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    [Transcriber's Notes

    1. This etext was produced from Amazing Stories November 1948.
    Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
    copyright on this publication was renewed.

    3. Variations in spelling ("gray" vs. "grey") have been retained
    as they appear in the original publication.

    2. Obvious misprints were corrected. Full list of corrections made
    is available at the end.]


[Illustration: There was a cloud of smoke, a horrid visage, and Mook's
legs grew weak beneath him.]




The EYE of WILBUR MOOK

by H. B. HICKEY


"Wilbur!" his mother called. "Better get up or you'll be late for work!"

Slowly but surely Wilbur Mook came out of his beautiful dream. And what
a dream it was! He had Peter Bellows down and was busily punching his
head. What a dream!

Then his mother's voice pulled him away from Pete Bellows and dragged
him back to reality. Wilbur opened one eye and looked at the clock on
his bedside table. Its hand said eight o'clock.

Wilbur flung off the covers and slid his bare feet into lamb's wool
bedroom slippers. If he didn't hurry, Wilbur thought, he'd be late to
work. At the thought of facing Pete Bellows' angry stare Wilbur
shuddered. It was all right to dream, but real life was quite another
thing.

Quickly, he ran water into the washbowl and washed his hands and face.
No time to shower or shave. Running his hand over his chin Wilbur found
he didn't need a shave anyway. By skipping that operation he could get
to the office early.

[Illustration: When the world's most cowardly man met the world's
bravest--history was changed]

He took a moment to survey himself in the long mirror on the back of
the bathroom door. "Every day in every way I am getting better and
better," Wilbur muttered. Then he heard his mother's footsteps outside
in the hall and he hurried to put on his robe. Just in time he got his
head out of the way as the door swung inward.

"You look nice this morning," Mrs. Mook said. "Now hurry before your
breakfast gets cold."

He did look pretty good, Wilbur admitted to himself as he looked again
into the mirror. At twenty-five his skin was firm and healthy looking,
his body straight and neither too thin nor too fat. His reddish-brown
hair was free of dandruff, his blue eyes clear.

Only one thing wrong with the picture. He had the soul of a rabbit. He
was a coward. There was a tinge of desperation in his voice as he spoke
again to his image in the mirror:

"Every day in every way I am getting braver and braver."

Unfortunately it was not true and Wilbur Mook knew it. And the only
reason he was not growing more timid, Wilbur reflected miserably, was
that such a thing lay outside the realm of possibility.

What was even worse was the fact that everyone else knew it too. It
could not have been more evident had Wilbur carried a sign. The only
thing he could say was that his mother loved him anyway. Small
consolation.

"Read the paper on the streetcar," she said as she helped him into his
coat. "And don't run. You know it upsets your stomach when you've just
eaten breakfast."

His breakfast had consisted, as always, of orange juice, one poached egg
on toast and warm milk. Anything stronger than warm milk, Mrs. Mook had
discovered, disturbed Wilbur no end.

       *       *       *       *       *

As he walked to the car Wilbur's mind went back over the dream. That was
the stuff! And one of these days he was going to make that dream come
true. Pete Bellows was going to find out a thing or two.

"Whyncha look where you're goin'?" a shrill voice demanded.

Wilbur stopped abruptly. In his trance-like state he had stepped on the
heel of a twelve-year-old boy bound for school. The boy was glaring at
him fiercely and Wilbur cringed.

"I'm dreadfully sorry," he said, knowing that his face was losing color.

"Yah!" the boy snarled. "Look where you're goin' and you won't have to
be sorry."

For a moment Wilbur feared the boy was going to hit him. Then a call
came from down the street as another school-bound lad hove into sight,
and the first one promptly forgot about Wilbur.

Heaving a sigh of relief, Wilbur crossed gingerly to the safety island
and waited for his car. When it came he found that all the seats were
occupied but he discovered a vacant corner at the front and huddled
there.

Unfolding his paper carefully he scanned the world news and found it
depressing. It always was, Wilbur thought. He turned to the sport pages
for solace. That too was depressing, for it featured the doings of those
public heroes who battered each other to a pulp for profit and applause.

Not that Wilbur would have been unwilling to attend a prize fight. No
indeed. He would have enjoyed it immensely, except that he could not
stand the sight of men beating each other. And the blood! Even the
thought of blood made him slightly ill.

He turned quickly to the want ads. Those were always safe, sometimes
even exciting. Today there was a man who needed a bodyguard. Wilbur
reflected wistfully that he would have made a fine bodyguard, if only
things were different.

Actually he was a writer of greeting-card poetry, and as he swung off
the car his mind was already busy on a poem for Mother's Day. All he
needed was a good last line. So far it went:

    "To the Mother so loving and tender,
    On this day that is yours alone,
    Homage I willingly render,
    Ta ta-ta tum ta ta."

The last line would come to him, Wilbur knew. It always did. In the
meantime he nodded shyly to the elevator starter and found himself a
place at the back of the car. It rose swiftly and his heart pounded.

What if it should stop suddenly between floors? There was a beautiful
girl standing next to Wilbur and he thought how fear would flood her
face. That was the time when a cool and confident voice could avert
panic. But Wilbur was aware that there was more chance that the voice
would be the girl's rather than his.

His mind went back to the last line of the ditty he had been composing.
He almost had it, then it was gone. He bit down on his tongue in
concentration, unaware that he was staring at the girl next to him.

"My devotion you'll always own," Wilbur murmured.

"On such short acquaintance?" the girl smiled.

