Universe Twister - Keith Laumer [149]
"Yeah—you got it rough, all right, Lafe, being a hero and everything."
"Hero? Me?" O'Leary laughed modestly. "Oh, I'm not really a hero," he assured his companion. "I mean, heroes love danger: they're always dashing around looking for adventure, and that sort of thing. Whereas all I want is peace and quiet."
"You could have peace and quiet easy enough, Lafe. Just turn this rug around and head for the south. I hear there's some nice islands down that way where we could build us a grass hut and live on coconuts and fresh fish—"
"Would that I could, Swinehild. But it's not that easy. First I have to deal with Krupkin/Goruble, the skunk! I just wish I could get my hands on him right now! I'd like to see the look on his face when I tell him I know who he is and what he's up to, and—"
The rug bumped, as if hitting an updraft.
"Look out!" Swinehild cried as something white loomed directly before them. Lafayette yelled a command to the Mark XIII—too late. The carpet banked sharply to the left, struck, plowed through a drift of snow as fine as confectioner's sugar, upended, and went cartwheeling downslope in a cloud of ice crystals. Lafayette was aware of Swinehild's arms clinging to him, of the safety belt cutting into his ribs, of flying snow slashing at him like a sand blaster . . .
With a final sickening drop, the rug came to rest half-buried in loose ice. Lafayette struggled upright, saw moving lights, blurred figures, heard gruff voices, the stamp of hooves . . .
"It's you," a familiar voice blurted. "How—what—when—but most of all, why? I left you snoozing soundly in sybaritic luxury. What are you doing out here in the snow?"
O'Leary blinked away the slush from his eyelashes, gazed blearily up at the anxious visage of Goruble/Krupkin. Behind him, uniformed men stood gaping.
"Thought you'd steal a march, eh?" Lafayette said brokenly. "Well, you won't get away with it, your Former Majesty. I know you—and I know what you're planning . . ." He tugged at the rug, which had somehow wrapped itself around him, but he was bound as tightly as if by ropes.
"S-see here, my boy," Goruble stammered, waving his men back. "Can't we work something out? I mean, you have your cushy spot, why begrudge me mine? It's not easy, you know, having been a king, to revert to mere commonerhood. Why not take the charitable view? With your help, I can be back on the Artesian throne in a lightning coup, after which you'll have your pick of the spoils—or better yet, I'll give you all of Melange, to do with as you will—"
"Forget it," O'Leary said, surreptitiously striving to free an arm. "I have everything I want, back in Artesia. Why would I want to help you?"
"But here you can be absolute owner of everything—the real estate, wildlife, natural resources . . . women . . ."
"Stay in Melange? Are you crazy? I can't wait to get home. I've had nothing but misery since I got here!"
Goruble opened his mouth to speak, hesitated, looked suddenly thoughtful.
"In that case," he asked carefully, "why haven't you done something about it?"
"Well—"
"You were, as I recall, in rather difficult straits when my chaps first apprehended you. And now—well, from the mode of your arrival, it appears that you are perhaps somewhat less than master of your fate." The ex-king rubbed his chin. "You are Lafayette O'Leary—I saw your ring. Only you wear the ax and dragon. But . . . can it be, dear lad"—his voice took on a purr like a tiger about to dine—"that you have in some way lost your valuable ability to manipulate the probabilities at will? Eh?"
"Of course not. I . . . I was just wishing I could have a chat with you, and . . . and here I am."
"Yes—with a mouthful of snow and a number of new contusions that are already beginning to swell, no doubt. Very well, Sir Lafayette: before we discuss matters further, just demonstrate your puissance by, oh, summoning up a cozy little tent, say, complete with camp stove and liquor cabinet, in which we can complete our negotiation."
"Phooey," Lafayette said weakly. "I wouldn't waste