I shuddered, and old Quackbrain said, “I see you do. We were assigned to write essays as a preliminary measure of our ability and, as I recall, I wrote a paean to spring, breathlessly eloquent, and poetic besides.

  “When Snarley Face called on volunteers to read their products, my hand went up proudly at once, and he called me to the head of the class. I clutched my manuscript in a hand which, I recall, was perspiring with excitement, and I read my effusion in a ringing voice. I anticipated going through all fifteen pages to gathering excitement in the audience and ending it to the swelling sound of cheers and applause. I anticipated wrongly. Within a page and a half I was interrupted by Newberry. ‘This,’ he said, enunciating clearly, ‘is the veriest crap, unfit for anything but fertilizer, and only dubiously so even for that.’

  “Upon this, the class of young sycophants broke into uproarious laughter and I was forced to sit down without completing my reading. Nor was that all. Newberry seized every chance thereafter to humiliate me. Nothing that I wrote pleased him, and he made his displeasure disgustingly public, and always to the delight of the class that, in this way, made me its butt.

  “At last, as the final task assigned us that term, we were each required to write a story, or a poem or an essay designed to be submitted for publication in the literary semiannual. I wrote a lighthearted essay filled with sparkling wit and humor, and imagine my pleased surprise when Newberry accepted it.

  “Naturally, I felt it only just and wise to seek out old Snarley Face after class and congratulate him on his acumen. ‘I am glad, sir,’ I said, ‘that you will have achieved a better product than usual through the use of my essay in the literary semiannual.’

  “And he said to me, baring his yellow fangs in a most unpleasant manner, ‘I took it, F. Q. Flubb, only because it was the only submission that made any attempt whatever, however unsuccessfully, to be funny. Its enforced acceptance, Flubb, is the last straw and I will not give this class again.’

  “Nor did he, and, though forty years have passed, the memory of my treatment in that class at Old Cesspool remains green. The scars remain fresh, George, and I can never erase them.”

  I said, “But Quackbrain, think of how that old beloved son of an unidentified father must have felt as you rose to literary fame. Indeed, the manner in which you soared to nearly the top of the literary world must have embittered him far more than his old snubs and spurnings could possibly have embittered you.”

  “What do you mean, ‘to nearly the top’—but never mind. You have clearly not kept up with the later history of the school. The miserable miscreant who gave that class died about five years after I attended it, doing so, it is clear, in an obvious effort to avoid witnessing the triumph of the down-trodden, since the lightnings of fame did not begin to flicker about my brow until three years after his death, and so here I am, forever in frustration over the fact that I cannot snap my fingers scornfully under the snub nose of the master snubber. But what would you? Even the gods cannot change the past.”

  “I wonder,” I said softly.

  “Eh?”

  “Nothing. Nothing.”

  But, of course, I was thinking of Azazel, my two-centimeter friend from another World, or possibly Universe, or possibly Continuum, whose technological expertise is so far beyond our own as to seem a kind of magic. (Oh, did someone named Clarke say something like that. Well, since I never heard of him, he can be of no importance whatever.)

  Azazel was asleep when my calling routine fetched him from his own World, or possibly Universe, or possibly Continuum, and, of course, I won’t give you details of the routine. A coarse mind such as yours would be irretrievably damaged if it tried to encompass the subtleties of the endorcism. I’m only thinking of you, old friend.

  I waited patiently for Azazel to wake up, for he is inclined to be a bit testy if aroused, and a testy Azazel is a dangerous Azazel for all his tiny size. So there was nothing to do but to watch his arms and legs move through complicated evolutions I could make nothing of. Presumably, he was dreaming something and reacting to the dream.

  As the motions became violent, his eyes opened and he sat up with what seemed a start. “I thought so,” he moaned (a high-pitched sibilant moan like a tiny steam whistle), “It was only a dream.”

  “What was, O Wonder of the Universe?”

  “My assignation with the fair Zibbulk. Will it never become reality? Of course,” he added sadly, “she is something of your size and so she refuses to take me seriously.”