       *       *       *       *       *

Wilbur turned pink, then red. He wanted to tell her he hadn't meant it
that way, and he found himself wishing he had. She was the kind of girl
he sometimes dreamed about, tall and not too thin, with golden hair and
gray eyes in which flecks of color danced.

"I meant my mother," Wilbur managed at last.

"How sweet. Now would you mind getting out of my way?"

Wilbur looked down and found that he had somehow managed to walk from
the elevator to his office without knowing it. He had his hand on the
doorknob.

"I beg your pardon," he mumbled, and flung the door open in what he
hoped was a gallant gesture.

There was a crash as the door swung inward for a few feet and stopped.
The crash was immediately followed by a howl of pain. A moment later
Pete Bellows' flushed and furious face came around the side of the door.
He was rubbing his head.

"Mook, you idiot!" Bellows roared. "I ought to punch your nose for
this!"

"He didn't know your head was in the way," the girl said.

"Huh?" Bellows grunted. He took a good look at the girl and the anger
drained from his face. Without thinking he straightened his tie and
slicked back his oily black hair.

"You must be Miss Burnett, the girl the agency said they were sending,"
Bellows murmured in his most dulcet tones. "Well, well, Wilbur, this is
my new secretary."

"But how do you know I'll do?" Miss Burnett said, startled.

"Oh, you'll do. I just know you will," Bellows told her. "You and I are
going to get along just dandy."

"My shorthand is a little rusty," the girl said.

"What's a little thing like that?" Bellows laughed, ignoring the fact
that he had fired his last secretary because she had misspelled an
eight-syllable word.

But the last secretary had worn thick glasses, Wilbur recalled. That
would make a difference to Pete Bellows. He was suddenly aware that
Bellows was frowning at him.

"Get to work, Mook," Bellows said cheerfully. "Mother's Day is coming,
you know."

With what he pretended was a gentle pat on the back Bellows flung Wilbur
toward the tiny cubicle he occupied at the rear of the large office.
Once Bellows had played tackle on a football team and although he was
beefier now he was still very strong. Wilbur almost went through the
thin partition.

He bounced off and recovered his balance, then went into his cubicle
through the door. It was a windowless hole, lit by a single small bulb.
Wilbur worked at an old table which was neatly stacked with sheets of
blank paper. He furnished his own pen.

There was a small window in Wilbur's door, but contrary to what a
visitor might have expected, it had not been placed there for Wilbur's
convenience. The window was the means by which Bellows could watch his
poet and be certain that he was working every minute of the time.

       *       *       *       *       *

Today Wilbur found himself at a loss for rhymes. By mid-morning he had
completed only fifteen poems in praise of Mother. He still had some
fifty to go. But instead of writing he too often caught himself
listening to what was going on in the outer office.

"Mr. Bellows--" the new girl started to say.

"Call me Pete," Wilbur heard Bellows tell her. "I'll call you Jean. Just
one happy family, you know, you and I and Wilbur."

"Does Mr. Mook write all the poetry?" Miss Burnett wanted to know. She
sounded quite impressed and Wilbur glowed with a new found pride.

"Just a knack. Doesn't take any brains," Bellows deprecated. "Any fool
could do it."

I'd like to see you try, Wilbur thought. You're one fool who couldn't.
He thought that was pretty good repartee, even if it was only mental.
Wilbur wished he had the nerve to say the words to Bellows' face. But he
didn't.

His newspaper, still folded to the classified ads, reposed in Wilbur's
wastebasket and his eyes chanced to fall upon it. Something stirred in
Wilbur. There had been one advertisement in particular. Just below the
request for a bodyguard. He wondered if he had read it right.

Keeping one eye on the window to make sure Bellows did not observe him,
Wilbur retrieved his newspaper. Quickly his eye sped down the column.
There it was:

     Are you timid? Do you lack confidence? I can help you. A. J. Merlin,
     136 W. Erie St.

Wilbur shook his head and dropped the newspaper into the wastebasket. He
was rather inclined to think A. J. Merlin was overestimating his powers.
Probably a fake, anyway. Most of those fellows were.

Looking out of his window, Wilbur saw Bellows patting Jean on the
shoulder as he explained something to her. He was a fast worker, was
Pete Bellows. By the time Wilbur got the next line of poetry written
Bellows was asking Jean if he could take her to lunch.

Before answering she turned her head toward Wilbur and he could see that
she was none too happy about the offer. She seemed to be trying to think
of a good reason for not accepting.

"Well?" Pete asked. Jean looked back at him.

"I--I guess so," Wilbur heard her say. Bellows patted her on the
shoulder again.

I wonder, Wilbur thought, what she would say if I asked her sometime?
That looked like a question which would never find an answer. It would
take more nerve than he had to ask. But the very thought of him inviting
a girl like Jean to lunch sent a pleasant tingle down Wilbur's back. He
even allowed himself to think that she might prefer a smoother type of
man than Pete Bellows. Smoother, Wilbur reminded himself miserably, not
mushier.

Just before noon Pete Bellows came in to get the copy Wilbur had turned
out through the morning. At the sight of the tiny stack which had
accumulated Bellows' mouth turned down.

"Loafing!" he accused. "Just because I've been too busy to keep my eyes
on you!"

It occurred to Wilbur that the only thing he'd seen Pete do that morning
was pat Jean's shoulder, and that hardly seemed like hard work. But he
didn't say anything.

"Probably reading the paper while my back was turned," Pete went on. He
reached down and got the paper and put it in his pocket. "Now, listen to
me, Mook. You'd better have some work done when Jean and I get back from
lunch!"

