Cineverse - Bride Of The Slime Monster Part 13

"Well, cooking, for one thing," the elder insisted. "We had not had much time to explore the culinary arts before, what with our full schedule of human sacrifices and what not. Now, though, a whole new field has opened before us."

The other islanders did not look at all enthusiastic.

"I am sure our visitors will agree with me," the elder continued defensively, "when they taste my Coconut Surprise!"

"But we have these outsiders here, now!" one of the maidens objected. "Surely, with them around, there must be a score of new plots!"

"Yes!" another agreed. "Perhaps we can get them, through their own ignorance, to profane a sacred island object!"

"Say," one of the men suggested, "why don't we have them toss litter into our sacred volcano?"

"Not only a tried and true theme," another added, "but also ecologically correct!"

"No, I have an even better idea!" yet another of the maidens interjected. "Why not have them all come in on a ship and discover us-"

"Yes! Yes!" one of the fellows added enthusiastically, caught up in the moment. "And they try to force us to shed our heathen ways and take up the trappings of civilization-"

"-and then they can profane the sacred volcano!" the maiden concluded. "What a plot!"

All the islanders, save the village elder, applauded.

Delores cleared her throat. "Well," she said. "Yes."

"Are you sure," the elder inquired, "while you're thinking about this, you wouldn't want to try one of my Coconut Kabobs?"

Delores phrased her answer carefully: "I'm afraid, as good as your plot sounds, and as tasty as those Coconut Kabobs must be, we have time for neither. We are here on a mission that affects not only this island paradise, but all of the Cineverse!"

"Really?" one of the islanders allowed. "That kind of plot doesn't sound half bad, either. And, incidentally, isn't that Dwight the Wonder Dog?"

"Bark, yip, bark!" Dwight agreed.

"Yes,'' Delores replied before Officer O'Clanrahan could b.u.t.t in, "the dog everybody knows. As I was saying, we must scale the side of Wakka Loa, and find the last place we saw the Secret Samoan, also known as Captain Crusader. That way, Dwight can pick up the Captain's scent, and follow him anywhere in the Cineverse!"

"Actually," one of the locals pointed out, "the island doesn't have all that big a part in that, does it?"

"Yeah," another agreed. "I really like the well meaning - encroachments of - civilization - accidentally - offending our sacred - deities plot a lot better!"

But Delores was adamant. "I'm sorry, but it's my plot or none at all. We must find Captain Crusader. After all, the Cineverse is at stake."

There were a few minutes of dejected barefoot sc.r.a.ping and gra.s.s-skirt rustling, but, in the end, the islanders agreed. The elder waved the others to silence.

"So it is that our delightful visitors choose to climb the monarch of our island in the sun, Wakka Loa. And who knows? Perhaps, when they feel it is time to take a rest, they will be in the mood for some of my Braised Coconut in White Wine Sauce?"

Delores thanked all the islanders, then turned to lead the way up the long and winding path to the pinnacle of the now dormant volcano, Wakka Loa. Everybody else on the island followed.

It seemed to take far longer to climb the steep slope than it had the last time she had done this. Of course, the last time, she had also been under the spell of the drums of the Volcano G.o.d. Minutes turned to hours as the sun raced across the sky overhead, and still they climbed. Once again, she could hear disgruntled mumblings among the islanders about how much more interesting it would be to use the profaned idol plot, along with the occasional suggestion from the village elder that perhaps everyone might like some Coconut Flambe.

But Delores knew they could not stop. The Cineverse was unraveling around her, and the more time it took for them to find Captain Crusader, the more difficult it might be to put it all back together. By the time they reached the sacrificial altars just beneath the summit, it was late afternoon, and the tropical sun hung halfway behind the towering cone of Wakka Loa, throwing a great black-on-black shadow across the pumice plane.

She couldn't see anything under that shadow. It was amazing, Delores thought, that there could be so little light while it was still afternoon. Perhaps her eyes had been dazzled by too much squinting in the tropical sun. Or perhaps, she thought, her worst fears once again surfacing, there was something else.

That's when Delores heard an all-too-familiar voice from the darkness.

"We have to stop meeting like this,'' the monster intoned.

^ ^ 11 ^ ^

"SISTERS OF DOOM!".

Something was wrong here.

The blue smoke had cleared. Roger found himself on a stark, colorless plane, the almost featureless horizon before him broken only by a few scrawny, leafless trees which rattled in the chill wind. But it was even worse when he looked up into the equally colorless sky, for where there should have been clouds, there were other things.