  “Can’t you make yourself larger, O Miracle of the Ages?”

  “Of course,” he said, with a tiny snarl, “but then my substance becomes thin, smoky and wraithlike and, when I try to embrace her, she feels nothing. I don’t know why it is, but fair females like to feel something under such conditions. Still, enough of the poetic outpourings of my personal tragedy. What do you want this time, you miserable piece of trumpery?”

  “Time travel, O Astounder of Astrality.”

  “Time travel,” shrieked Azazel. “That is impossible.”

  “Is it? I am no physicist, Great One, but scientists on this world speak of faster-than-light travel and of wormholes.”

  “They may, for all I care, speak of molasses and of hummingbirds, but time travel is theoretically impossible. Forget it.”

  “Very well,” I sighed, “but that means that old Quackbrain will spend his last few remaining years unable to avenge the snubs and spurnings he has received from villains in the past, villains who did not perceive, let alone appreciate, his great talents.”

  At this Azazel’s face turned from its normal beet-red color to something more approaching the delicate pink of a watermelon’s interior. “Snubs and spurnings?” he said. “Ah, how well I know the spurns that patient merit of th’unworthy takes. You have a friend, then, who suffers as I have suffered.”

  “No one,” I said cautiously, “can suffer as your mighty spirit has suffered, O Solace of the Impoverished, but he has suffered somewhat and still suffers.”

  “How sad. And he wishes to go back in time in order to avenge his patient merit on th’unworthy.”

  “Exactly, but you said time travel is impossible.”

  “And so it is. However, I can adjust minds. If you have, or can get something that has been in much contact with him, I can so arrange the workings of his mind that it will seem to him that he has gone into the past and met face to face with his ancient tormenters, and he can then do as he wishes.”

  “Excellent,” I said. “As it happens, I have here a ten-dollar bill which I borrowed out of his wallet on the occasion of our last meeting and I am quite sure that it has been in intimate contact with him for at least a month, for old Quackbrain is anything but a Quickbuck.”

  And so it was, for I met Quackbrain about a month later, and he pulled me to one side.

  “George,” he said, “last night I had the most amazing dream. At least, I think it was a dream, for if it were anything else, I would be going mad. It seemed so real it was as though I had stepped back in time. Forty years back.”

  “Back in time, eh?”

  “That’s what it seemed like, George. It was as though I were a time traveler.”

  “Tell me about it, Quackbrain.”

  “I dreamed I was back at Old Cesspool. I mean old Old Cesspool. Not the way it is today, broken down and lost in the inner city, but as it was forty years ago when it was a respectable antique building, aged only by age. I could walk through the corridors and see the classes, the high schoolers at work. There was the faint aura of Depression. Do you remember the Great Depression, George?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “I read the notices on the bulletin board. I looked over the latest edition of the school paper. No one stopped me. No one noticed me. It was as though I didn’t exist to them, and I realized that I was my present-day self wandering in an earlier time. And suddenly I further realized that somewhere in the building was Yussif Newberry, still alive. I realized at that moment that I had been brought to Old Cesspool for a purpose. I had a briefcase in my hands and I searched its contents and a great gladness came over me for I had with me all the proofs I needed.

  “I pounded up the stairs to the third floor, where his office was to be found. Do you remember his office, George, and the musty smell of stale books that existed within it? That smell was still there after forty years, or, rather, I had gone back forty years and found it where it had always been. I was afraid that Old Snarly Face might be in class, but my dream brought me back at the right time. He was having a free hour and was engaged in marking papers.

  “He looked up as I entered. He saw me. He took notice of me. He was meant to.

  “He said, ‘Who are you?’

  “I said, ‘Prepare for astonishment, Yussif Newberry, for I am none other than Fortescue Quackenbrane Flubb.’

  “He frowned. ‘You mean you are the aged father of that grubby nincompoop I had in my class last year?’