Wilbur nodded without looking up at him. He was always afraid to look at
Bellows when the burly man was angry. Pete could get a vicious glint in
his eye. After Pete had left the cubicle Wilbur sneaked a look after
him. He saw that Jean had heard the whole thing. And at sight of the
distaste on her face he flushed.

Why couldn't he have told Pete off? Wilbur started to dream about what
he should have said. Then he stopped. It was all right to daydream but
Pete had sounded sore when he had said he wanted to see some work done.
Wilbur put his head down and started writing.

Within the hour he had completed six odes to Mother. One of them, Wilbur
knew, he could sell to a magazine for twenty times what Bellows would
pay. For a moment he was tempted, even going so far as to pick up the
sheet of paper preparatory to putting it in his pocket. Then he thought
of what Pete Bellows might do if he found out. Wilbur set the paper back
on the pile.

He was just in time. There were footsteps out in the hall and then the
door swung open. Bellows and Jean came in. The girl was laughing now,
and as Pete helped her off with her coat he was practically breathing
down her neck. It looked as though he had made some progress.

"Is it all right if I go to lunch now?" Wilbur asked timidly. He had to
wait until Pete had checked over his work. Then he got permission to go.

       *       *       *       *       *

Until he was outside Wilbur felt hungry. For an hour his stomach had
been reminding him that it was time to eat. But suddenly the pangs of
hunger were gone. The thought of food was even unpleasant.

Maybe a short walk would give him fresh appetite, Wilbur thought. The
day was pleasant and sunny. If he spent a half hour walking he would
still have twenty minutes in which to gulp a sandwich. Pete Bellows had
decreed that fifty minutes constituted a lunch hour for Wilbur.

It was with no conscious motive that Wilbur headed south. He found
himself walking at a gait much faster than his usual one, but attributed
that to the fine weather which he assured himself was exhilarating.
Before he realized how fast he was going he had covered a dozen blocks.

The neighborhood had changed. Behind him lay the business district with
its skyscrapers. All about him were the sagging and unsightly houses of
a once fine residential neighborhood which had deteriorated into a slum
area. The only places which seemed at all cared for were the rooming
houses.

A poem of protest rose in Wilbur's breast, and was stilled as he became
aware that he was on Erie street. The street had some meaning for him
but it took several minutes before he realized why. Then he gasped. Only
two doors from where he stood was 136 West Erie Street!

For a long time Wilbur stood looking at the house. It was an old red
brick structure three stories high. The upper two floors appeared
untenanted. If they were not, the occupants must have liked fresh air
for there were no windows.

Wilbur directed his attention to the first floor. The windows there were
too dusty to see through, but at least there were windows. A fat grey
cat sunned itself on the window ledge and regarded Wilbur with
unblinking eyes. He shuddered and had to summon all his courage to climb
the stairs and look at the card nailed to the front door. A. J. Merlin,
the card said, in an unusual script that Wilbur had trouble deciphering.

He raised his hand to knock, then changed his mind. But as he was
turning away he heard the door open.

"Looking for me, bub?" a creaking voice said. Wilbur turned around.

He found himself face to face with an old gentleman wrapped in what
appeared to be a blue dressing gown with white stars all over it. The
old man had a wisp of a beard and white eyebrows that slanted way up at
the outside corners. He was wearing on his head a blue dunce cap which
also had white stars on it.

"Are you-uh-Mr. A. J. Merlin?" Wilbur stammered. "I mean the Mr. Merlin
who gives people confidence?"

"I might be," the old man said cagily.

He stared down at Wilbur, and for the first time Wilbur noticed the old
man had eyes as black and mysterious as a pool on a dark night. Those
eyes regarded Wilbur, noting his size, weight and general construction.

"Bah," the old man snorted. "You won't do. Not timid enough."

"Yes, sir," Wilbur chattered. He started backward down the stairs and
almost fell.

"Wait a minute," the creaky voice ordered.

Wilbur halted in mid-step. The black eyes regarded him. A hand tipped by
long, curving fingernails stroked the wisp of a beard.

"On the other hand," the old man said, "you might be more timid than you
look. Come on in."

       *       *       *       *       *

Wilbur trailed after him down a long dark hallway that was musty with
age. At the end of the hall was an equally musty room, sparsely
furnished with sagging and broken odds and ends. It was not the
furniture which engaged Wilbur's attention, but the other features of
the place.

On an ancient stand a sun-dial reposed, and next to it a large and
milk-white glass ball. Near the stand a tripod stood over a sheet of
metal on which a small fire blazed, and from the tripod a kettle was
suspended. Something bubbled in the kettle, something that gave off a
strange and noxious odor.

Around the room jugs were scattered, and as Wilbur caught sight of the
labels a chill ran up his back. There were such unusual items as
_Essence of Dried Toad_, _Basilisk Oil_, _Chimera's Breath-Distilled_.

"Sit down," A. J. Merlin said suddenly. Wilbur sat down with such
abruptness that he almost went through an ancient sofa to the floor.
Merlin's eyes lit up.

"You really are timid," he said.

"Yes, sir," Wilbur agreed hastily. "Do you think you can help me?"

"Depends. It isn't my regular line. I came here looking for a special
kind of person. If you're that person you can help me. In return I'll do
the same for you. All depends on how cowardly you are."

"I've never been brave about anything in my life," Wilbur said
truthfully.

He went on in detail. In a short history of his life he made it clear
that he was a complete and abject coward. He was afraid of anything that
walked or swam or flew, no matter how small. He was afraid of dark
rooms. A dirty look made him tremble.

