Chapter I

A mood was upon Kevan MacGreene. As of the moment, he did not consider this the best of all possible worlds. In fact, many arguments to the contrary were running through his head--on shoes of iron, it seemed. Only twenty-five years of age, Kevan MacGreene was foot-loose and fancy free, but his thoughts were cast in gloom and darkly shaped.

It was 1952 and the threats of atomic warfare appeared almost daily in the newspapers. The cost of living continued to go up. The prisons and asylums were overflowing. Congress, having investigated everything else, had formed a Goober-Natural Committee (fifteen governors had misunderstood and resigned the first day it was announced) and were knee-deep in peanuts. The Soviet representative had just stormed out of another U.N. meeting. The American representative wanted to lock the door so he couldn't get back in. A columnist had written that "the world is going to hell on a street car" and had been forced to apologize to seven railroad companies and a major-interest-owned bus line.

But it was because of none of these things that Kevan MacGreene walked the streets of lower Manhattan and pondered on the frailty of Man. It was now only a few days since he had received his draft notice. Far from objecting, he had welcomed the opportunity to become a hero--even a radioactive one. He had quit his job in Macy's complaint department and the night before he'd spent all of his money financing a binge for himself and a few select friends. It had lasted until morning and then, complete with hangover, Kevan MacGreene had reported for his physical.

It was while being questioned by a fatherly doctor, who, it turned out, was a psychiatrist, that Kevan made his first slip. Usually he was more alert, but the hangover was demanding attention and he automatically admitted that he often heard voices. Under the pressure of questioning, while wondering if his head was really as hollow as it felt, he went into some detail on the voices and what they said. By the time he realized what was happening it was too late. He was classified as an unstable personality and was being ushered through the door reserved for those who weren't wanted.

* * * * *

Broke, hungry, and considerably vexed at being called an unstable personality, especially since everything now combined to make him feel like one, Kevan MacGreene walked through the streets of Greenwich Village. It was in this mood that he arrived on the corner where Fourth Street unaccountably crosses Twelfth Street. Standing there for a minute, he happened to glance up and see the sign over one of the buildings:

TROUBLESHOOTERS, INC.

Below that, in smaller letters, it said:

_Come in._

Kevan MacGreene went in.

The girl at the desk was lovely beyond words. Her hair was like black velvet and her eyes were an emerald green. Just looking at her made Kevan MacGreene feel better.

"I have some troubles I'd like shot," he said, saying the first thing that came into his aching head.

The girl smiled with a distant friendliness. "Do you mean you'd like to employ us?" she asked.

"No," said Kevan MacGreene, realizing what it was that he did want. "I'd like you to employ me."

"I'm sorry," the girl said, "but I'm afraid there are no positions open--none, at least, that you could fill."

"But I need a job," Kevan said. "I--I gave up my last job because I thought I was going to be drafted. Now I have no job and I'm broke. And the draft board rejected me because I hear voices."

For the first time, the black-haired girl looked interested. "What kind of voices?" she asked.

"Thin little piping voices," Kevan said. He didn't know why but he felt that she would understand. "Most of the time I can't understand what they're saying. Sometimes they sing. Like this." Wincing from the pain in his head, Kevan sang in the highest pitch he could reach. "_Gie brownie coat, gie brownie sark, ye'll get nae mair o' brownie's wark._" He stopped and looked at the girl. Her smile was warmer.

"What's your name?" she asked.

"Kevan MacGreene."

She nodded. "I'll see," she said. She picked up the phone and pressed a button. He could hear the faint buzz in the inner office. "There's a young man here," she said into the phone, "looking for a job. He says his name is Kevan MacGreene and that he hears voices." She listened a minute and then put the phone down.

"He'll see you," she said. "Go in." She indicated the door beyond her desk.

Kevan stopped beside the desk and glanced down at the hair that was like a raven's wing. "What's your name?" he asked.

"Kathleen Culanna."

"Ah," he said, "I knew there was a reason for the green in your eyes and the harp's song in your voice. Will you have dinner with me tonight?"

"Go along with you," the girl said, but there was no rebuke in her voice. "He's waiting for you."

"Will you have dinner with me tonight?"

"Ask me when you come back," the girl said. "If I'm still here, I will."

"I'll be back," he said. He walked through the door and closed it behind him. He stopped there, gazing at the man who sat at the desk in the small room.

He was a short man, with a face Kevan thought of as jolly even though it seemed pinched with worry. Tufts of golden blond hair ringed a bald head, resembling a halo. He looked up from his cluttered desk and studied Kevan.

"MacGreene, is it?" he said finally. "Where were you born?"

"In New York," Kevan answered, wondering at the question.

"And your father?"

"Fergus MacGreene. He was born in the old country, Ulster, I think, but he became a citizen as soon as he could after arriving here." He wondered if this was some sort of loyalty check.

"You hear voices, do you?" the little man asked.

"I do," Kevan said shortly, thinking that it had been a mistake to mention it. "As did my mother, and her mother before her. But it's never interfered with a job I've held."

"Of course not." The worried expression was fading from his face. "You're hired. My name is Brian Shanachie."

"But--but I don't understand," Kevan said. He was feeling confused and he wasn't sure whether it was the hangover or the company. "Don't you want to know my qualifications?"

"You've already told me," said Brian Shanachie. "Your name's MacGreene and you hear voices. What more could I ask--even though it's true I'm in a bit of a pinch? Here I was, with every one of my men out on a job and me with an emergency on my hands, when, Finbheara be praised, in you walked. You'll be quite ready to go to work at once?"

* * * * *

Kevan MacGreene was more confused than ever, but a generous streak of stubbornness came to his aid. "You may be satisfied," he said, dropping into the chair in front of the desk, "but I want to know something about the job before I take it. What does Troubleshooters, Inc., do?"