  “‘No I am not the aged father of that grubby nincompoop. Beware, Newberry, for I am that grubby nincompoop himself. I come from forty years in the future to confront you, you cowardly torturer of my youthful self.’

  “‘From forty years in the future, eh? I must admit that the passage of time has not improved you. I would have placed the chance of your looking worse than you look now as trifling, but I see you have managed.’

  “‘Newberry,’ I thundered, ‘Prepare to suffer. Do you know what I have become in forty years?’

  “‘Yes,’ he said calmly, ‘you have become a remarkably ugly man in late middle age. I suppose it was unavoidable but I can almost bring myself to be sorry for you.’

  “‘I have become more than that, Yussif Newberry. I have become one of the great literary figures of the United States. I have here, for your selection, a copy of my entry in Who’s Who in America. Note the number of my published books and note further, Newberry, that nowhere in these august volumes is the despised name of Yussif Newberry mentioned. I have here, in addition, Yussif Newberry, a sampling of reviews of my latest works. Read them and note particularly what it says of my talent and my sterling writing ability. I have here, even more, a profile in the New Yorker magazine that makes much of me. And now, Yussif Newberry, think of all the callous and wicked things you said of me and of my writing last year in class, and hang your head in bitter shame, Yussif Newberry!’

  “‘I suppose,’ said Newberry, ‘this is a dream.’

  “‘It is probably a dream,’ I said, ‘but if so, it is my dream, and what I have here to show you is the truth as it shall be forty years from now. Is not your head bowed in deep contrition, Yussif Newberry?’

  “‘No,’ said Newberry, ‘I am not responsible for the future. All I can say is that last year in my class everything you wrote was crap and it will stay crap not only forty years from now but to the last syllable of recorded time. Now get out of here and let me mark my papers.’

  “And with that, the dream ended. What do you think of it, George?”

  “It must have been realistic.”

  “Indeed. Indeed. But that’s not what I mean. Can you imagine that teacher-insult to the human condition, upon learning of my greatness, still clinging to his position. No shame. No despair. He still maintained that my juvenilia was crap and moved not one centimeter from that position. My heart, George, is broken. It was a far, far worse thing I did than I have ever done. It is a far, far worse rest that I go to than I have ever known.”

  He drifted away, old man, a shattered and broken hulk. It was not long afterward that he died.

  George ended his story and wiped his eyes with the five-dollar bill I had given him for the purpose. It was not as absorbent as a handkerchief would have been, but he insists that he finds the tactile sensation of the bill to be superior.

  I said, “I suppose it is useless to ask, George, that your stories make sense, but I find I must point out that this was not a true travel in time, according to your own account, but only an imaginary one. It was, indeed, a vision induced by Azazel’s manipulation of Flubb’s brain. In that case, Flubb was in control of it, or should have been. Why did he not have Yussif Newberry crawling at his feet in a hopeless plea for forgiveness?”

  “That,” said George, “is precisely what I asked Azazel on another occasion. Azazel said that poor Quackbrain, whatever his prejudice in his own favor, was enough of a literary craftsman to know, at least in his unconscious, that some of his writing was crap and that Newberry was correct. Being honest, he had to face that.”

  George thought a moment or two and then added, “I suppose he’s not much like you after all.”

  WINE IS A MOCKER

  GEORGE HAD ORDERED A GLASS OF white wine with which to begin his dinner, and I had ordered a Virgin Mary, which is as close as I care to come to vinous revelry.

  I sipped at my spiced tomato juice gently and became aware that George was staring at his bijou goblet with disgust. It was quite empty and I had not seen him down it. He can be extraordinarily deft at times.

  “What’s the matter, George?” I asked.

  He sighed heavily. “In the old days,” he said, “you could get a huge tankard of hearty ale for a penny.”

  “In what old days, George? Are we talking about the Middle Ages?”

  “In the old days,” repeated George. “Now, for just enough weak wine to cast a mist on your upper lip, you have to break into your little boy’s piggy bank—if you have one.”