"Perfect," Merlin breathed. He rubbed his taloned hands together. "Not a
shred of courage in you."

"Is that good?" Wilbur gasped.

Merlin smiled, and with his smile his eyebrows slanted more than ever.
His ears were suddenly elongated.

"Ordinarily not," he said. Wilbur had a hunch that this time there would
be nothing extraordinary to alter the case.

"I've tried everything," he told Merlin. "I've gone to psychologists,
read books, even tried Yoga. Nothing helps."

"Naturally," Merlin said. "I'll tell you why: Everyone is a mixture of
traits handed down from his ancestors. Somewhere in every man's ancestry
is a brave person. Even if that bravery is hidden, it's still there, and
it can be brought out."

"What happened to me?" Wilbur wanted to know.

"You got cheated," Merlin said as though he were immensely pleased. "You
got only half the traits, and they were the cowardly ones. That's why
you couldn't be cured. There was no bravery in you to be brought out."

"Oh," Wilbur gulped. "I guess I'd better be going." He started to rise.

"Sit down," Merlin said. Wilbur plunked back into the sofa. He watched
Merlin walk to the stand and lift the glass ball. The old man peered
into the ball and its color changed to rose, then purple. Something was
going on inside it but Wilbur couldn't see what.

"Who's this fellow Pete Bellows?" Merlin wanted to know.

Wilbur was astonished. He hadn't mentioned Pete's name. When he told the
old man who Pete was Merlin chuckled.

"Thinks he's quite a man with the ladies, doesn't he? I'll fix him."

Merlin made a pass over the glass ball and muttered a few words which
Wilbur didn't catch. There was a sudden thump, clearly audible to
Wilbur, and Merlin chuckled gleefully.

"What happened?" Wilbur asked.

"The door opened just as he was going by and he walked into the edge of
it. He's got a black eye."

"Good-bye," Wilbur said. The hair on the back of his neck was standing
on end as he moved toward the door of the room.

"Come back here," Merlin commanded. "You want me to make you brave,
don't you?"

Wilbur's mind whirled. He had fallen into the hands of this old madman
and now he didn't know how to get away. Who knew what might happen to
him? He had to think of something.

"What do you charge?" he asked. No matter what Merlin said Wilbur was
prepared to say he didn't have that much. In no way was he prepared for
Merlin's words.

"Your right eye."

       *       *       *       *       *

A cold sweat formed on Wilbur Mook's brow. His teeth chattered. Down at
his little toe a tremor started and worked its way up along his spine.
The roof of his mouth turned dry as dust and his throat was parched.

"I haven't got it," he choked. Because he had been ready to say that he
had said it automatically. Too late he realized it was the wrong answer.

"Don't be a fool," Merlin told him sternly. "Wouldn't you rather be a
one-eyed hero than a two-eyed coward?"

"No," Wilbur said.

Merlin glared at him balefully and Wilbur quailed and cringed. What sort
of nightmare had he wandered into? He would gladly have given everything
he owned to be back in the office. Even Pete Bellows was better than
this maniac!

"Could I please go, Mr. Merlin?" Wilbur begged. "I'll be late if I
don't. Pete will be sore."

"Tell you what I'll do," Merlin said, in a manner of one offering an
added incentive. "You let me have your right eye and I'll see to it that
Bellows falls down the stairs and breaks his neck."

He picked up the glass ball again and Wilbur felt himself grow faint.
Now he was certain that this old man was not only a maniac but a
_homicidal_ maniac!

"Wouldn't anything but my right eye do?" he asked plaintively.

"I don't think so, but I'll look it up," Merlin said. Out of the folds
of his white-starred gown he drew a book. Wetting his index finger,
Merlin turned pages until he came to the one he wanted.

"_Elixir of Caution_," Merlin read aloud. "One part _Fawn's Breath_, one
part _Dove's Heart-Dried_, one part _Tears of Despair_, and _Right Eye
of Complete Coward_. Simmer for one hour with proper incantations."

"But I'm cautious enough already!" Wilbur protested. He got to his feet
hopefully. "Well, I guess this has been a mistake. I'd better be running
along."

Merlin regarded him with a steady eye and Wilbur wished he could divine
what was going on behind those black and glittering orbs. Maybe Merlin
was going to let him go. From the way Merlin was nodding his head it
seemed that way.

"Very well," the old man said. "But we must have a drink together."

"Oh, I never drink," Wilbur assured him virtuously. Merlin waved aside
the protest.

"Nothing stronger than tea," he said.

He went to a far corner of the room and lifted a small vial which was
made of some material that shimmered irridescently. Wilbur watched
fascinated as Merlin poured a small amount of a smoky liquid from the
vial into a pair of tiny cups.

"Are you sure this isn't strong?" Wilbur asked as Merlin handed him one
of the cups. Inside the cup the strange liquid bubbled, and from its
surface a fine vapor rose.

"No." That was all. Then Merlin went to the sun-dial on the stand and
turned it around several times. When he had adjusted it to his
satisfaction he turned back to Wilbur and lifted his cup.

"Here's how," Merlin said.

Wilbur lifted his cup to his lips and drank. Merlin was right. The
liquid seemed no stronger than tea. In fact it tasted much like tea,
except that it had a smoky flavor, not at all unpleasant.

"Thank you," he said politely, and started for the door. But he had no
more than started than he turned back and sat down again.

It was a strange feeling which assailed Wilbur Mook. His legs seemed
weak, yet through the rest of him a strength flowed which was like
liquid fire. Then there came a giddiness. His head was feather light.

