On a Pale Horse Read Free Page B

earthy humor. There was a drawing of a little train puffing along, sending up cute balls of smoke, and Zane realized there was another pun in the title, when pronounced aloud.
    “Try another direction,” the proprietor said. “The stone is not responding.” Yes, he was nervous now.
    Zane reversed again, retracing his steps. He passed the Mess o’ Pottage shop and the one beyond: a paperback bookstore. “It’s still not glowing,” he reported.
    “Let me consider,” the proprietor said, pausing in front of a display of SCIENTIFIC MAGIC texts. “Where were you going?”
    “Nowhere but up and down this street,” Zane said wryly. “Trying to get a glimmer from this inert stone of yours.”
    “That’s the problem. You need to be going somewhere. Your romance is not in this street. She is wherever you intended to go when you first held the Lovestone.”
    “I was going home,” Zane said, bemused. “I doubt romance awaits me there. I live alone in a slum.”
    “Then go home.”
    “With your precious stone?”
    “Certainly—on loan. I’ll be with you. We shall exchange the Wealthstone for the Lovestone when the contact is made.”
    Zane shrugged. “As you wish.” He now doubted that anything would come of this, but his curiosity remained engaged, and of course he did want the Wealthstone. He reversed direction again and walked down the street toward the agency where he had left his rented carpet after flying up to this shopping mall, which was magically suspended high above Kilvarough.
    The stone glowed.
    So it was true! He was headed for romance!
    The proprietor lingered for a moment by the bookstore window, where he pretended to be interested in the current issue of the Satanistic journal BRIMSTONE QUARTERLY, then followed.
    They passed the arcade again, where the kids were now playing sexy space-fiction records. Zane had once had an offer to do photography for the dust jacket illustration of such items, but had turned it down, though he needed the money. He simply had not wanted to prostitute what little genuine talent he had.
    Now they moved by a sweet-smelling bakery shop. Sudden hunger caught Zane, for he had not eaten in some time. Being broke had that effect. He glanced in the windowof the MELON PASTIES shop, noting its mascot of a voluptuous woman made of candy, with sugared melons in the appropriate place, covered by decorative pastry pasties. Displayed inside were doughnuts, cakes, eclairs, breads, cookies, pies, cream horns, Danish pastries, and pastry art: confections in the shapes and colors of leaves, flowers, human figures, cars, and ships. All of it looked and smelled more than good enough to eat.
    “Keep moving,” the proprietor murmured, coming up behind him.
    Zane tore himself away from the window and its stomach-luring odors. Once he had the Wealthstone, he would return here and buy out the place and gorge himself sick as a dog!
    Now a bank of fog rolled in. The mall was camouflaged as a cumulus cloud, anchored high above the city of Kilvarough. The fog generators were aimed outward, but playful breezes wafted some mist inward. It had a pleasant flower scent.
    They reached the carpet agency, flying its carpet-shaped banner with the motto YOU ARE THERE NOW. Zane showed his round-trip ticket to the bored agent, and the man hauled down his carpet from a storage cubby. It was worn and faded, and dust squeezed out of its pores, but it was all he could afford. The Mess o’ Pottage proprietor rented another carpet, a much larger, newer, brighter one, with comfortable anchored cushions. They carried the rolls to the exit bay, spread out the carpets, sat down on them cross-legged, fastened their seat belts, and gave the go-signals.
    The carpets took off. The proprietor’s moved smoothly, cushioned by air, but Zane’s jerked a bit before getting into the hang of its propulsive spell. He hated that; suppose it pooped out in mid-air? He controlled its flight by minute shifts of his body; a tilt to