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appeared in his forehead. When he spoke again, there was an appreciable
coolness in his manner. More businesslike, infinitely less friendly and
playful. A bit more menacing.
 All sorts of items, he said.  Complete set of books listed in the
Index Librorum
Prohibitorum, including Bergson s  L Evolution Créatrice. Cloak of
invisibility. Just got in a fresh supply of black cobra blood from the Dinka;
best black cobra blood on the market, you know; southern Sudanese; just smear
some on the houseposts of your enemies. One hundred per cent guaranteed to
produce incredible anguish and death. Love philters. Antigravitation discs.
Dildos. Pills you can drop in your gas tank, just add water and it makes pure
octane.
Just name it, we ve got it.
For the first time the young man spoke.  When I leave here, will this shop
vanish the way they do in the stories?
 I m afraid so, yes.
 Why do they always do that?
The old man sighed.  You know, you re the first one who ever asked me that.
But he didn t answer the question.
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He walked toward a case filled with small objects.  Hey, come on over here.
Maybe we have something in here to suit your fancy.
The young man scratched at his chest where his shirt lay open minus a button.
He scratched at a bug bite. It was an angry red welt. He walked to the
showcase and looked in.
Eyes of newts. Toes of frogs. Other things.
They stood silently on opposite sides of the case for a few minutes. Finally
in a strong young voice, the old man said,  Okay, bud, what s your heart s
desire?
The young man did not look up.  Power, he said.
 What kind of power?
 I want people to do what I want them to do.
 That s easy enough. The old man reached into the case and brought out a
black velvet pad on which lay a group of stones. They seemed to glisten and
scintillate as though encrusted with dendrites.  Powerstones, the old man
said.  To make others do your bidding.
Two bucks a shot.
The young man looked up.  Why so cheap?
The old man shrugged. He gave a little laugh that was no, laugh at all.
 Cheapest things in the universe. Two dollars each is a good price.
The young man reached for an octagonal-shaped stone. The old man stopped him
with a word.  No! The young man pulled back his hand. The old man picked up
another one, diamondshaped.  Here. This one.
 What was wrong with the other one?
 Wouldn t have served your need. Take my word for it, this s the one you want.
Two dollars. A steal at twice the price.
The young man took it from him. It was warm to the touch. He closed his fist
around it. The heat grew in his palm. He opened his hand and stared down at
the glowing rock.  How do I use it?
 Just carry it with you. Heat it in your hand from time to time. It ll do the
rest.
The young man fished around in his jeans pocket, brought up two moist and
wrinkled dollar bills. He gave them to the old man. The old man took the
bills, walked back to the area where the rocking chair sat under the beaded
lamp, and reached into an open drawer. He brought out a ledger and a quill
pen.
 I ll just enter the transaction, he said. He brought the ledger over to the
showcase, laid it down, opened it, and wrote a few words on the first empty
line. He looked up from the ledger; the young man didn t like the look at all.
 I ll need a tear, the old man said.
 A tear?
 Yes, a tear.
 Not blood?
 Beg pardon?
 Sign these things in blood; isn t that supposed to be the way of it?
 Just a tear, thank you.
 And how do I do that?
 No problem.
The young man suddenly felt his eyes well up with tears. One rolled down his
face, hung from his chin for a moment and then dropped onto the glass of the
showcase.  Very good, the old man said, and dipped the quill in the tear. He
wrote a few more words.
He closed the ledger slowly, and looked at the young man.  That s it, he
said.
 Anything else? In fact, it was a dismissal. The young man paused a moment,
as if trying to brazen out the instant; but the old man quite clearly did not
want him in the shoppe any longer. He turned toward the door. It was clear
afternoon out there. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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