Merlin receded, not walking but floating back and back. And as his
figure drifted away from Wilbur it grew strangely taller. The eyebrows
were more slanted than ever and the ears were longer and more pointed.
And as Merlin's figure grew larger it began to dissolve.

Now Wilbur's entire body seemed as light as air to him. It felt as
though he too could float if he tried. He saw, as through a haze and at
a great distance, Merlin bending over the kettle which hung from the
tripod.

From inside his flowing gown Merlin produced a wand and a packet. Out of
the packet drifted a fine white powder into the kettle. There was a wave
of the wand, and out of the kettle poured a thick black smoke which
filled the room until there was nothing but blackness.

Wilbur's ears were filled with a roaring. He felt himself lifted and
whirled. Around and around he whirled, and faster and faster. He was
being sucked into a vortex, pulled down into a black tunnel that was
endless.

       *       *       *       *       *

Somewhere nearby there was a crowd of people. Wilbur knew that because
he could hear the murmur of many voices. But when he opened his eyes he
found himself in a forest glade. The sun was bright overhead and on a
limb above him a bird sang.

He shook himself and looked around. He was not alone. Only a few feet
away stood Merlin, still wearing his blue robe and his conical hat. He
nodded when he saw that Wilbur was awake.

"How do you feel?" the old man asked.

"Fine, thank you," Wilbur answered without thinking.

It was when he looked down at his body that he sucked in his breath. Not
only was he no longer in that musty room, but he no longer wore his own
clothes! His body was encased in a gown of brown monk's cloth!

"Your clothes would have been out of place here," Merlin told him,
guessing what Wilbur thought.

"But--where am I?"

"Near Camelot," Merlin said. "Better get up now. We haven't much time."

Wilbur got to his feet slowly, his eyes darting about. If he saw a
chance he would make a run for it. But Merlin's hand was like a claw on
the sleeve of Wilbur's robe.

"You try to run and I'll put a curse on you that will fix you
permanently," the old man whispered hoarsely.

Wilbur followed him like a lamb to the slaughter. They took a path that
led out of the glade and to a road only a few yards away. Ten yards or
so down the road they came on the crowd whose voices Wilbur had heard.
His hair stood on end.

They were before the doors of an ancient church. And in the cleared
space before those doors milled a strange throng. Men on foot wore robes
of the plain monk's cloth and carried wooden staves. Towering above them
were mounted men, men dressed in hauberks and doublets of chain mail.
All of them had their eyes fixed on something in the center of the
crowd.

Then someone caught sight of Merlin and his name was whispered. As by
magic the people parted to let him and Wilbur through. For the first
time Wilbur saw what they had been staring at. It was a rough block of
stone, and buried to the hilt in the stone was a sword!

"Merlin," a voice said, a voice that was heavy and assured.

Wilbur looked up and shrank away from the armored giant on horseback who
towered over him and the old man. The giant raised the visor of his
helmet and Wilbur beheld a face that was as cruel as a hawk's. Dark
eyes gleamed from beneath black and bristling brows.

"What mummery is this?" the dark man asked.

"No mummery, but the good bishop's prayer answered," Merlin said calmly.
"Is not the stone inscribed, Sir Kay?"

"Inscribed," Sir Kay echoed. "And its message is that he who withdraws
the sword shall be king of England."

His scowl made Wilbur's knees weaken, but Merlin remained unaffected. In
fact the old man seemed quite cheerful.

"Excalibur it is called," Merlin said. "He who wrenches it free shall
rule."

"Hear me," Sir Kay grated. "If this be one of your tricks, know this:
none but a son of Uther Pendragon will reign."

For a moment Wilbur forgot the two. He had caught sight of the
inscription of the stone and was reading it. Apparently it was meant to
be a poem but it did not rhyme. On the spot Wilbur produced what he
thought was a better one. He tried it out, not realizing he spoke aloud.

    "Who from this stone Excalibur draws
    Shall be England's king and make her laws."

Sir Kay frowned blackly and his hand hovered near a dagger at his side.

"What have you to do with this, varlet?" he demanded.

"He is but a troubadour," Merlin interjected quickly. "A bard who will
sing your praises after the tourney."

"I had forgotten the tourney," Sir Kay grunted. "But see you forget not
my warning."

He reined away, knocking people aside like tenpins. Behind him the other
knights followed, and after them went the common people. In a few
minutes Wilbur and Merlin found themselves alone. In the distance, and
in the direction the crowd had vanished, Wilbur saw the towers of a
medieval castle.

"Camelot," Merlin told him.

"I don't like this," Wilbur said. "That fellow looked as though he
wanted to slit my throat."

"Yours wouldn't be the first one he's slit," Merlin said. "But you stay
close to me and you'll be safe enough. Although I must admit that Kay
has become quite a problem since his father died."

"Is he a son of Uther Pendragon?"

"Why do you think he insists that none but Uther's sons may rule?"
Merlin snarled. "But with a king like him we'd have nothing but corpses
around. That's why I needed you."

       *       *       *       *       *

Wilbur was bewildered, but not completely baffled. It had become
painfully clear to him that Merlin had found him, not vice versa. The
advertisement in the paper had been a trick to lure a timid man. But
there was still a little clearing up to be done.

"Would you please explain what I have to do with all this?" Wilbur asked
plaintively. Merlin clawed gently at his beard and shrugged.

"I suppose it would be only fair, after abducting you from the twentieth
century and dragging you back here. The point is this: after Uther died
there was a squabble over who should be king. We couldn't stand a civil
war so the bishop of this church prayed for a sign, and the next day
this stone and sword were found here. So far nobody has been able to
pull it out."