A huge, blinking eye stared down at him as it rolled across the heavens, followed by a grandfather clock, ticking, ticking, ticking as its hands chased each other wildly about the dial. That, too, blew away, and a giant baby tumbled across the horizon, crying soundlessly in the air far overhead, its great, pudgy hands grasping for things it would never find.

Roger frowned. This place seemed to have even less connection with reality than the other worlds he had visited. Worse than that, all that stuff going on up in the sky looked suspiciously like-he hated to even think the word-symbolism.

Roger didn't have to wait for anyone to sing or speak here. He knew all too well where the Captain Crusader Decoder Ring had deposited him this time. Rampant symbolism of this sort could mean only one thing.

He was in an Art Film.

Roger told himself to stay calm. Perhaps, if he considered his surroundings and what was likely to happen here, he might even fare better than he had on other worlds in the Cineverse. He might actually manage some degree of control. In order to do that, however, he had to think... .

What exactly happened in an Art Film?

A lot of the time, not much-was the answer that came to mind. Depending on the specific film, people tended to drink a lot of coffee, or stare moodily out of windows for hours on end, or fall asleep and have visions that usually had something to do with their generally failed lives. That's what the things riding through the sky reminded Roger of- those hallucinatory yet super-real visions.

Was there anything else in these films? Roger thought back to the hundreds-maybe thousands-he had seen.

Mostly, Roger realized, in this kind of movie, they liked to talk.

"Smolny norma?"

Roger jumped. Someone had spoken in his ear. He whirled around to see a thin and haggard man dressed all in black. The man glanced blankly at Roger, the barest bit of curiosity underlying his misery, then let his gaze return to the fantastic sky, through which a troop of nuns were marching as they played on flutes and gongs."Smolny norma?" he asked again.

Roger started. He had been looking half at the man, half at the all-nun band. Still, he could have sworn that he saw something white flash near the man's worn, dark leather belt.

"Pardon?" Roger asked, pulling the haggard fellow's gaze away from the sky.

"Smolny norma!" the other man repeated heavily, his disgust barely apparent beneath the almost overwhelming malaise.

Yes! Roger's heart jumped. It was definitely there. His mind leapt as well. This meant two things: First, this fellow was not speaking English. Therefore, this was not only an Art Film.

It was a Foreign Art Film.

But with that came the second realization, for when the haggard man had spoken, Roger had seen a white line appear across his waist-a line made up of letters. It was that line that had given Roger hope. For, even though he had found himself on a film world where they spoke some incomprehensible language, still Roger would be able to understand, because this world was subt.i.tled!

Not, of course, that Roger had had a chance to read that subt.i.tle. He had been too excited by the very existence of that line of letters to do any more than simply react.

He looked again at the haggard fellow, who still stared moodily at the sky. Roger cleared his throat, but got no reaction. Perhaps, Roger thought with a bit of panic, he had missed his chance, and this gaunt fellow would never speak again.

Roger told himself to calm down. As he had already reminded himself, all they did in Art Films was talk. Not that they necessarily said anything-except through impli- cation-but talking would be the major, and sometimes the only, action on a movie world of this type. It was so central to this sort of place that even the Change couldn't have affected it. Everybody had to talk.

In fact, Roger realized, maybe it was time he did some talking of his own. Roger stared at the air, a few feet in front of him and down a bit, parallel to his waist. He spoke: "Smolny norma?"

What he saw next filled him simultaneously with delight and despair.

He did have his own subt.i.tle. It hung, shimmering, in the air, just about where he guessed it would be, the letters clearly legible.

But not readable. The pattern of letters before him made no sense.

?EREH UOY ERA YHWAt least, that's what he thought it said. Some of the letters were positioned backwards as well. Were the subt.i.tles in yet another foreign tongue? If that was true, how could he possibly understand anything?

Wait a moment. Backwards letters? What if you turned those letters around? What if you turned the whole sentence around? Roger did some quick mental shuffling.

HERE . . . YOU . . . ARE . . . WHY. WHY ARE YOU HERE?.

Of course! Now that he thought of it, it only made sense that the subt.i.tle was backwards. Before this, he had always read these words sitting in a movie theater, looking up at a screen. Back then, he had been an outsider looking in. Now, however, in this Art Film corner of the Cineverse, he had become part of the movie. Therefore the subt.i.tle had to be backwards!

