINCHEFSKY, Contests Editor

  JOHN M. CAPPELLO, Newsstand Circulation

  The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction (ISSN 1095-8258), Volume 113, No. 2 Whole No. 664, August 2007. Published monthly except for a combined October/November issue by Spilogale, Inc. at $4.50 per copy. Annual subscription $50.99; $62.99 outside of the U.S. Postmaster: send form 3579 to Fantasy & Science Fiction, PO Box 3447, Hoboken, NJ 07030. Publication office, 105 Leonard St., Jersey City, NJ 07307. Periodical postage paid at Hoboken, NJ 07030, and at additional mailing offices. Printed in U.S.A. Copyright © 2007 by Spilogale, Inc. All rights reserved.

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  GENERAL AND EDITORIAL OFFICE: PO BOX 3447, HOBOKEN, NJ 07030

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  CONTENTS

  At These Prices by Esther M. Friesner

  Books To Look For by Charles de Lint

  Musing on Books by Michelle West

  Murder in the Flying Vatican by Albert E. Cowdrey

  Films by Kathi Maio

  The Mole Cure by Nancy Farmer

  A Wizard of the Old School by Chris Willrich

  The Tomb Wife by Gwyneth Jones

  Coming Attractions

  Fantasy&ScienceFiction MARKET PLACE

  Curiosities: Star Begotten: A Biological Fantasia, by H. G. Wells (1937) by Gwynplaine MacIntyre

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  At These Prices by Esther M. Friesner

  Esther Friesner's last story to appear in our pages was “Helen Remembers the Stork Club” (Oct/Nov. 2005). She kicks off this month's issue on a light note.

  The timing could have been better, Bixby thought as he knocked smartly at the door of one of the Hotel Tiernan's rooms. Still, this shouldn't take too long. I've only to inform Ms. Franklin that our other guests have been complaining about the noise since eight this morning. No doubt she'll be happy to cooperate.

  From the far side of the door came a monstrous squeaking of bedsprings accompanied by a hostile, exasperated, “Oh, what now?"

  Or not. Bixby knocked again, more insistently. This produced “Who is it?” demanded in a tone of voice that added, GO AWAY!

  Going away was not an option, not with the ease of so many other hotel guests at stake. He knocked a third time and in a crisp, no-nonsense voice announced, “Management, ma'am!"

  "Management?” There was a moment's hesitation, then: “Come in!"

  Bixby paused only long enough to check the pocket mirror he always carried. The gratifying reflection of a portly, presentable, fiftyish man, round-faced and ruddy-cheeked, dark of hair and eye, looked back at him. This was no vanity issue. Hotel Tiernan policy dictated that looks did matter, especially for face-to-face work with the public. Satisfied that his appearance was a credit to his beloved employer, Bixby pocketed the mirror, touched his master key into the lock, and entered the room.

  He was immediately confronted by the spectacle of Ms. Bella Franklin, clad in a tatty blue robe and nightgown, fluffy bunny-slippers on her feet, sprawled prone across the large, unlatched valise teetering on the bed. It took a mere instant for Bixby to deduce what was going on. Obviously the lady had been struggling with the unruly piece of luggage for quite some time, using every trick in the veteran suitcase-packer's handbook. Finally she'd pulled out the big guns, holding on tight and body-slamming it repeatedly, which caused the mattress and box spring beneath to evoke a torrid bout of romantic rapture. She looked to be in no mood for uninvited callers, but too bad about that. He had a job to do, and quickly. Time was passing, and some things couldn't—daren't—wait.

  "Good morning, ma'am,” he said. “My name is Bixby.” He tapped the silver name badge pinned to the lapel of his trim gray suit. “There have been four calls to the front desk concerning the untoward level of noise coming from this room. I am here to inquire whether I might be of some assistance in resolving matters to the satisfaction of all our valued guests."

  Bella gasped, all the while keeping her starfished hold on the green valise. “Are you implying what I think you are?"

  "Ma'am?” Bixby raised one impeccable eyebrow.

  "You thought I was canoodling! Well, I never!” (Bixby wondered if that were entirely true.) “You ought to be ashamed of yourself!"

  "Ma'am, I assure you, I made no such conjecture,” Bixby replied in his most soothing voice. “I merely came to look into the source of the complaints from—"

  "The source happens to be this suitcase,” Bella exclaimed, her drab brown hair bedraggled, her sallow cheeks dappled with splotches of red as she bounced on the recalcitrant luggage. “And if this hotel were worth even one tenth the outrageous prices you charge, you'd be trying to help me get it locked instead of standing there, making vile accusations!"

  "Er, I'll do my best, ma'am.” Bixby motioned for her to descend from the valise so that he might take a stab at shutting it. She clambered off slowly, her hands exerting constant pressure on the lid. He tried to work around her, but it proved impossible. At last he said, “Ma'am, why don't you step back and let me do this?"

  Bella's face hardened. “It's my suitcase."

  "Ma'am, I'm not arguing the point. I only mean that it would be easier to close if you'd let me—"

  "I didn't ask for your help,” Bella said stiffly.