"You didn't have anything to do with that, did you?" Wilbur asked
naively.

"I'm not saying. Anyway, Sir Kay is the logical man for the job, except
that he's too quick with his blade. That left only one other, and he's
got his fault too."

Wilbur was thinking about his right eye. A little flattery might go a
long way.

"I should think you would make a good king, Mr. Merlin."

"My father was an incubus," Merlin said, as though that explained
everything. He peered down the road as the sound of hoofs reached them.

Wilbur followed Merlin's gaze and saw a young man on horseback coming
toward them from the direction of Camelot. The young fellow wore a shirt
of mail but no helmet, and his horse was not armored. Merlin held up his
hand and the mounted man drew rein. Wilbur got a good look at him.

He was almost as big as Sir Kay, but with a fair complexion and light
hair. He could not have been much over fifteen, despite his size. His
manner was easy, giving the suggestion of enormous strength in reserve,
yet with a hint of gentleness. But it was his eyes which were his
outstanding feature. They were a clear brown, wide, and with an
expression of complete fearlessness.

"Where to, Arthur?" Merlin asked.

"My brother Kay has broken his sword. I must get him another."

"Tarry a moment," Merlin said. "I have a question which troubles me. The
enemies of our land march against us, and they outnumber us five to one.
Were you king, what would you do?"

Arthur laughed, a clear ringing laugh that showed rows of white teeth.
His brown eyes glowed with an inward fire.

"Do? I would take the field against them, of course! Even though they
outnumber us fifty to one."

Wilbur thrilled to the words. But Merlin shuddered slightly and Wilbur
heard a faint groan of distress come from his lips.

"Got here in the nick of time," the old man muttered. He looked up at
Arthur and said aloud: "You may have your chance. But first you must
make me a promise. You must come to my castle this very night and drink
the draught I shall prepare for you."

"I promise," Arthur said unthinkingly. "And now I'll be getting that
sword for Kay."

"This looks like a good one," Merlin said. He pointed to the sword in
the stone.

"It does indeed," Arthur agreed. Without a second look he bent and
seized the hilt and wrenched it free. He raised the sword in a salute to
Merlin and Wilbur, laughed his ringing carefree laugh, and was gone in a
cloud of dust.

       *       *       *       *       *

Merlin's castle was not overly large, and as far as Wilbur could see
after he got inside, most of it was under ground. He and the old man
were in a great damp chamber, the walls of which were solid rock. The
room was filled with Merlin's jugs, with tripods from which boiling
kettles hung, and with great black cats which prowled everywhere. The
door was of solid oak and immovable. Wilbur knew; he had tried it once
when Merlin had gone out.

At the moment Merlin and he were sitting facing each other on a pair of
stone couches. They had been sitting so for some hours and the silence
was wearing Wilbur down.

"So Arthur is going to be king," he said at last, in an effort to start
a conversation. "He looks like a fine boy."

"He is," Merlin agreed. "Chivalrous and all that. It was foreordained.
That's why I had to get back. I knew he was going to be along that road
today, and I knew he was going to pull out that sword."

"I thought you said he had a fault."

"What a fault," Merlin sighed. "He's got your trouble, but in reverse.
He was born without fear. It's a bad thing for a king to be like that.
He'd lead his people into sure death. You heard what he said this
afternoon. Even odds of fifty to one mean nothing to him."

For the first time Wilbur saw the whole thing. Until now he had
entertained a faint hope that Merlin might not really want his eye. But
this was the clincher. The _Elixir of Caution_! Desperately he cast
about for a means of escape. There was none. And Merlin was watching him
with an eagle eye.

"Maybe," Wilbur offered weakly, "a few drops of my blood would do the
trick. You don't want Arthur to get _too_ timid."

"Nice of you to think of it," Merlin said. "But I really couldn't fool
with that recipe."

Wilbur wished with all his heart that he had the courage to put up some
kind of fight. Merlin was an old and feeble man. But he knew his
genetics. Wilbur had been born without a gene of courage. Wilbur rubbed
his right eye, the one he would soon be without, and felt tears well up.
His last glimmer of hope was borne on a sigh.

"Maybe he won't come."

"He'll come all right. Arthur never breaks a promise. That's one of his
best points. What I'm trying to do is see to it that he isn't so rash
about making them in the first place."

It seemed that Merlin was right, for just then there came to their ears
the sound of iron shod hoofs in the courtyard above their heads. The
ceiling trembled slightly and a drop of water fell on Wilbur's head.
Then footsteps clattered down a long flight of stairs and the door swung
open. It was Arthur, and from his appearance it was plain he had been in
a fight.

       *       *       *       *       *

From a cut alongside his temple blood dripped. His shirt of mail had
been pierced at the left shoulder and blood glistened redly there. Some
had trickled down and lay in beads like rubies on the gleaming mail. His
face was streaked with sweat and dirt and his hair lay in wet clumps,
and he was breathing hard.

"What happened?" Merlin asked quickly. Arthur let out a laugh and his
eyes glowed fierce.

"A band of varlets tried to ambush me on my way here. Had I not been in
so great a hurry to keep my appointment with you I'd have brought you
some heads on Excalibur's point."

He held up the great sword and Wilbur turned faint at the sight of the
gore along its blade. He put his hand over his mouth and his eyes rolled
upward.

"Wipe that blade before this one perishes of fright," Merlin said
quickly. Then he became solicitous. "Are you sore wounded?"