Roger chuckled. Why are you here? He clapped his hands. It was so simple!

He stopped when he saw the haggard man glaring at him. Behind him, white swans flew in a circular formation in a storm-cloud heavy sky.

"Smolny norma?" the other man repeated.

His subt.i.tle was the same. ?ereh uoy era yhw-still backwards. Roger found it a bit disconcerting, but he supposed it made sense, insofar as anything made sense on a Foreign Art Film world.

The haggard man did not wait for a reply, but spoke again.

"Smolny ava?"

Roger quickly scanned the subt.i.tle: ?EREH I MA YHW.

It took Roger only a second to reverse this one: WHY AM I HERE?.

Roger nodded. Yes, he guessed that was what he had asked. He'd have to be careful when he tried to speak in a foreign language. He wouldn't want to be misunderstood.

"Smolny Stephanie!" the haggard man demanded. Roger quickly read the subt.i.tle that followed.

?EREH YDOBYNA SI YHW.

WHY IS ANYBODY HERE?.

Had there been any doubts about the true nature of this place in which Roger now found himself, that last answer would have swept them away. How existential could this environment get?The haggard man walked stiff-legged past Roger. He never did seem to wait for an answer. In the sky, a fat man was picking lint from his belly b.u.t.ton.

Roger turned his head to follow the haggard fellow's progress and was startled to see a building of some sort only a few yards distant. Had the fantastic sky so unsettled him that he had completely neglected to register his surroundings? Roger decided to believe that, rather then the alternative-that the countryside might be every bit as unpredictable as the sky overhead.

He hurried to follow the haggard fellow, which really wasn't all that difficult. The other man shuffled along very slowly, as if he didn't particularly want to get anywhere. Roger had to slow his pace so he wouldn't pa.s.s his haggard companion. He used the extra time to examine the building they had almost reached.

The place had fallen into disrepair. Chunks of bone-white plaster littered the walk before them. One of the two windows on this side of the structure was smashed.

Between the bits of shattered gla.s.s, Roger could see a spider web that glistened in the strange, autumnal light.

As they rounded the corner, Roger saw what must have once been a steeple, rising above the building's roof. He realized this derelict sh.e.l.l before them had at one time served as a church for some austere religious sect. The haggard man came to a doorway, one rusted hinge the only testimony that this s.p.a.ce had previously held a door. He staggered inside. Roger followed.

The church was in as sorry a state within as it had been outside. A woman, also dressed in black, sat in the midst of the half dozen broken pews that still remained.

She looked up as the two men entered. The expression on her face made the haggard man appear cheerful.

"Smolny valarie?" she demanded.

WHY IS HE HERE? the subt.i.tle read. Roger thought that, thus far, the level of conversation in this place left something to be desired.

The haggard man, ignoring her question, asked her one in turn.

"Minsky shirley gevornen?"

WHERE IS YOUR SISTER?.

The woman jerked back violently, as though she had been slapped. She looked about as if suspicious of eavesdroppers, her eyes flicking back and forth like scurrying beetles. When she spoke again, it was in a whisper: "Morden vorden gehunden."

SHE IS LOOKING FOR HER DOG.

Roger concentrated, trying to detect key words or patterns in their conversation.

Somehow, he had to communicate with these people.The haggard man glanced distractedly at a rat that scurried between the broken pews.

His reply was more full of anguish than anything he had said before.

"Katrina. Nurden varden stubben?"

KATRINA. WHY DO YOU PERSIST?.

But Katrina only smiled at that. Her eyes stopped their beetle-dance and became slightly unfocused, as if she were looking far beyond the church. She spoke at last, her voice a happy singsong: "Storg! Piers, gnurden vurd volley-volley expresso."

The subt.i.tle was longer this time: I MUST. PIERS, YOU CAN SEE HER BREATH RISE IN SMALL CLOUDS.

BEYOND THE HILLS.

Piers only shook his head. "Smeltzny heloise?" he demanded.

WHERE CAN SHE BE?.

Roger could not let this go on forever. He had given up trying to make any exact sense out of their conversation, but he believed he might have identified a few key words and phrases. They had said enough now so that he might even be able to ask a simple question, so long as he kept his vocabulary as basic as possible. Silently he formed the question in English: "I must see Captain Crusader. Where is he?" It was simple enough. Surely, even though the words might not be in the right order, the sense of his question should get through.