Below that, in smaller letters, it said:
_Come in._
Kevan MacGreene went in.
The girl at the desk was lovely beyond words. Her hair was like black
velvet and her eyes were an emerald green. Just looking at her made
Kevan MacGreene feel better.
"I have some troubles I'd like shot," he said, saying the first thing
that came into his aching head.
The girl smiled with a distant friendliness. "Do you mean you'd like to
employ us?" she asked.
"No," said Kevan MacGreene, realizing what it was that he did want.
"I'd like you to employ me."
"I'm sorry," the girl said, "but I'm afraid there are no positions
open--none, at least, that you could fill."
"But I need a job," Kevan said. "I--I gave up my last job because I
thought I was going to be drafted. Now I have no job and I'm broke. And
the draft board rejected me because I hear voices."
For the first time, the black-haired girl looked interested. "What kind
of voices?" she asked.
"Thin little piping voices," Kevan said. He didn't know why but he
felt that she would understand. "Most of the time I can't understand
what they're saying. Sometimes they sing. Like this." Wincing from the
pain in his head, Kevan sang in the highest pitch he could reach. "_Gie
brownie coat, gie brownie sark, ye'll get nae mair o' brownie's wark._"
He stopped and looked at the girl. Her smile was warmer.
"What's your name?" she asked.
"Kevan MacGreene."
She nodded. "I'll see," she said. She picked up the phone and pressed
a button. He could hear the faint buzz in the inner office. "There's a
young man here," she said into the phone, "looking for a job. He says
his name is Kevan MacGreene and that he hears voices." She listened a
minute and then put the phone down.
"He'll see you," she said. "Go in." She indicated the door beyond her
desk.
Kevan stopped beside the desk and glanced down at the hair that was
like a raven's wing. "What's your name?" he asked.
"Kathleen Culanna."
"Ah," he said, "I knew there was a reason for the green in your eyes
and the harp's song in your voice. Will you have dinner with me
tonight?"
"Go along with you," the girl said, but there was no rebuke in her
voice. "He's waiting for you."
"Will you have dinner with me tonight?"
"Ask me when you come back," the girl said. "If I'm still here, I will."
"I'll be back," he said. He walked through the door and closed it
behind him. He stopped there, gazing at the man who sat at the desk in
the small room.
He was a short man, with a face Kevan thought of as jolly even though
it seemed pinched with worry. Tufts of golden blond hair ringed a bald
head, resembling a halo. He looked up from his cluttered desk and
studied Kevan.
"MacGreene, is it?" he said finally. "Where were you born?"
"In New York," Kevan answered, wondering at the question.
"And your father?"
"Fergus MacGreene. He was born in the old country, Ulster, I think,
but he became a citizen as soon as he could after arriving here." He
wondered if this was some sort of loyalty check.
"You hear voices, do you?" the little man asked.
"I do," Kevan said shortly, thinking that it had been a mistake to
mention it. "As did my mother, and her mother before her. But it's
never interfered with a job I've held."
"Of course not." The worried expression was fading from his face.
"You're hired. My name is Brian Shanachie."
"But--but I don't understand," Kevan said. He was feeling confused and
he wasn't sure whether it was the hangover or the company. "Don't you
want to know my qualifications?"
"You've already told me," said Brian Shanachie. "Your name's MacGreene
and you hear voices. What more could I ask--even though it's true I'm
in a bit of a pinch? Here I was, with every one of my men out on a job
and me with an emergency on my hands, when, Finbheara be praised, in
you walked. You'll be quite ready to go to work at once?"
* * * * *
Kevan MacGreene was more confused than ever, but a generous streak of
stubbornness came to his aid. "You may be satisfied," he said, dropping
into the chair in front of the desk, "but I want to know something
about the job before I take it. What does Troubleshooters, Inc., do?"
"You don't know?" the little man asked in surprise.
Kevan shook his head, an act which painfully reminded him of his
headache.
"Oh, well," sighed Brian Shanachie, "but it'll have to be brief. There
is an emergency. Tell me, Kevan MacGreene, you know of the Little
People?"
It was Kevan's turn to be surprised. "Gnomes?" he asked.
"Gnomes, dwarfs, brownies, leprechauns, fairies, druids, apuku, the
Wanagemeswak, it matters little what you call them. You know of them?"
"My mother used to tell me about them," Kevan said, "but she was a
woman without education. I've been through college and while they are
interesting legends--"
"Agh!" interrupted Brian Shanachie. "There's the trouble with the
world. Too much education in the wrong things. If it weren't for people
like you, Kevan MacGreene, who've given up the old ways, I wouldn't
have to be working here, slaving away all hours--"
It was obvious that he was working himself into a rage, so Kevan
interrupted. "Okay, so there _are_ Little People," he said. He thought
he might as well humor his prospective employer. He glanced at him more
closely. "Don't tell me you're one? You're too big."
