“The loud two-legs was stepped upon by this great mountain.”

To be stepped upon by Boldhoof—could she wish a more successful fate for Dik Romlee? Her mind still seemed hazy, but she held on to the fact that they did seem to be free and moving at a wind-raising rate of speed. But how had Boldhoof had the luck to break loose just at that right moment?

“This one called upon the Mountain.” There was a burst of pride and satisfaction in the mindtouch from the cat. “The lesser horses were told to run and shown this one’s claws. Run they did. But the Mountain came with Rider!”

She shook her head a little and winched at the resulting flash of pain. That the cats of the clans talked with both man and mount was well known. However, those furred and hoofed ones were familiar from birth with each other and with the humans of the tribes. Boldhoof came from a country where horses were truly dumb beasts.

“Only because two-legs have no speech either,” returned the cat crisply. “Ask now what this one thinks.”

Tentatively Nancee denied her headache and her uneasiness at being a part of this flight. She tried to reach out to contact Boldhoof.

There was a sensation of pleasure and freedom, of being a mistress of herself—and with it a small, almost humble touch for Nancee. The girl pulled herself up higher and could not help but stare at the large maned head before her, twining her fingers harder into the straps of the panniers. The ears on the head twitched, then slanted directly back as if pointing to her.

She filled her own mind, that part of it she hoped would be a passage to Boldhoof, with thanks and return pleasure.

“Now”—that was the cat cutting in impatiently—“we go to the clan. This Mountain will carry us safely and we can find the trail where there is no reason to hide. Let all see Rider and no more will he be a kitten-cubbling to wagon-ride!” Nancee laughed shakily. They had forded a river where the water had risen high enough to wet the pannier and Boldhoof’s barrel, and the whole of the wide-open country lay before them. To go to the clan—why not? She had no kin—

“Save Rider,” the cat cut in sharply.

“And Boldhoof,” she agreed. “Two who fight very well and are valiant company. Agreed—let us now seek this clan of yours, Rider of a Moving Mountain!”

Maureen Birnbaum on the Art of War 

(as told to Bitsy Spiegelman Fein)

by George Alec Effinger

George Alec Effinger, widely known as one of today’s finest science fiction writers, lives in New Orleans, Louisiana. Among his many fine works are What Entropy Means to Me, Heroics, Felicia, The Bird of Time, and more short stories than there is room to mention, including his Muffy Birnbaum stories, one of which is printed here. Enjoy!

I had never been so deliriously, deliciously giddy in my life. 1 had only been married for three hours, and already everything was like happening exactly as I had hoped and dreamed since childhood. My whole family and all my friends agreed that Josh was a real catch. He was an M.D., a newly graduated family practitioner. As a wedding present, his Uncle Mort Fein announced that he was retiring and like turning his long-established Queens practice over to my new husband. My legs turned weak for yet another time; Uncle Mort’s patients were all well-to-do and terribly loyal, and the gift also saved Josh and me a considerable amount of money that we assumed we’d have to borrow to get Josh’s office set up, not to mention the long years it would otherwise have taken to develop a good practice from scratch. It was as if Uncle Mort had, with one stroke, like fully insured our futures. On top of that, Mums shook loose a considerable sum from her "holdings,” as she called them. All the rest of my family and Josh’s family followed suit. I felt a little guilty about being exhilarated by all those dollar signs, but Josh said it was perfectly normal to be dazzled by such a windfall. He said that he was, too.

Right after the reception we caught a plane to our honeymoon vacation in Bermuda. Josh’s younger sister is like a travel agent; she made all the arrangements and used her pull to get us a terrific discount, even though it was the height of the season. / don't have a single memory of the flight itself. We flew first-class, of course; and as soon as the flight attendants learned we were newlyweds, they started hitting us with champagne, even before the plane pulled away from the terminal building. The bubbly wine and the pressure in the cabin combined to relax me so much that my next conscious memory is of Josh holding me in his arms and trying to unlock the door to our honeymoon suite. Like I don’t even recall checking in, you know? "Josh, honey," / go, showing my down-to-earth level-headed side right at the beginning of our new partnership, "put me down, unlock the door, open it, and then, like, pick me up again."

"You’re brilliant and beautiful, Betsy.” Josh can never bring himself to use my old high school and college nickname.

I kissed him. Then, after he'd opened the door and carried me across the threshold, he put me gently down on the gigantic bed. He gave me a comic leer, and I giggled. Then we looked at each other. Neither of us could think of anything to say or do. Like, what came next?

"Well,’’ goes my darling, "how does it feel to be Mrs. Dr. Josh Fein, King of Queens with eyes cast rapaciously toward Manhattan?’’

"Cast your eyes rapaciously toward me and nobody or nothing else," I go. / took a few deep breaths and let myself calm down. That’s when / noticed how absolutely beautiful our suite was, and the view through the picture windows of the gardens and the sea beyond. "Josh," I go. "let me go into the bathroom and put on something more romantic. I packed some special things and I've like planned this moment ever since eighth grade."

He smiled at me. "All right,” he goes. "I’ll open the champagne and turn down the bed." He wiggled his eyebrows at me suggestively. I giggled again. Josh just cracks me up.

I grabbed one of my suitcases and went into the bathroom. I had a little trouble with my dress, and I struggled with it for a moment. Then I heard a voice go, “You need some help with that?” It hadn’t been Josh’s voice. I whirled around.

Damn it to hell if it wasn’t Mujfy—/ mean, Maureen— Birnbaum. I could see by her outfit that she’d just come back from one of her nauseating exploits. I remembered the promise I'd made myself when she’d left a huge emerald to reimburse me for an old debt. She thought she was playing a joke on me with that gem, but it got me into no end of trouble. I declared that the next time I saw the girl, I was like going to break her face for her.

Well, I didn’t. Instead, I went straight for her pure-and-innocent eyes.

Maureen reacted more quickly than you’d think such a like full-figured girl could. Her fist came up in this long, clean arc and detonated on the point of my chin. I thought I heard a little grinding of bone. The world went black and I was falling over backward, watching bright red points of light glimmering like fireflies in the gloom. I heard Maureen from a long distance away. "Bitsy, hell, Bitsy! Oh, wow, I didn’t mean to hit you. Not so hard, I mean. I got you, you’ll be all right. You'll have maybe just a bad bruise, that’s all. Come on. Like, shake it off!” She threw cold water on me, for which I could have killed her. In a couple of minutes I was a little better. I found that I was sitting on the edge of the bathtub. Maureen was regarding me anxiously from her perch on the beige chenille-covered toilet lid.