From: rigler@galileo.ifa.hawaii.edu (Protean Godstuff)
Subject: The Shop
Organization: IFA
Date: Thu, 1 Oct 1992 12:58:47 GMT

"Mind the bulls!"  She shouted, and turned to race up the street.  I watched 
her 'til she rounded a corner.  Then, quickly as I could, I scurried across 
the cobblestones and into the nearest doorway. 

I found myself in a cozy, well-appointed shop, stocked with a variety of 
finely crafted items which defied immediate identification.  Two women were 
watching me without expression.

The younger approached.  "You're back so soon."

I nodded.  (Had I been here before then?)

"We held the martincorts for you, if you still want them.  How was your 
trip?  We can gift wrap them for you.  Oh I'm sure she'll love them."

Her statements baffled me.  She had a tiny gap between her teeth and a
faint, sour-baby smell on her breath.  I wanted to kiss her.

"...Did you get a chance to try your Sterling?"

My hand moved to an irregularly shaped lump of something inside my breast 
pocket.  When I patted it I felt...anxious.  She caught the gesture and 
gave a little smile.  I was about to excuse myself so I could go somewhere 
and turn out my pockets, but just then she moved up very close to me, and 
I'm afraid I blundered straight into an umbrella stand or something. 

The older woman took my arm and guided me to a wall rack of objects that
gleamed of black iron and polished leather.  "These just arrived.  You 
simply must try one on."  She selected one of the heavier pieces of metal 
and began fastening it about my waist and thighs with a stout leather 
harness.  I craned my head around to look at the bloody thing:  It rather 
resembled an anchor, or maybe it was more like a grappling hook, with all 
sorts of re-curved prongs which didn't end in tines exactly.  Or rather, 
they didn't seem to end in anything exactly.  Not in anything that I could 
see.  I concluded that it must be all one piece.  But how it was forged...?

She finished her adjustments and stepped back.  "Oh, it is you!"  

The younger girl tugged at the main piece while the older woman played out 
slack on leather leash.  I caught a glimpse of letters tooled in red dye:  
"Made in Kuu--"

I tell you I was completely ignorant of the very function of this device!
Really, what possible purpose could such a thing have?  "How much?"  I 
stammered, trying to stall for time.  I'm sure my ears were burning red.

She appeared astonished by my question.  The younger one giggled, then hid
her teeth with her hand.

"It's beautiful on you.  And just think -- you'll never get lost again.  
All our tarpoons come with a full guarantee."

I just wanted to get out of there.  To go some place where I could think. 
No, what I really wanted was to study this tarpoon thing.  "Okay.  I'll 
take it."  

"Only $49.95.  Will that be all then, just this and the shoes?  Or would you 
like to look around?   How is your bearstay holding up?  Oh goodness.  You've 
lost it again haven't you?  Chloe, go make him another bearstay, a tarmingdale.
Make it black to match the tarpoon."

"Yes'm."  She slipped behind a curtain.

"Come over here and I'll engrave your shoes for you."

I followed her to the counter where she took a small pair of black and red
shoes from of a box and laid them on the counter.  The box was very fancy
and said 'Martin Courts.'  They looked expensive.

"Er...How much are those?"

She looked at me sharply.  She was in the process of melting a stick of metal 
(tin?) over a torch and setting up some sort of microdrill.

"Now, Mr. Willowby.  I've quite forgotten your daughter's name.  How do you 
spell it please?  The shoes are $480.  You _did_ ask for Martin Courts.  These 
are the finest.  The Rolls-Royce of baby shoes."

I was slow in closing my mouth.  So I had a daughter?  What is her name, I 
wondered?  Why would I spend $480 on baby shoes?  Did it cost extra to have 
them engraved?

"Amy."  I finally managed.

She looked at me for several seconds, then bent to her task.  Chloe returned 
from the back room and handed me a bellows-shaped object.  It was mostly of 
wood, stained dark black, with loose folds of red-printed fabric covering the 
moving parts.  The logo said 'Tar Mang Daal.'  I worked the levers back and 
forth once, causing the business end to emit a sound.  It was the most curious 
noise I have ever heard.

"Really, Mr. Willowby.  You know perfectly well I wouldn't let any of them
into my shop.  I can assure you you're perfectly safe here.  Chloe, go and
fetch Mr. Willoby some tea."  

"Yes'm."

Her condescending tone was beginning to annoy me.  Actually, I was more
than a little frightened by the whole situation.  I had yet to see any-
thing in this shop which even remotely fit into the realm of my experience,
and it was getting on my nerves.  My voice came out a bit cross.  "Look 
here, ma'am, my name is not Willowby.  It's Smythe.  Harold Smythe.  And 
I'd like --"

"Here you are Mr. Willowby.  All finished."  She slid the shoes across
the counter.  I had to admit they were beautiful.  Any parent would be
proud to have his or her child sport them.  The black leather was inlayed 
with spidery curves of metal which spelled "Amalthea" forwards on the right 
shoe, and mirror backwards on the left.  The laces glowed faintly, some-
what reminiscent of those fiber optic things.  Really, $480 seemed almost
too small a price to pay for these shoes.

"With the engraving, that comes to $720, plus $49.95 for the tarpoon, but 
the bearstay is on the house.  Fold in 25% for King's tax and rounded down 
for spanner's due.  Your total is $900.  Will that be cash or charge?"

I felt my pockets and came up with a wallet.  I pushed a pile of currency 
at her and looked at the driver's licence while she made change.  The license
said "Harold Smythe" all right.  Only...only the face in the picture was not 
my own.  This man was much, much younger than me, and he wore a mustache.
There were no mirrors in the shop so I felt my face with my hands.  Mustache.

As I was leaving the shop, the older one called out to me.  "Come back again,
Mr. Willowby!  And this time, for Heaven's sake, remember to use the Sterling 
when you --"

But her final words were lost in the spanning vortex.

Rigler
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