Copyright
2014 by Stephen Goldin. All Rights Reserved.
The light entering the snow globe mine was dimming as dusk darkened the
amber sky. The mine’s owner peered out with growing apprehension. He
was dressed in plain brown work clothes and heavy boots. His unevenly
trimmed beard had just a few touches of gray. “This is what I was
worried about. Jean-Claude Slipovitz has found us and we’re trapped in
here. There’s only one way out. What are we going to do?”
The pale-skinned woman in the mine with him, seemingly in her late
twenties, was stick-thin and in constant motion as she paced the
confines of the tunnel like a hyperactive leopard on speed. Her clothes
were brilliant hues of orange and blue, and even in the mine’s dim
light they glowed with a phosphorescence of their own. Her bright red
topknot resembled a fountain of hair shooting out the top of her head.
“I was in a similar situation once in Vermilion,” she said. “Trapped by
myself in a butter mine with an army of fifty bad guys outside,
screaming for blood.”
“What did you do?” the man asked her.
“Called in my posse of a hundred good guys to wipe them out.”
The miner sounded exasperated. “But we don’t have a posse.”
The woman brushed that objection aside with a broad wave of her hand.
“Scarcely relevant. I don’t have a phone, either.”
“Look, I hired you to protect me and the mine from that claimjumper.”
“You and the mine are both still here,” the woman pointed out.
“Not for long, unless you do something.”
The woman considered. “We should take stock. The Handbook says that’s always a good
thing to do.”
“What handbook?”
“The Scout’s Handbook. All the
Quasiverse scouts use it.”
“It give good advice?”
The woman only shrugged. “Not always. I wrote it.”
“What’s to take stock of, anyway? There’s you and me and some drilling
equipment.”
“Maybe we could drill him.”
“We’d have to get him right at the drill point. He ain’t that stupid.”
“Well, how stupid is he, then?”
The miner sounded even more exasperated. “They told me you were the
best, but all you’ve done so far is eat my food and drink my liquor.
Now, when Jean-Claude shows up, you’re useless.”
“Speaking of liquor, have you got any stashed in here?” the woman asked.
“You drank the last of it three days ago.”
“What about drugs?” the woman with the erupting red topknot persisted.
“I could really use some outers about now.”
“Useless,” the miner said, throwing up his hands. “Absolutely useless.”
“Which ‘they’ were you talking to about me? I know lots of ‘theys,’ and
some of them aren’t as informed as others.”
“Come on out of there,” Jean-Claude Slipovitz called from outside. “No
need for anyone to get hurt. I promise not to kill you if you surrender
peaceably.”
“That’s one solution,” the woman said. “This isn’t a very good mine,
anyway.”
The miner bristled. “Whaddaya mean?”
The woman stopped pacing and leaned against one wall of the mine
tunnel. Her elbow rested on a snow globe of Santa’s Workshop. She
pointed to a snow globe beside it showing the Hollywood sign. “Low
quality product. Look at this spelling.”
“What’s wrong with it? It’s spelled right.”
“But the real sign doesn’t have a lower-case ‘d.’ And this elf in the
workshop here has three legs.”
“Elves are mythical,” the miner snorted. “They can have as many legs as
they want!”
“Plus, the globes lack verisimilitude.”
“Very what?”
“I don’t think it snows inside
Santa’s Workshop. Bad for the toys. And I don’t think it snows much on
the Hollywood sign, either.”
“I spent four years diggin’ this mine. I ain’t givin’ it up to no
claimjumper,” the miner told her. “Besides, Slipovitz’ll kill us the
instant we set foot outside.”
“He will?”
“Slipovitz never kept a promise in his life.”
The woman pondered. “Oh. Not an optimal solution, then.”
“That’s the first smart thing you’ve said.”
“Do you have any suggestions?” the woman asked.
“Yeah. Shoot ’im.”
“Well I would, if you could get him to hold still.”
“He’s standing perfectly still.”
“He is?” The woman peered outside the cave mouth into the evening
gloom. “Oh. Maybe he is. Then I guess that proves the other hypothesis:
It’s the Earth that’s moving.”
“You did bring a gun, didn’t
you?”
“Of course.” The woman reached into a pocket and pulled out an object
just three inches long.
“What kind of a gun is that?”
The woman stared analytically, turning the weapon over in her hand.
“Looks like a popgun to me.”
The miner practically spat. “What the hell good is a popgun?”
“I’ll assume you’re not just asking rhetorically,” the woman said. “If
you want something to pop, it’s perfect. Watch.”
She braced her right arm against the cave wall and held the arm steady
with her left hand. She bent her head down and squinted along the
three-inch barrel, taking aim at the figure of Jean-Claude Slipovitz.
Her index finger moved only slightly as she squeezed the trigger.
“What happened?” the miner asked.
“I shot him.”
“No you didn’t. He’s still standing there.”
“Is he?” The woman peered out at the figure of the still-standing
claimjumper.
“Your little popgun didn’t even make a sound.”
“Oh,” said the woman. Then, “Pop.”
“I expect a lot more for my money than you saying a little ‘pop.’”
“Okay,” said the woman. “BANG!”
“Look, that crook’s not going to fall over just because you say ‘pop’
or ‘bang.’”
“Of course not,” the woman agreed. “That would be silly. It’s a
certifiable fact that the sound a weapon makes has no bearing on its
efficaciousness. Or is that ‘efficacity’?” She began pacing around in
the mine shaft some more, bouncing randomly from one direction to
another. “You sure you don’t have any drugs in here?”
“I’d ask for my money back,” the miner grumbled, “but we’ll both be
dead in a few minutes anyway, so what’s the point?”
Outside, a small red hole appeared on Jean-Claude Slipovitz’s shirt. He
jerked backward and fell over, dead.
“Cosmic!” the woman exclaimed happily.
The miner’s jaw fell open. “I don’t believe it! What happened?”
“I told you. I shot him.”
The miner looked incredulously at the tiny weapon in his companion’s
hand. “What kind of ammo does that thing shoot, anyway?”
The thin woman with the red topknot and colorful clothes looked at him
triumphantly and said, “Slow bullets.”
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