"Too big for a gnome, too small for a mortal," said Brian Shanachie,
his humor restored, "No, I'm neither. My father was the son of
Finbheara himself, but my mother was a mortal. So I am well suited for
this job."
"Which is what?"
"I'm telling you," said Brian Shanachie, with a scowl. "In the
days when people had enough sense to believe in the Little People,
diplomatic relations were handled on an individual basis. The
individual who aroused the anger of a gnome would himself put out an
offering of milk, with perhaps a wee drop of brandy in it, or offer him
a new cloak and hood. But with the coming of such fine education that
the Little People were forgotten there was a problem. It was then that
my little organization was started. More properly it should be known
as the Bureau of Mortal-Gnomic Adjustments, but there are too many
non-believers who would only plague me with their silly questions, so I
called it Troubleshooters, Inc."
"But what do you do?" Kevan asked. He had a strange feeling that the
more it was explained the less he understood.
"Adjust matters between mortals and gnomes, of course," snapped the
other. He picked up some papers on his desk. "Now, take the case I'm
assigning you to, the emergency--I'm putting it in the files as The
Case of the Gnome's Gneiss...."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Gneiss," said Brian Shanachie with some irritation. "G-N-E-I-S-S.
Everybody certainly knows what gneisses are."
"I don't."
"College education," the little man sneered. "Gneisses are rocks
made of thin layers of minerals. Now, a gnome, or a dwarf, if you
prefer--he's been called both--named Alviss is one of the finest
gneiss-makers in the world. Recently, he had just finished what he
considered his masterpiece, a gneiss composed of some fifteen different
minerals, and all of fifty feet long, when directly over the spot where
it was located an atom bomb test was held. You can imagine the results.
The gneiss was cracked beyond repair. Alviss, with certain provocation
you must admit, is angry. In fact, he grows angrier every minute and I
understand that he is on the verge of declaring open war against all
mortals."
"So what?" asked Kevan. "What could he do?"
"What could he do?" echoed Brian Shanachie in horror. "Why, there is no
end to what he could do. Sour milk, make cows go dry, put changelings
in the place of mortal infants, make the hens lay square eggs. Water
might run uphill, hens would crow and roosters cackle, and the sun set
in the east. And that, mind you, would be only the work of Alviss. If
the others of the Little People helped him, and fully half of them
would have to, then you can imagine the chaos.
"No, it's obvious Alviss must be appeased and since the ones who
dropped the bomb will not do so, it is up to us to avert the war."
"Why not just explain to--er--Alviss that it was all a mistake?" Kevan
suggested.
"'Twouldn't do. Alviss is a sensitive one, as you will see, and it'll
take more than that to make him forget his grudge."
"As I will see?"
"Certainly," said Brian Shanachie, nodding his head. "It is you who
will go to see Alviss."
* * * * *
It wasn't that Kevan MacGreene was willing to so quickly forego his
skepticism and embrace a belief in the Little People, but his head hurt
too much to argue and he was in a mood to take what came along and let
things work themselves out.
"But what do I do after I see him?" he asked.
"Find out what will keep him peaceful and, if it's within reason, give
it to him. If it isn't, then you may have to appeal to the Council
of Gnomes, or even to the four kings. I'll be giving you this--"
Brian Shanachie came around the desk and fixed what seemed to be a
small metal flower in the lapel of Kevan's coat--"by which you can
discuss any settlement with me. All you have to do is shout my name
and the contact will be made. It is also possible for me to deliver
to you, by teleportation, certain mortal materials when they will aid
in adjustments. I remember one time when peace was made with Sindri,
over the matter of a mortal who tried to steal his treasure, with
the presentation of a radio.... But now get along with you, Kevan
MacGreene."
"Just a minute," said Kevan, "how much does this job pay?"
"Enough in mortal money that you'll have no complaint," Brian Shanachie
snapped. "Be gone with you."
"Where?" Kevan asked. "I mean how do I get there?"
Brian Shanachie looked surprised, then nodded. "Of course, you wouldn't
know, would you? I best look it up, to be sure that we still have it
right." He took a thick book from his desk, thumbing through it rapidly
while muttering to himself. Then he nodded again. "Yes, 'tis still in
the proper alignment. And all you have to do, my boy, is walk through
yon door."
For the first time, Kevan noticed another door in the office near to
the chair in which he sat. He stood up and looked at it uncertainly.
"But be sure and watch the first step," said Brian Shanachie. "It's
been a bit broken since the time Regin came to see me and stomped on
the step instead of knocking."
"But how do I find Alviss after I get through the door?" Kevan wanted
to know.
"Ask," said Brian Shanachie. "You can ask anyone--no, but better,
perhaps since you're a new employee you'd best first go and pay your
respects to Finbheara, Iubdan, Geanncanac, and Daoine Glas, the four
kings. They'll be sure to know where you can find Alviss. Run along
with you."