Goblin Reservation

"You said he was a captive once. And now? Just how closely is he tied to Time?"

"A ward of the college. Not really tied at all. But you couldn't drive him off. He's a more loyal partisan of Time than you are."

"And Ghost? He lives here at Supernatural? He's a ward of Supernatural?"

"Hardly. Ghost is a stray cat. He goes anywhere he wishes., He's got friends all over the planet. He's big stuff, I understand, at the College of Comparative Religions on the Himalayan Campus. But he manages to drop in here on a fairly regular basis. He and Oop hit it off from the moment Supernatural made its first contact with Ghost."

"Pete, you call him Ghost. What is he, really?"

"Why, he is a ghost."

"But what's a ghost?"

"I don't know. I don't think anybody does."

"But you're with Supernatural."

"Oh, sure, but all my work has been with the Little Folk, with emphasis on goblins, although I have an interest in every one of them. Even banshees and there's nothing that comes meaner or more unreasonable than a banshee."

"There must be specialists in ghosts, then. What do they have to say about it?"

"I'd guess they might have a few ideas. There are tons of literature on spookery, but I've never had the time to go into it. I know that back in the early ages it was believed that everyone, when they died, turned into a ghost, but now, I understand, that no longer is believed. There are certain special circumstances that give rise to ghosts, but I don't know what they are."

"That face of his," said Carol. "A little spooky, maybe, but somehow fascinating. I had a hard time to keep from staring at him. Just a dark blankness folded inside his sheet which, I suppose, is not a sheet. And at times a hint of eyes. Little lights that could be eyes. Or was I imagining?"

"No. I've imagined them myself."

"Will you," asked Carol, "grab hold of that fool cat and pull him in a foot or so. He's slipping out onto the faster belt. He has no sense whatever. He'll go to sleep any time, at any place. Eat and sleep is all he thinks about."

Maxwell reached down and tugged Sylvester back into his original position. Sylvester growled and mumbled in his sleep.

Maxwell straightened and leaned back into his chair, looking up into the sky.

"Look at the stars," he said. "There is nothing like the skies of Earth. I'm glad to be back again."

"And now that you're back?"

"After I see you safely home and pick up my luggage, I'm going back to Oop's. He'll have one of those fruit jars all unscrewed and we'll do some drinking and sit and talk till dawn, then I'll get into the bed he has for guests, and he'll curl up on his pile of leaves..."

"I saw those leaves over in the corner and was consumed with curiosity. But I didn't ask."

"He sleeps there all the time. Not comfortable in a bed. After all, when for many years a pile of leaves has been the height of luxury..."

"You're trying to make a fool of me again."

"No, I'm not," said Maxwell. "I'm telling you the truth."

"I didn't mean what will you do tonight. I mean what will you do? You are dead, remember?"

"I'll explain," said Maxwell. "I'll continually explain. Everywhere I go there'll be people who'll want to know what happened. There might even be an investigation of some sort. I sincerely hope there won't, but I suppose there may have to be."

"I'm sorry," Carol said, "but, then, I'm also glad. How fortunate it was that there were two of you."

"If Transport could work it out," said Maxwell, "they might have something they could sell. All of us could keep a second one of us stashed away somewhere against emergency."

"But it wouldn't work," Carol pointed out. "Not personally. This other Peter Maxwell was a second person and- oh, I don't know what I mean. It's too late at night to get it figured out, but I'm sure it wouldn't work."

"No," said Maxwell. "No, I guess it wouldn't. It was a bad idea."

"It was a nice evening," said Carol. "I thank you so much for it. I had a lot of fun."

"And Sylvester had a lot of steak."

"Yes, he did. He'll not forget you. He loves folks who give him steak. He's nothing but a glutton."

"There is just one thing," said Maxwell. "One thing you didn't tell us. Who was it that made the offer for the Artifact?"

"I don't know. Just that there was an offer. Good enough, I gather, for Time to consider it. I simply overheard a snatch of conversation I was not supposed to hear. Does it make a difference?"

"It could," said Maxwell.

"I remember now," she said. "There was another name. Not the one who meant to buy it, or I don't think it was. Just someone who was involved. It had slipped my mind till now. Someone by the name of Churchill. Does that mean anything to you?"

Chapter 8

Oop was sitting in front of the fireplace, paring his toenails with a large jack-knife, when Maxwell returned, carrying his bag.

Oop gestured with his knife toward the bed. "Sling it over there and then come and sit down with me. I've just put a couple of new logs on the fire and I have a jug half finished and a couple more hid out."

"Where's Ghost?" asked Maxwell.

"Oh, he disappeared. I don't know where he went; he never tells me. But he'll be back again. He never is gone long."

Maxwell put the bag on the bed, went over to the fireplace and sat down, leaning against its rough stone face.

"You played the clown tonight," he said, "somewhat better than you usually, manage. What was the big idea?"

"Those big eyes of hers," said Oop, gri

"All that talk about ca

"Well," said Oop, "I guess I just got carried away. That's the way folks expect a crummy Neanderthal to act."

"The girl's no fool," said Maxwell. "She planted that story about the Artifact as neatly as I have ever seen it done."

"Planted it?"

"Sure, planted it. You don't think it just slipped out, do you, the way she pretended that it did?"

"I hadn't thought of that," said Oop. "Maybe she did. But if she did, why do you think she did it?"

"I would guess she doesn't want it sold. Figured that if she told it to a blabbermouth like you it would be all over the campus before noon tomorrow. A lot of talk about it she might figure, would help to kill the deal."

"But you know, Pete, that I'm no blabbermouth."

"I know it. But you acted like one tonight."

Oop closed the jack-knife and slid it in his pocket, picked up the half-empty fruit jar and handed it to Maxwell. Maxwell put it to his mouth and drank. The fiery liquid slashed like a knife along his throat and he choked. He wished, he thought, that for once he could drink the stuff without choking on it. He took it down and sat there, gasping for breath, shivering just a little.

"Potent stuff," said Oop. "Best batch I've run off for quite a while. Did you see the bead on it?"

Maxwell, unable to speak, nodded.

Oop reached out and took the jar, tilted it up, lowered its level by an inch or more. He took it down and held it lovingly against his hairy chest. He let out his breath in a whoosh that made the flames in the fireplace dance. He patted the bottle with his free hand.

"First-rate stuff," he said.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and sat, staring at the fire.

"She couldn't, certainly, have taken you for a blabber- mouth," he finally said. "I notice that you did some fancy skating of your own tonight. All around the truth."

"Maybe because I don't entirely know the truth my-self," said Maxwell. "Or what to do about it. You set to do some listening?"

"Any time," said Oop. "If that is what you want. Although you don't need to tell me. Not out of friendship. You know we'll still be friends if you tell me nothing. We don't even need to talk about it. There are a lot of other things we could talk about."