  “What piggy bank are you discussing? It’s not even costing you that medieval penny you’ve just mentioned. And if you didn’t have enough, order another. I’m good for it.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of doing it,” said George haughtily. “Ordinarily. But since you suggest it, and I would like to oblige you—” He tapped the rim of his empty glass and the waiter hastened to bring him another.

  “Wine,” he said, staring at his second goblet, “is a mocker. The Bible says that. Either Moses or Beelzebub said it.”

  “Actually,” I said, “you’ll find it in Proverbs 20:1, where it says, ‘Wine is a mocker, strong drink is raging: and whoever is deceived thereby is not wise.’ The book is attributed, by tradition, to King Solomon.”

  He stared at me with massive indignation. “Why on Earth do you insist in indulging in your pseudo-erudition? It gets you condemned on all sides. As I was about to say, you’ll find the statement either in Habbakuk or Malachi. I suppose you’re not going to argue about its being in the Bible.”

  “Not at all.”

  “There you are, then. I mentioned the fact that wine is a mocker because I was thinking of my friend, Cambyses Green.”

  “Cambyses?”

  “He was named for some ancient oriental potentate.”

  “I know that,” I said. “The son of Cyrus the Great of Persia. But how did he come—”

  “Let us order our dinner,” said George, “and I will tell you the story of Cambyses Green.”

  My friend, Cambyses Green [said George], who was named in honor of some ancient oriental potentate, was very nearly the most charming, the most pleasant person you could ever expect to meet. He had a never-ending fund of droll stories that he could tell in a fascinating manner. He was utterly at ease with strangers and could win them over at once. He was suave and charming toward young women, all of whom were fascinated with him, though he reserved his love, with all the ardor that Eros could bestow on him, for Valencia Judd, a young woman of surpassing beauty and intelligence.

  It was Valencia who came to me on one occasion, her light blonde hair disheveled, her small tip-tilted nose just slightly reddened, as though she had been weeping, and a little handkerchief, suspiciously moist, clutched in her left hand. Her name was not really Valencia, you know. That was actually a shortened version of her true name, which was Benevolencia, from which you can judge the sweetness of her disposition and the warmth of her heart.

  She said, “Oh, Uncle George,” and she paused to gurgle a bit, as the words stuck in her throat.

  I was not her uncle in the genetic sense, but if she considered me an uncle, I was bound to consider her my niece, and with the natural affection I would have for any incredibly beautiful young woman bearing such a relationship, I put my arm about her waist, and let her weep softly on my shoulder, while I soothed her with a gentle kiss or two.

  “It’s Cambyses,” she said, at last.

  “Surely,” I said, a nameless fear tugging at my chest, “he has not forgotten himself and made any suggestions—”

  “Oh, no,” she said, her large, blue eyes opening wide. “I make all the suggestions. It’s just that—well, he is so nice.”

  “Of course, and handsome and intelligent and charming and with a keen sense of humor—”

  “Oh, yes, Uncle George, oh, yes. All that and more.”

  “In that case, dear little Valencia, what is it that is making you weep? An overdose of joy?”

  “Not really. You see, Uncle George, I don’t know if you’ve ever noticed it, but Cambyses is always just a little bit drunk.”

  “Is he?” I looked blank. I had always been with him under convivial conditions, at which times he was drunk, but then so was everybody. Even I, myself, having had a very few drinks, was usually in a rather pleasant humor, as any barmaid would be willing to testify. “Surely, on those occasions, when he—”

  “No, Uncle George,” she said, gently. “There are no occasions when it is not so. He is always just a little bit drunk.” She sighed. “And, of course, when I say ‘a little bit drunk,’ I mean he is quite drunk. In fact, mostly stinking drunk.”

  “I cannot believe it.”

  “Just the same, I cannot endure it. Do you think, Uncle George, since you are such an impressive figure of rectitude and dignity, that you could perhaps speak to Cambyses and persuade him that wine is a mocker and that he should drink fresh, wholesome water, with perhaps an occasional Perrier at times of great hilarity.”