"There were only ten," Arthur laughed. "They were too busy defending
their lives to do me much harm. Now, where is that drink you invited me
here for?"

"It will take a while to prepare," Merlin said. He busied himself with a
kettle and some jugs and powders.

Wilbur was turning a pale green from fright. He had to think of
something. Suddenly he turned to Arthur.

"You won't like this drink," he whispered urgently. "It may even poison
you!"

Arthur stared down at him. "Even so I needs must drink it. I have given
my word. A promise may not be broken."

Merlin was coming toward them now and Wilbur saw that the old man held
in his hand an instrument which looked like a surgeon's scalpel. He let
out a shriek of terror and would have run had his legs not been
paralyzed.

"What is this womanly fright?" Arthur asked, wrinkling his nose.

"I need his right eye to make the _Elixir of Caution_," Merlin
explained. He laid a claw on Wilbur's shoulder and it was like the hand
of doom.

"Yeeow!" Wilbur howled. He began to babble. "You lied to me! You said
you'd make me brave! False pretenses!"

He stopped abruptly. Merlin's hand had fallen from his shoulder. There
was a sudden silence that grew thick and ominous. Looking up fearfully,
Wilbur saw that Arthur had fixed Merlin with a hostile glare.

"Did you so promise?" Arthur demanded. He stood straight and regal.
"Answer me, and forget not I am your king."

Merlin's hands made feeble and apologetic gestures.

"What could I do?" he pleaded. "One like him is born seldom. I had
searched the centuries, and there was no more time."

He turned to Wilbur and his face betrayed an apprehension that made
Wilbur's hopes rise. Arthur did not act like he would stand for any
promise-breaking among his subjects.

"Tell you what I could do," Merlin said. "I could put your eye back when
I'm through with it. In fact, that's a promise."

"Will that make him brave?" Arthur demanded.

"Well...." Merlin hesitated. Arthur's finger slid suggestively along the
blade of his sword.

"I'll look it up," the old man finished hurriedly.

       *       *       *       *       *

His hand dipped beneath his robe and came out with the ancient book. A
long nailed finger ran through the pages. There was a pause, and then
Merlin began to mumble.

"_Elixir of Fortitude_: One part _Eagle's Heart-Dried_, one part _Lion's
Breath-Distilled_, one part _Essence of Steel_, hm-m-m." His voice
trailed off in a hum, then picked up again. "Simmer for one hour.
_Caution_: MUST BE FINISHED BEFORE MIDNIGHT."

"Well?" Arthur said.

"I've got everything except the last ingredient," Merlin said unhappily.
Suddenly his face lit up. "We'd better hurry. There is only an hour and
a half left."

He scurried to a bottle which hung on the wall and brought it back to
Wilbur. "Drink some quickly. You will feel no pain." When Wilbur had
gulped some down Merlin took the bottle and handed it to Arthur. "You
too."

       *       *       *       *       *

Above their heads there was a rumbling and the pounding of hoofs in the
courtyard. Quickly Merlin ran to the oak door and slammed it shut. He
seemed to be expecting trouble. It turned out he was right again.

More than one pair of feet was on the stone stairway. Loud voices
shouted, "Open up!" Wilbur recognized one of the voices and he groaned.
Then bodies were hurled against the door.

It held against the first assault, and against the second. The third
time there was a splintering of wood. Wilbur held his breath. A hinge
had torn loose. Once more there was the crash of armored bodies against
the oak and the door flew inward. Sir Kay was inside in a flash, and
behind him came five more. The dark man's eyes lit on Wilbur.

"So, varlet!" Kay bellowed hoarsely. "My suspicion was right. You are in
the plot against me!"

Without waiting for a denial he flung himself at Wilbur and his sword
swished through the air. How he managed it Wilbur never knew, but he
ducked in time. The flat of Kay's sword caught him a glancing blow on
the head and knocked him off the stone bench.

Then the great room was filled with the clash of steel as Arthur went
into action. Out of eyes that were glassy Wilbur saw him decapitate two
men with a single stroke. Another fell dead before he could raise his
shield. The other two fled with Kay's curses following them. Only
Arthur's brother was left.

"Yield," Arthur warned grimly. Kay's reply turned Wilbur's ears red. The
two went at it. For a few minutes it was an even battle, and then
suddenly both swords came together with a force that drew sparks. Kay
was left with only a hilt in his hand.

What happened next Wilbur hardly knew. There was a clang as something
bounced on the stone floor, and a great round object that looked like a
helmet rolled past him.

"Quickly now," Wilbur heard Merlin say. "There is barely the hour left
to us."

Wilbur could hear but he could see nothing. There was a black veil over
his eyes. Powerful arms lifted him and laid him on the stone bench. Then
there was the sound of bottles being emptied into kettles. Wilbur heard
feet approach him but he was too sleepy to care. Something touched his
eye but he felt no pain.

In his dazed state time passed quickly for him. There was always the
scuffling of Merlin's feet, and now and again the old man's creaky voice
rose in weird incantations. Then something hot was pressed against
Wilbur's lips.

"Drink," Merlin said. Wilbur opened his mouth and felt a hot liquid gush
down his throat.

"I want my eye," Wilbur mumbled.

"Don't worry," Merlin told him. "I'm getting it."

He was taking his time about it, Wilbur thought. He could hear a great
stirring going on. There were muffled curses and he heard something
bouncing on the floor.

"Darn stuff is so thick I can't tell them apart," Merlin was muttering.

"Hurry!" Arthur called. "The cock crows midnight!"

