Success Story - Complete With Genie

  Dream World – May 1957

  (1957) *

  Randall Garrett (as b y Ivar Jorgensen )

  Loot , luxury, and leisure are mighty tough to acquire these days. That is, unless you dig up an all-powerful Genie, yours to command!

  Mr. Prewitt Mallard entered the antique shop at a quarter to nine. That left him fifteen minutes to select an appropriate birthday gift for his wife and rush the remaining several blocks to work. Rushing to or from The Cl ub, Inc ., was, naturally, undignified. But being late, the directors always said, was even more undignified. Mr. Prewitt Mallard would rush.

  The antique shop was dark and musty. It had a strange wet swampy smell which, here in New York, was rather odd. And although the customer bell had tinkled, there didn’t seem to be anyone about. Mr. Prewitt Mallard, who did not particularly care for antiques although his wife adored them, gazed disinterestedly about. There were rows and shelves and stacks of things, all packed and piled untidily in the dim light. That was the general idea, and Mr. Mallard had to admit it had been done artfully. An antique shop should look decidedly untidy, he told himself.

  When he had about given up and had told himself that he could return after work at The Club, Inc., a barely seen door in the rear of the shop opened and a little fat man all dressed in black scuttled out front.

  “Yes, sir? Something, sir?” he chirped. The chirp was decidedly not in keeping with his appearance.

  “My wife,” Mr. Mallard said apologetically. He spoke apologetically when there was no reason to do so. His general appearance was somehow apologetic as if he went through life asking forgiveness for sins never committed. He was a small man, but not very small, thin but not very thin, somewhat homely because his features were sharp but not very homely. He liked to laugh, though. His one secret regret was that he never seemed to laugh enough. He had a fine, surprisingly booming laugh for a man his size. Mrs. Matilda Mallard spent her life trying to squelch that laugh. And, strangely it was approved of at The Club, Inc., where Mr. Mallard was athletic director—a title which did not mean at The Club, Inc., what it would mean just about anywhere else.

  “My wife,” Mr. Mallard said again. He always felt self-conscious before shopkeepers. He fidgeted with his hands and named the relationship a third time and said, “Birthday? Birthday, you know. She loves antiques. She—”

  “Something in china, perhaps?” chirped the fat man in black.

  “No. Glassware, I really think. She just loves—”

  “Glassware,” the storekeeper finished for him. “We have some. But there’s the question of price, of age, of type, of—”

  “You suggest something,” Mr. Mallard said hurriedly, looking at his wrist watch again. He felt a little proud of that wrist watch. For The Club, Inc ., did not approve of wrist watches. The Club, Inc ., favored pocket watches, the big kind, bigger than a silver dollar, the loud ticking kind. The Club, Inc., also favored Brooks Brothers clothing, but the irony of the situation was that Mr. Mallard did not receive a salary commensurate with Brooks Brothers prices.

  The storekeeper scuttled over to a wall of shelves and took something down. It was dark green, the size of a whiskey bottle but fatter. It had an ornate metal cover with a simple cork protruding. And, incredibly, on the dark green glassy surface were patches of what seemed to be mould.

  Mr. Mallard looked at his watch. It was now five to nine. If he ran all the way, he would still be a few moments late, and while punctuality or tardiness were not confirmed on a time clock at The Club, Inc., one of the club directors was always on hand to greet the late-comers with choice words and a memory like an elephant. “That’s splendid,” he said. “That’s really splendid. Just—”

  “We do have others, sir. You see—”

  “No. It’s fine. Please wrap it.”

  The storekeeper seemed oddly reluctant. “I’m afraid I can’t do that, sir. Wrap it, I mean.”

  “But why can’t you?”

  “It’s an Iblis bottle, sir. I might say, the Iblis bottle.”

  “The—uh, Iblis bottle?”

  “Cannot be wrapped or in any other way covered. Positively cannot.”

  “But why?”

  “Mr. Iblis. Mr. Iblis says so. Now, then, sir. If you’ll take it as is—”

  “The price?” Mr. Mallard asked timidly. He was beginning to sweat under his stiff collar. Somewhere nearby, a bell clock tolled the hour. Nine o’clock. Every second that passed meant he was a second later for work at The Club, Inc.

  “Oh, five dollars. Only five.”

