Fantastic Stories Presents: Fantasy Super Pack #1. Fritz Leiber

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      The Cyclops reached a big coffee-table book down from the cupboard. Charles stared astonished at the glossy dustcover, which had a photo of a huge curving ocean wave, very blue, on the front. On the back the author, a dishy blonde in a Givenchy dress, stood in front of a yacht. “Our Living Waters? But I know her—Constance Bedlington! She’s on the Birthday Honors short list, for her antipollution work!”

      “Told you! She and the other Nereids have a lock on the clean water stuff. The Greenpeace people, all those groups that monitor oil spills, and shampoo greased-up sea otters, and save whales, and hug trees—nymphs pack all their governing boards. There’s Nereids running water purification plants, and Dryads lobbying against clear-cutting Amazon rainforests, and Hamadryads lecturing at universities on wastewater treatment policy. It’s enough to make a Cyclops sick with envy.”

      Charles shook his head in wonder. “Connie Bedlington, a Nereid. Amazing!” He took another sip of wine.

      The Cyclops refilled both glasses. “Okay, chow time.” Charles hid his nervousness as the monster brought a serving dish over from the stove. Suppose it was human meat? But the dish was an appetizer, fried calamari—the crisp little brown rings of squid were plainly visible. Charles picked up his fork. “So you eat squid, huh?” the Cyclops said.

      “Of course—and these are scrumptious.”

      The Cyclops grinned with pleasure at the compliment. “Lots of folks won’t, the wimps.”

      The sight of its sharp shark-teeth almost made Charles knock his glass over. “I’m used to eating all kinds of things,” he said, recovering quickly. “Part of the job, being Prince of Wales. I ate a boiled rat once, in Cameroon.”

      “A rat? My god!” The Cyclops shuddered all over. “Better you than me, pal!”

      “Only one bite,” Charles said gloomily. “If I’d jibbed, the diplomatic scandal would have been indescribable.” He helped himself to more calamari, to get the memory out of his mouth.

      “Don’t fill up on that,” the Cyclops warned. “There’s bouillabaisse to follow, and pigeon pie.”

      “No human stew, eh?” Charles drained his glass.

      The Cyclops looked embarrassed. “That was Homer’s idea, you know. Trashed our image completely. We could’ve got over being one-eyed—look how the satyrs managed their goat legs. But people don’t like people who eat people, no denying it.”

      “What are the satyrs into these days?” Charles asked, fascinated.

      “Porn, mostly. You don’t believe the male stars in those films are really human, do you? The hassle of shaving goat hair off my legs and haunches every day would put me off, but they don’t seem to mind. Here, you open this white, while I dish up the bouillabaisse.”

      Charles had never opened a wine bottle before—the servants did that—but now was the time to learn. The cork broke into pieces when he forced the corkscrew in, and he had to fish the crumbs out of his glass with a fork. The Cyclops pretended not to see his awkwardness, though. Charles decided that Homer had really had the wrong end of the stick—Cyclops were instinctively hospitable. He sniffed the rich garlicky steam rising from his plate and picked up his spoon. “So what kind of job were you Cyclops contemplating?” he asked.

      The Cyclops pulled a clam from its shell and chewed it thoughtfully. “I was sort of toying with the idea of starting a Cyclops rap group.” He fixed Charles with a one-eyed gaze.

      Charles kept his face absolutely serious. “Do you sing?”

      “Rap doesn’t involve singing. I figured if we wore baseball caps turned to one side folks might not even notice our eyes.” The Cyclops put an imaginary cap on, pulling the bill down and to one side of his face.

      “Every rap group that I’ve seen has been African-American,” Charles said tactfully. “Perhaps skin color’s not a difficulty, for figures of legend.”

      “Well, yeah, it is. No such thing as a black Cyclops. We’re all pasty white—must come of living in caves.” The Cyclops mopped his bowl out with a piece of bread. “You about ready for that pigeon pie?”

      “Looking forward to it. Oh, and a red wine to go with, delightful!” This time Charles opened the bottle deftly, and poured the new wine out with justifiable pride. The Cyclops congratulated him and set a large dish down. The glazed and shining piecrust had a unicorn design pressed into the pastry. Charles applauded. “By gum, it’s a masterpiece. Could be on a gourmet magazine’s cover.”

      “Well, I’ve always admired the pictures in Food & Wine,” the Cyclops admitted. It served Charles a portion and watched him anxiously as he took a bite.

      “Delicious!” Charles pronounced. “There’s something in the sauce, is it basil?”

      “And marjoram,” the Cyclops said. “But I bet you eat as good every day, at home.”

      “You’d lose your bet,” Charles sighed. “England is famous for its horrible food.”

      The Cyclops blinked its eye in surprise. “No kidding? That’s terrible! But you’re the prince, the heir to the throne. Can’t you just wave your sceptre and say, ‘I want roast duck for dinner’?”

      Halfway down the fourth bottle of wine, Charles let it all hang out. “It’d be lukewarm by the time the food hit the plate—the kitchen is so far from the dining room in a palace. Not like your charming cave here.”

      “It is convenient,” the Cyclops said modestly.

      “And I don’t have a sceptre. May never have one. My mother will be Queen of England until she dies. By then I’ll be an old man.”

      “That’s terrible. And what’re you going to do, between now and then?”

      “The usual routine. Cut ribbons at supermarket openings. Give speeches to Mayoral Assemblies. Listen to preschool choirs sing ‘The Little Drummer Boy.’ Press the flesh at old age homes. You should’ve rescued a shipwrecked MP if you want help,” Charles concluded sadly. “Or Steven Spielberg. The Prince of Wales is just a figurehead. Powerless.”

      “Oh, don’t say that,” the Cyclops said, tears brimming in its eye. “Your people like you.”

      “They like my ex-wife more.” Charles knew he was getting maudlin, a privilege he could very rarely allow himself. But his host was in no better shape, snuffling dolefully into its napkin. And a Cyclops was perhaps the safest confidante on earth. “To tell the truth, I envy your situation,” Charles continued. “We’re both of us anachronisms. Freaks looking for a role. But once you find your niche, I just know you Cyclops will make your mark in the world. I may never do so.”

      “Oh, you will,” the Cyclops sobbed. “I’ll help you, if you need it.”

      “Would you? Really?”

      “Of course!” The Cyclops extended a three-fingered hand the size of a typewriter and, seizing Charles’s hand, pumped it up and down. “Anything! I promise!”

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