"I'm doing my best," Merlin said. He was breathing hard as he bent over
Wilbur. There was a quick pressure against Wilbur's eye socket and
Merlin grunted triumphantly.

"There!" the old man said. "I've kept my promise. Now I'm going to send
you back where I found you, and good riddance. You've been nothing but
trouble."

Again something hot was poured down Wilbur's throat. It had a familiar
taste, a sort of smoky flavor. Liquid fire coursed through his veins, he
felt his body grow light and buoyant, he was floating. Then he was being
sucked down into a black vortex and through a Stygian passage. The
passage seemed endless but it was not, and at the end was a tiny hole of
light which grew steadily larger.

       *       *       *       *       *

Wilbur found himself on a sagging porch, before a door that leaned on
sprung hinges. His head ached, and raising his hand he ran it along his
scalp until he found a large bump. He rolled his eyes upward as though
to see where he had been hurt. All he saw was a jagged hole in the porch
roof. At his feet was a chunk of plaster.

It took a minute for the realization to filter through that he was
standing on the porch of 136 W. Erie Street. Wilbur recalled walking up
the stairs. After that everything was a blur. He scrutinized the door.
There was no card bearing the name of A. J. Merlin. In fact, there was no
card at all!

"Hey, mister," a boy's voice called. Wilbur turned around and saw a
tattered urchin regarding him gravely. "Ain't nobody lived in that house
for years," the boy said. "It's haunted."

Wilbur shuddered and at the same instant became aware of a peculiar
phenomenon. He seemed to be seeing the boy through only one eye. The
other was strangely blurred. Wilbur pulled out his handkershief and
wiped his right eye. His vision improved but as he moved toward the head
of the stairs he swayed slightly.

"You get hurt or something?" the boy asked as Wilbur came toward him.
Wilbur rubbed his head.

"I'm all right," Wilbur told him. He said it partly to reassure himself.

He looked at his wrist watch and found he had only twenty minutes to get
back to work. That was puzzling. There was a lapse of time. Being a man
of imagination, Wilbur reflected that if he had actually been in the
past he would not have used up any time in the present.

On the other hand, it was more probable that he had been hit on the head
by falling plaster and had incurred a slight lapse of consciousness,
memory, or both. He was inclined to accept that explanation.

At any rate he was going to be late if he didn't hurry, and Pete Bellows
would be mad as a hornet. Wilbur speeded up his pace. Then he slowed
down again. If anyone should be angry it was himself. He had missed his
lunch.

Riding up in the elevator Wilbur checked his watch again and found he
was only five minutes late. In his working life that represented two
lines of doggerel. It didn't seem like much to get excited about. But
Pete Bellows didn't see it that way.

"Mook!" he roared, as Wilbur came through the door. "You're late!"

If he had expected Wilbur to fall into his usual fit of trembling he was
disappointed. Wilbur was staring at him.

"Your eye!" Wilbur gasped. Pete's left eye was swollen half shut and had
a blue ring around it.

"He walked into the door," Miss Burnett said. "Honest."

Wilbur smiled at her. She was a very pretty girl. Too pretty to be
working for a wolf like Pete Bellows. Wilbur had a notion to tell her
so.

"I said you're late, Mook," Pete told him ominously.

"So what?" Wilbur asked quietly. "If you don't like it you can fire me.
In fact, considering that you find so much fault with my work I'm
surprised you haven't discharged me long ago. But I'll save you the
trouble. I quit."

Pete was staring at him as though Wilbur had gone mad. Maybe he had,
Wilbur thought. Maybe Pete was going to get sore and punch him in the
nose. It didn't seem to matter.

"Not only that," Wilbur added. "I'm going into business for myself. How
would you like to work for me, Miss Burnett?"

"I think I'd like that just fine," she said. She took her purse out of a
drawer in her desk and got her coat and put it on.

Pete Bellows was a stricken man. For once he had nothing to say. His
mouth dropped open and he leaned against his desk. "W-wait a minute,
Wilbur, old pal," he managed to gasp finally.

"Goodbye," was all Wilbur had to say. He held the door open carefully
for Miss Burnett, then shut it behind them as carefully.

Wilbur knew that he was outwardly calm. Inside, he was filled with
amazement at himself. Never had he thought to see the day when he would
stand up to Pete Bellows. Now he had not only done it, he had got away
with it! He took Miss Burnett's elbow. She was looking at him rather
queerly, he thought.

"What's the matter?"

"I just noticed the strangest thing about you," she said. "You're the
first person I've ever seen who had different colored eyes!"

Wilbur gasped. His knees felt weak, and out of the past he heard a
creaky voice say, "... I can't tell them apart." Now he understood that
_Arthur's_ right eye had been the last ingredient in the _Elixir of
Fortitude_!

Wilbur smiled. There was nothing to be angry about. He certainly hadn't
got the worst of the bargain! His shoulders were squared as he helped
Miss Burnett into the elevator car.

"Let's go, Jean," Wilbur said.


    [Transcriber's Corrections

    Changed "widow" to "window" (A fat grey cat sunned itself on the
    window ledge)

    Removed extra "and" (He picked up the glass ball again and
    Wilbur felt himself grow faint)

    Changed "is it" to "it is" ("Excalibur it is called," Merlin said.)

    Changed "face" to "fact" (In fact, there was no card at all!)

    Changed "handkershief" to "handkerchief" (Wilbur pulled out his
    handkerchief and wiped his right eye)

    Removed extraneous doublequote at the end of the sentence (Arthur's
    right eye had been the last ingredient in the Elixir of Fortitude!)]