  Mr. Mallard sighed. At least that was something, because from past experience he knew these antique bottles could be deceptively expensive. “My wife,” he said apologetically and hurriedly as he groped in his wallet for a five-dollar bill, “always likes to know their history. The antiques, I mean. House is all cluttered with them, I’m afraid. My wife keeps a regular file drawer on them. Could you tell me how old this Iblis bottle is?”

  The five-dollar bill exchanged hands. The storekeeper seemed inordinately pleased with the transaction. Mr. Mallard took the bottle, clutched it close so he would not drop it on the long run to The Club, Inc. It was uncomfortably warm. Not hot, really, but warm when it had no business being warm. Mr. Mallard found the sensation quite unpleasant.

  “Three thousand years,” the storekeeper said as Mr. Mallard opened the door and the customer bell tinkled again.

  “What did you say?” Mr. Mallard asked.

  “You wanted to know the age of the antique bottle you have just purchased. The Iblis bottle. It is three thousand years old, give or take a century.”

  “Three thousand,” repeated Mr. Mallard. The clerk, he thought, was pulling his leg. The clerk must have known he was in a hurry, wouldn’t stop to argue. He shut the door between them. Even now, he told himself, the clerk was probably slapping his sides and laughing. Three thousand , indeed. Mr. Mallard ran.

  The bottle jiggled against his ribs. It was uncomfortably, unexpectedly, inexplicably warm.

  For several hours Mr. Mallard forgot the Iblis bottle. He had received the expected visual denunciation upon his tardy arrival at The Club, Inc. Unfortunately, the optical censure had come from old Mr. Battlecock himself. That was a stroke of bad luck, Mr. Mallard had thought. Because old Mr. Battlecock was the kingpin of the board of directors of The Club. He had been its founder back in—in 1902, remembered Mr. Mallard. Which made him probably older than the allegedly antique Iblis bottle.

  The bottle pulsed more warmly when Mr. Mallard thought that. It was his last thought of the bottle, however, except for placing it down in a drawer of his desk in the athletic office, for some hours. Not that he was particularly busy: the athletic facilities of The Club, Inc ., were the least used in the grim, gray-walled fortress like building that housed the organization. The Club, Inc ., was, naturally, a men’s club, one of the last to survive on busy, prosperous Madison Avenue. It catered primarily to octogenarians who sought a snooze with their lunch, a snooze with their midafternoon newspaper, a snooze with the musty books they could take down from The Club, Inc.’s, shelves. It did not cater to the young in heart or the athletic. If Mr. Mallard had three customers a week to sign in for the use of The Club, Inc.’s, small gym, he was lucky. His day was generally spent in taking a thorough inventory of the gymnasium equipment—daily, five days a week—and in helping out Rufus O’Reiley, the library stack boy, when four o’clock rolled around and Rufus was busy collecting books from the clubrooms’ tables.

  At noon Mr. Mallard remembered the Iblis bottle. He was mildly curious because the bottle had been warm. Decidedly too warm for this dreary, rainy autumn day. As if, somehow, it glowed with its own internal heat. Mr. Mallard had compiled a neat inventory list, had compiled it rapidly because he knew the inventory by heart and took a turn about the compact gym only from force of habit. At noon —Mr. Mallard did not eat until two because most of The Club, Inc.’s, patrons used its facilities during their lunch hours—Mr. Mallard took out the Iblis bottle and placed it on the surface of his desk.

  The Iblis bottle was still warm.

  Mr. Mallard held it up to the light. The glass was close to being opaque, and very dark green in color. Three distinct patches of slime dirtied the outside of the glass. Mr. Mallard rubbed at one of them cautiously with his fingertip. He looked at his finger. It was clean. He sniffed it delicately. It did not smell. He rubbed again, without effect. He tried his handkerchief, also without effect.

  He eyed the ornate cover of the Iblis bottle suspiciously. The metal was also green. Mr. Mallard rubbed it with his finger. The green became gray-green. He scratched it with his fingernail. It became yellow.

  Gold?

  Mr. Mallard became mildly excited. Why, the Iblis bottle might actually be worth a good deal more than the five dollars he had paid for it. Hardly a fortune, but a good deal more. Mr. Mallard allowed himself a single peal of his incongruously booming laughter. Even an antique-dealer could be taken—if you were an astute bargainer. Then Mr. Mallard remembered that no bargaining had been involved. Apparently the antique dealer had not known that the cover of the Iblis bottle was gold.