  "Ma'am, you did."

  It was the truth, but that didn't stop her from snorting it to scorn. “I didn't send for you. I'm checking out this morning. I was trying to pack while waiting for my coffee to brew.” She didn't dare remove her hands from the suitcase, so a nod of the head was all she could manage to direct his attention toward the little in-room coffee maker, merrily burbling away on the dresser.

  "Coffee?” Bixby's gaze sought out the coffee maker and clamped onto the miniature glass carafe. A disquieting look of yearning crept into his eyes. He licked his lips and inhaled the scent of brewing beans as though he meant to draw the rich aroma into the depths of his soul. “Ahhhh...
. “His voice quivered. “Yes. Yes, of course. Very efficient of you, I'm sure."

  "It was, until you showed up and started making trouble.” Bella was too busy keeping her righteous indignation at full throttle to give Bixby's odd behavior more than passing notice. “If I weren't here for the Speranza Storm Cosmetics convention, I'd never stay in this exorbitant excuse for a hotel. A midtown Manhattan location is not a license for price gouging! Even your so-called group rates are ridiculous. The rooms are tiny, the amenities are pathetic, and the only time anyone takes an interest in a guest's needs is when the guest has absolutely no need of—"

  That was when the suitcase exploded. Despite Bella's unfailing pressure on the lid, the unhappy bit of baggage abruptly succumbed to the even greater pressure from within. It shot out from under her hands, skidded across the bed, and hit the nearest wall, bursting open like a giant milkweed pod and spraying its contents all over the room. The recoil catapulted Bella to the floor.

  Bixby regarded the aftermath of the eruption with a look that was equal parts astonishment and begrudging admiration. His unsettling fascination with the coffee maker was gone, blasted to oblivion by the spectacle of what Bella's burst suitcase had unleashed. The first thing he picked up was the hair dryer.

  "That's mine!” Bella croaked. Though she was still a little groggy from her recent tumble, her eyes were two slits of steely purpose, focused on the appliance dangling in Bixby's grasp.

  "Ma'am, you must be mistaken.” He spoke calmly but firmly. “As you can see, this one has the hotel name clearly marked on the handle. Now, as for the soap dish—” He poked the toe of his perfectly shined Oxford at the aforementioned bathroom accessory where it lay half-hidden under a flutter of hotel stationery.

  "Don't you dare go through my personal belongings!” Bella clawed her way up the side of the bed. As she gained the summit, her fingers closed upon a little bottle of shampoo, one of about three dozen scattered over the sheets of the unmade bed. (It would stay unmade, in its present condition: The blanket and duvet were across the room, spilling out of the suitcase.) “I suppose now you're going to claim that after the price I've paid to lease this dump, I can't have this?” She waved the bottle at Bixby.

  "Ms. Franklin,” he said, attempting to pour laudanum on troubled waters. “Ms. Franklin, ma'am, I believe we are both the victims of an innocent misunderstanding as to, er, boundaries. Small items that are not reusable, such as soaps and such, are yours to keep with our compliments, although we do prefer you take only the ones left in your room.” He eyed the strewn trove of mouthwash, bath gel, body lotion, and hair conditioner and murmured, “So that's why we found the maid's cart stripped bare.” Then, aloud: “As for larger things such as this.... “Holding the hair dryer with one hand, he plucked a plush hotel bathrobe from the wreckage with the other. “They're not yours for the taking."

  With a sound midway between a growl and a whimper, Bella flung herself at the bathrobe and tore it from Bixby's grasp. “That's mine,” she said. “I brought it with me."

  Bixby took a deep, centering breath. “Ma'am, perhaps you've confused this robe with your own. Look here.” He reclaimed one corner of the disputed garment so that Bella had no choice but to see the hotel's embroidered logo.

  "I bought this robe the last time I stayed here!” Bella maintained. “I've never been so insulted in all my life. Get out of my room this instant, before I call the police!"

  "By all means, ma'am,” Bixby replied. His voice had lost its softness. “I have—” a garden of perspiration blossomed all over his face “—other obligations at this hour. Pressing ones. It is almost ten o'clock. That hour is sacrosanct to me, and I will settle this business with you by then, one way or another. Call the police. And the sooner, the better."

  "You've got your nerve,” Bella said, but made no move toward the phone.

  Bixby permitted himself a brief smile. “Ma'am, I am not your enemy. I agree that hotel prices in New York City are rather high, that frugality is a virtue, and that your blind determination to get full value for money spent is admirable, in its own way. However, when misguided frugality oversteps the bounds—"

  Bella laid one hand to her bosom. “Oh my God, you're calling me a thief! You're saying I stole from this glorified flop-house when all I did was take a few teensy little legal freebies.” She pointed at her ruptured luggage. The tray that had once reposed under the ice bucket peeked out from beneath the purloined duvet. A matched set of four drinking glasses glinted from their towel-swathed safety inside the ice bucket (tongs included) formerly located atop the mini-bar.