"You don't know?" the little man asked in surprise.

Kevan shook his head, an act which painfully reminded him of his headache.

"Oh, well," sighed Brian Shanachie, "but it'll have to be brief. There is an emergency. Tell me, Kevan MacGreene, you know of the Little People?"

It was Kevan's turn to be surprised. "Gnomes?" he asked.

"Gnomes, dwarfs, brownies, leprechauns, fairies, druids, apuku, the Wanagemeswak, it matters little what you call them. You know of them?"

"My mother used to tell me about them," Kevan said, "but she was a woman without education. I've been through college and while they are interesting legends--"

"Agh!" interrupted Brian Shanachie. "There's the trouble with the world. Too much education in the wrong things. If it weren't for people like you, Kevan MacGreene, who've given up the old ways, I wouldn't have to be working here, slaving away all hours--"

It was obvious that he was working himself into a rage, so Kevan interrupted. "Okay, so there _are_ Little People," he said. He thought he might as well humor his prospective employer. He glanced at him more closely. "Don't tell me you're one? You're too big."

"Too big for a gnome, too small for a mortal," said Brian Shanachie, his humor restored, "No, I'm neither. My father was the son of Finbheara himself, but my mother was a mortal. So I am well suited for this job."

"Which is what?"

"I'm telling you," said Brian Shanachie, with a scowl. "In the days when people had enough sense to believe in the Little People, diplomatic relations were handled on an individual basis. The individual who aroused the anger of a gnome would himself put out an offering of milk, with perhaps a wee drop of brandy in it, or offer him a new cloak and hood. But with the coming of such fine education that the Little People were forgotten there was a problem. It was then that my little organization was started. More properly it should be known as the Bureau of Mortal-Gnomic Adjustments, but there are too many non-believers who would only plague me with their silly questions, so I called it Troubleshooters, Inc."

"But what do you do?" Kevan asked. He had a strange feeling that the more it was explained the less he understood.

"Adjust matters between mortals and gnomes, of course," snapped the other. He picked up some papers on his desk. "Now, take the case I'm assigning you to, the emergency--I'm putting it in the files as The Case of the Gnome's Gneiss...."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Gneiss," said Brian Shanachie with some irritation. "G-N-E-I-S-S. Everybody certainly knows what gneisses are."

"I don't."

"College education," the little man sneered. "Gneisses are rocks made of thin layers of minerals. Now, a gnome, or a dwarf, if you prefer--he's been called both--named Alviss is one of the finest gneiss-makers in the world. Recently, he had just finished what he considered his masterpiece, a gneiss composed of some fifteen different minerals, and all of fifty feet long, when directly over the spot where it was located an atom bomb test was held. You can imagine the results. The gneiss was cracked beyond repair. Alviss, with certain provocation you must admit, is angry. In fact, he grows angrier every minute and I understand that he is on the verge of declaring open war against all mortals."

"So what?" asked Kevan. "What could he do?"

"What could he do?" echoed Brian Shanachie in horror. "Why, there is no end to what he could do. Sour milk, make cows go dry, put changelings in the place of mortal infants, make the hens lay square eggs. Water might run uphill, hens would crow and roosters cackle, and the sun set in the east. And that, mind you, would be only the work of Alviss. If the others of the Little People helped him, and fully half of them would have to, then you can imagine the chaos.

"No, it's obvious Alviss must be appeased and since the ones who dropped the bomb will not do so, it is up to us to avert the war."

"Why not just explain to--er--Alviss that it was all a mistake?" Kevan suggested.

"'Twouldn't do. Alviss is a sensitive one, as you will see, and it'll take more than that to make him forget his grudge."

"As I will see?"

"Certainly," said Brian Shanachie, nodding his head. "It is you who will go to see Alviss."

* * * * *

It wasn't that Kevan MacGreene was willing to so quickly forego his skepticism and embrace a belief in the Little People, but his head hurt too much to argue and he was in a mood to take what came along and let things work themselves out.

"But what do I do after I see him?" he asked.

"Find out what will keep him peaceful and, if it's within reason, give it to him. If it isn't, then you may have to appeal to the Council of Gnomes, or even to the four kings. I'll be giving you this--" Brian Shanachie came around the desk and fixed what seemed to be a small metal flower in the lapel of Kevan's coat--"by which you can discuss any settlement with me. All you have to do is shout my name and the contact will be made. It is also possible for me to deliver to you, by teleportation, certain mortal materials when they will aid in adjustments. I remember one time when peace was made with Sindri, over the matter of a mortal who tried to steal his treasure, with the presentation of a radio.... But now get along with you, Kevan MacGreene."

"Just a minute," said Kevan, "how much does this job pay?"

"Enough in mortal money that you'll have no complaint," Brian Shanachie snapped. "Be gone with you."

"Where?" Kevan asked. "I mean how do I get there?"

Brian Shanachie looked surprised, then nodded. "Of course, you wouldn't know, would you? I best look it up, to be sure that we still have it right." He took a thick book from his desk, thumbing through it rapidly while muttering to himself. Then he nodded again. "Yes, 'tis still in the proper alignment. And all you have to do, my boy, is walk through yon door."

For the first time, Kevan noticed another door in the office near to the chair in which he sat. He stood up and looked at it uncertainly.

"But be sure and watch the first step," said Brian Shanachie. "It's been a bit broken since the time Regin came to see me and stomped on the step instead of knocking."

"But how do I find Alviss after I get through the door?" Kevan wanted to know.

"Ask," said Brian Shanachie. "You can ask anyone--no, but better, perhaps since you're a new employee you'd best first go and pay your respects to Finbheara, Iubdan, Geanncanac, and Daoine Glas, the four kings. They'll be sure to know where you can find Alviss. Run along with you."