  But gold—with a plain common variety of cork sticking out of it? Mr. Mallard shook his head. And if the Iblis bottle were indeed three thousand years old, he asked himself, how could an ordinary cork last three thousand years? Wouldn’t it rot? The answer to that one Was simple: the bottle was far from three thousand years old.

  Mr. Mallard’s curiosity got the better of him. It had taken all morning but now he reached forward and with a quick yank withdrew the cork from the Iblis bottle. Or, that is, he tried to. Because the cork was stuck, unexpectedly stuck.

  “Funny,” mumbled Mr. Mallard. He tried again, but the cork would not budge. He put the bottle between his knees and clamped his knees together and yanked again at the cork.

  It came out with a rush.

  The bottle fell. The bottle shattered into a hundred shards.

  A strong smell filled Mr. Mallard’s office. His eyes suddenly watered. He rubbed them. It was as if someone had peeled a barrel full of onions, right under his nose. He opened his eyes but the room seemed to be filled with thick, stinging green vapor. He shut his eyes again, moaning softly. If Mr. Battlecock should come in now, his job at The Club, Inc ., would terminate instantly. Or maybe Mr. Battlecock didn’t even have to come in. Maybe the green vapor was seeping out into the hallway and the other rooms and offices of The Club, Inc.

  Mr. Mallard blinked. The stinging vapor had receded— somewhere. Outside? thought Mr. Mallard, shuddering. Well, at least it wasn’t blinding him. At least he could see now. He opened his eyes. And saw a green man.

  An enormous green man who, standing, would have been at least seven feet tall. And three hundred pounds. But he was sitting on the edge of Mr. Mallard’s desk. He wore a turban and pantaloons and no shirt. His skin looked like green leather. He seemed to be quite hairless. He had a booming laugh, even more booming than Mr. Mallard’s. Mr. Mallard sighed. At least no one would come running because of the laugh. His laugh had become known here at The Club, Inc. It added a certain flavor of the unpredictable, a certain slight dash of it which Mr. Battlecock and the board of directors had reluctantly admitted was necessary for a club of this sort. Naturally, everyone would think it was Mr. Mallard’s laughter.

  “You broke it!” the green man cried, his laughter booming again. “I’m Iblis, do you hear? Iblis, king of the jinn. I can do anything—anything at all on this good green earth of ours except break that bottle. And you broke it for me.”

  “Er, yes, sir,” said Mr. Mallard. It was an automatic response —the automatic response of his life. Not servility, but definite respect.

  “Don’t you even know what a jinni is?” boomed the green man. “How long has it been?”

  “Three thousand years,” was Mr. Mallard’s automatic reply.

  “Three thousand!” groaned the self-styled king of the jinn. “Three thousand years in a bottle, while some usurping good-for-nothing lords it over the rest of the jinn and jinnayan—”

  “What’s a jinnayan?” Mr. Mallard wanted to know.

  “A female jinni, of course.

  Three thousand years. Listen, mortal. You saved me from an eternity inside that bottle, and I’m no ordinary jinn. I realize,” he went on apologetically, “that sometimes a jinn promises more than he can give. Like all the money in the world. There ain’t no jinni— and that includes me, king of them all—who can give you that. All we can give you is a propensity, but since I’m king I can give the best propensities of all.”

  “Propensity?” said Mr. Mallard politely. It was gas, he decided. Some kind of gas inside the green bottle. Green .gas. Going to his head like this. Putting him to sleep maybe and making him dream.

  “Propensity. Hell, yes. Like a propensity for making money, see? The rest is up to you. If you want to be rich, you have to work for it—but the propensity don’t hurt at all, you can bet your sweet life on that.”

  “But I don’t particularly want to be rich,” admitted Mr. Mallard.

  “Then you could — izzato so? Well, well, well. Maybe things kind of changed in three thousand years. Well, pal, why don’t you tell me what you do want. Because, for breaking the bottle, I’m going to grant you one propensity—any one at all. Then I’m taking off for Damascus like a Roc. O.K., pal?”