  "No decent hotel would think twice about something this trivial,” she went on. “At these prices you should be giving me free spa treatments, not false accusations. It's slander! Libel! I'll sue you until you're blue in the face! I'll—” She paused abruptly and gave Bixby a look of deep puzzlement. Her wrath dropped away, replaced by genuine concern as she asked: “Pardon me, but did you know that you are blue in the face? Blue-gray, actually, but—"

  An alarm went off in Bixby's pants. It was his cell phone, chiming the hour of ten. “Curse you, you froth-mouthed wench!” he roared. His abrupt transformation from hotel hireling to slate-faced madman made Bella yelp. “Your endless babblings have undone me! By the blesséd Mill, the Holy Hour is upon me, and no hope at all of succor unless I find—"

  He paused in midrant. His nostrils twitched. His frantic eyes swept the room, alighting once more on the little coffee maker. He took one unsteady step toward it, reaching out like Galahad vouchsafed a vision of the Grail.

  "Ma'am,” he said in a tremulous voice. “Ma'am, forgive my outburst. I—I assure you, all will be well if you will only give me permission to have—to have just one—just one small cup of—"

  Bella's gaze followed Bixby's own to the object of his desire. “Coffee?” she said, puzzled at the fuss. With brisk competence she strode over to the carafe, filled the one hotel mug not residing in the wreckage of her suitcase, and thrust it upon him.

  Bixby raised the cup with shaking hands that had begun to go ashen and gnarled. A general air of gauntness was slowly creeping over his entire body, but as soon as he downed the first sip, his skin regained its rosy radiance, flesh again amply padded his bones, the shakes fled from his limbs, and a smile of pure contentment lit his face.

  Then he took the second sip, and a look of utter horror overcame him. “This—this isn't—this isn't Tiernan House Blend!"

  Bella rolled her eyes and yanked a handful of brewing packets out of the pockets of the almost-purloined robe. “I suppose you're going to tell me that I can't take the coffee with me, either?"

  "If those are our complimentary coffee packets, then what in the name of the blesséd Mill did I just drink?” Bixby cried.

  "My coffee. I always bring a couple of extra packs with me, older stuff I picked up on other trips. Trips when I stayed at good hotels,” Bella added, unable to resist getting in a jab.

  Bixby was beyond insults. He had the look of a man steeped neck-deep in Fate. Dismay died, resignation remained, together with the noble resolution to make the best of a god-awful situation. He ceremoniously raised the mug to his lips and drained it dry. He then fell to one knee and offered up the empty cup to Bella.

  "Hey, if you want a refill, get it yourself. I'm not your servant!"

  "Nay, but I am yours. For behold, you have brought me the sacred brew out of your own possession and stores, and of my own free will have I drunk it. Thus have I wiped out all past allegiances cemented by this selfsame sacred beverage. For in sooth, just as the used grounds, of hallowed memory, are cast away when their purpose is done, so too does each fresh brewing renew and remake all the bonds that unite master with—"

  "If I give you more coffee, will you shut up?” Bella cut in.

  Bixby raised his eyes to hers. “I will do more than that, milady, if that is what you want."

  "What I want,” Bella said harshly, “is to be out of this loony bin, back in my own
home, with no more stupid hassles about a few eensy-weensy, legitimate souvenirs.” She spread her hands, indicating the filched flotsam that had spurted from her valise.

  Bixby sprang to his feet, tugged his forelock, and said, “At your service, milady.” With that, he scurried to the broken suitcase and fixed it in a breath, using two paperclips and a keychain. He then repacked it quickly and skillfully, even prying two framed art prints off the wall and adding them to the plunder.

  Bella gaped as Bixby shut the suitcase. It wasn't so much that he got it to close with all that swag inside, but how he closed it: No-hands. All he used was an alien word of power and a snap of his well-manicured fingers. “What did you—? How did you—? Did I just see—? Am I going nuts or what?"

  "Nay, milady, you are not mad; I swear it by the blesséd Mill which grinds the beans of bliss exceeding small.” Bixby was back on one knee again, his head bowed low. When he lifted it, his face had changed from that of a middle-aged man to something out of the Middle Ages, no man by any means. Such a face belonged outside a great cathedral, with a rainspout in its mouth. Bella took one look at Bixby's cloud-gray skin and grotesque features—goggling eyes worthy of a purebred Boston bull-terrier, lips that stretched from ear to pointed, flapping ear, a nose like a healthy young eggplant—and exclaimed, “What the hell are you?"

  "Your humble and obedient servant, milady,” Bixby replied. “A brownie by birth and breeding, and entirely at your command. Speak, and if my small magics or my strong arms can fulfill your desires, it shall be done."

  To Bella's knowledge, brownies were either pastries or troops of cookie-flogging pipsqueaks, but she was a quick study. “Does that mean I get three wishes?"

  "I'm no genie, milady,” Bixby replied with a shake of his head. “We brownies are domestic sprites whose powers are limited solely to keeping our masters’ homes and hearths in good working order."

  "If you're a house-thingie, what are you doing in a hotel?"