Land of Unreason by L. Sprague de Camp, Fletcher Pratt Page B

out of that
now, perhaps permanently, and just ahead of him the hedges were falling away to
side and side from another crotch in the road. Between the two forks were
flowers, mingled with a perfect forest of the potted trees, and in front of
them a man, or at least an individual, was standing on his head. The head was a
large one, and the individual seemed perfectly comfortable, with arms and legs
folded. At the sound of Barber's footfall he opened a large green eye.
     
                "Beg pardon," said
Barber, "but could you direct me to the Kobold Hills?"
     
                The individual said:
"What do you want to go there for?"
     
                "Public business,"
said Barber, trying to make it sound important.
     
                The individual yawned—it
looked extremely odd in his position—and opened a second eye. "Not an
original remark, my friend. You're the—let's see— forty-ninth mortal to go
through here. They're always on public business. Forty-nine is seven times
nine. I wouldn't go any farther."
     
                "Your arithmetic's
wrong and whether I go or not is my business. How do I get there?"
     
                The individual opened a
third eye in the middle of his forehead. "No it isn't. It's only mortal
affection for exact systems that makes you say that. I know all about Oberon's
monkey business with the kobolds. It's a waste of time. And you're mistaken
about those colors. They call them greengrocers because they feel blue."
     
                Barber had a sensation of
trying to wade through mud, but clung manfully to the main issue. "Why is
it a waste of time to do anything about the kobolds? They'll make trouble if
they're not stopped, won't they?"
     
                The individual closed two of
his eyes. "Lots of trouble," he said cheerfully. "They'll lay
the country waste. Your development is incomplete. You can't follow more than
one line of reasoning at a time. That makes for errors."
     
                "Then what's the
objection to thwarting them?"
     
                "It's an inevitable
transition stage before we can have anything better. If your development were complete
you'd see that the kobolds were destined to sweep away the old corrupt
order."
     
                "What's corrupt about
it?"
     
                "So that's your line,
is it? Very well, do you admit that perfection exists?"
     
                "We—ell," said
Barber doubtfully, "there's a word for it, so I suppose that in a
sense—"
     
                "Either a thing exists
or it doesn't. If it exists in a sense it exists in all senses. Just as you're
made not less a man by being an outsize, humpbacked mortal man."
     
                "Go on," said
Barber.
     
                "Now, if it exists it
is patently worth striving for, isn't it?"
     
                "I'll concede that for
the moment."
     
                "Fine. Now I'm sure
you'll admit that Oberon is not perfect. He quarrels with his wife and keeps
winged fairies in the bedroom while she's away."
     
                "I suppose you could
hardly call that perfection."
     
                "Aha! Then since
perfection is worth striving for, Oberon, being imperfect, is not worth
striving for. He is corrupt and should be swept away. Q.E.D."
     
                "But will the kobolds
produce perfection?"
     
                "Far more of it than
Oberon. They outnumber him, a thousand to one, d'you see? Even if the unit
quantity of perfection per individual were far lower, the total mass would work
out higher."
     
                "Listen," said
Barber, in some exasperation. "I'd like to stand here and split hairs with
you all night, but I've got a job to do. Which way to the Kobold Hills?"
     
                "Then you admit I'm
right?"