  Any wish. Any wish at all. If only it were true, thought Mr. Mallard dreamily. But assume it were true. What would he wish for, anyway? The trouble was , it was only one wish. Three, now three would be better. What was the trio of standbys? Health? wealth ? and happiness? But that seemed too vague to suit Mr. Mallard’s tastes. What kind of happiness, for example? Happiness was important, all right, he thought. Happiness was the key, make no mistake about that.

  “Well?” demanded Iblis, king of the jinn. “I ain’t got all day. When I get my hands on that usurper in Damascus, I’ll make that rat, wish—”

  Mr. Mallard heard footsteps in the hall at that moment. He gulped. It was Mr. Battlecock going on his first-lunch rounds. Every day at twelve-fifteen promptly Mr. Battlecock went on his first-lunch rounds. They brought him to Mr. Mallard’s phys ed office at twelve-thirty-two. Mr. Mallard looked at his watch. It was now twelve-twenty-seven. He had five minutes—just five. Because it was barely possible that the king of the jinns actually was sitting there—all three hundred pounds of him—on Mr. Mallard’s desk.

  “A — a prop-propensity,” stammered Mr. Mallard.

  “That’s it, Jack. Any kind of propensity at all. Just one, mind you. And then I’m taking off like a—”

  “Roc,” Mr. Mallard finished for him. “Dear me, there are so many propensities, aren’t there? So very many—”

  “Want me to suggest them all? I got a list.”

  Mr. Mallard nodded. He wasn’t listening now, at least not to the alleged jinni. He was listening desperately, though, for the sound of Mr. Battlecock’s footsteps. Because if Mr. Battlecock came in here now …

  “… Money, position, power, leadership …”

  First Mr. Battlecock visited the library and reading rooms, then the small Club, Inc., restaurant, then the athletic office. Soon Mr. Mallard would be able to hear the tread of his feet through the hallway, returning from the restaurant. He listened intently, heard nothing—yet.

  “… Athletic ability, long life, attractiveness …”

  “What was that?” said Mr. Mallard. He thought he had heard something in the hall.

  “Attractiveness ? Why, man, that’s the power to attract.”

  “I thought I heard something.”

  “You heard something, all right. You heard the word attractiveness. Though I didn’t figure you for a bug on sex, pal.”

  “Sex? Dear me.” But Mr. Mallard was still barely listening.

  “Attractivenes. Sex appeal, I mean. You’ll attract, all right. You’ll attract every dame in the neighborhood. You’re sure that’s what you want? You got to be sure, Jack, on account of I won’t be coming back once I take care of that bum. You’ll have a propensity like a magnet. But for dames. You’ll be a second pied piper. But for dames. All set?”

  “What did you say?” asked Mr. Mallard, craning his neck toward the closed door and listening, but not to the jinni. All at once he heard it—footsteps. “You—you’ll have to get out of here, Mr. Iblis,” he pleaded. “I mean, right now. Maybe — maybe you could come back, later.”

  “Can’t come back later. Now or nothing, and it won’t be nothing on account of I owe you this propensity. All set?” The jinni made a few passes in the air.

  “Go away,” shoo’d Mr. Mallard. “Just go away. Please go away.”

  “I’m go ing, pal. That’s the gratitude I get, huh?”

  “Gratitude?”

  “It’s done. Well, s’long. Say hello to all the gals for me.”

  “Wait!” began Mr. Mallard. “What are you talking about? What did you say? What kind of propensity—” He blinked. The jinni was gone. So was the green vapor. But the shards of broken glass remained on the floor. And the door opened.

  Mr. Battlecock stood there, in his wing collar and sniffing. “Musty,” he said. “Too musty, Mallard. Open a window, will you? And what kind of propensity were you talking about, my good fellow?”

  “Propensity? It was nothing. Watch out for the glass.”

  “Glass?” said Mr. Battlecock in a shocked voice. “You haven’t been — drinking?” The word came hissing out, like venom.

  “No, sir,” said Mr. Mallard as Mr. Battlecock looked down at what was left of the green bottle. “A present for my wife. I—I broke it.”

  “Any customers?” demanded Mr. Battlecock.

  “No, sir.”

  “Rarely are, are there? Sometimes I wonder what we keep you on for, Mallard. Confidentially, I’ll tell you what it is. It’s that laugh of yours, the only sound above a whisper we tolerate inside the club. Adds a certain amount of—well, of the unexpected, you might say. You really were in good form this morning. What was so funny?”

 

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