The Long War

its paws equipped for digging. This was like nothing so much as an overgrown, vaguely human-shaped, upright, clothes-wearing mole. An upright mole wearing sunglasses . The lenses were cracked and scarred, and the creature’s ears, folded flat against its blunt skull, didn’t look up to the job of support, so the shades were fixed in place with a band of grubby elastic.
    The elf grinned again. Joshua could smell its breath from here.
    His gun was inside the sleeping bag. Joshua got a distinct impression that attempting to reach it would be the single most stupid thing he could possibly do.
    At such times, thought Joshua, there had to be a more useful opening than: ‘A star shines on the hour of our meeting.’ But that was what crackled out of the radio on the ground by the sleeping bag. Bill was evidently watching.
    The elf grinned again and said, ‘I wish-sh you a good death-th.’
    English. It spoke English! It was an elf, obviously, a member of one of the many slim, gracile species of humanoids that had come to be known as elves across the Long Earth. But though he’d never seen one before, Joshua immediately knew what subspecies this must be.
    ‘He’s a kobold.’
    ‘Evidently,’ murmured Bill from the radio. ‘Some folks call them ringtails. Or “urban foxes”, according to the fecking English.’
    ‘I thought they were a comber legend.’
    ‘Don’t tell him that, he might get the hump. I have him on infrared,’ said Bill. ‘I see his weaponry. He won’t harm you. Well, probably not. Tell me how you’d describe him.’
    ‘Can you imagine Gandhi meets Peter Pan?’
    ‘No . . .’
    The kobold grinned, showing those sharp teeth. ‘Not worry, little mann. I protect. Be ss-safe. Be friend.’
    ‘Great. My name’s Joshua.’
    He nodded gravely. ‘Know. Lobsang ss-send you.’
    ‘Lobsang? You know about Lobsang? . . . Why aren’t I surprised?’
    Bill said, ‘You’re all over the kobold grapevine, Joshua. Especially since I started putting out feelers about Sally on your behalf.’
    ‘You got ss-tone that sing-ss?’
    ‘The stone that sings?’
    ‘Yah. Stone that eats soul of mann, sings. The holy music. Menn that ss-sing after death.’ The kobold paused, moving his lips as he thought hard, and added, ‘Like Buddy Holly.’
    ‘Say yes,’ said Bill.
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Flip, Joshua, do I have to spell it out to ye? Give him the cassette.’
    ‘Oh – the “stone that sings”. I get it.’ Joshua reached for his jacket, which he had been using as a pillow, found the battered old cassette tape in the pocket, and handed it over.
    The kobold reached across and took it like a devout worshipper handling a relic. He sniffed at it, held it to his ear and shook it gently. ‘Bill was-ss here before. We talk. He give me mus-ssic. He give cof-ffee. He give machine that drinks-ss sunlight and plays-ss holy mu-ssic.’
    ‘You mean a cassette machine?’
    The kobold turned the tape over in his long fingers. ‘Kinks-ss? . . .’
    ‘It’s the album you wanted,’ Bill said from the radio. ‘ The Kinks Are the Village Green Preservation Society .’
    ‘Good . . .’ The kobold dug a battered old tape-drive walkman from the pouch at his waist, held up a glittering solar-cell surface to face the sunlight, pulled ancient-looking headphones around his neck, and pushed the tape into a slot. ‘Extra-ss?’
    ‘You’ve got the twelve-track mono version released in Europe, and then the fifteen-track UK edition in stereo and mono, and some rarities. An alternate mix of “Animal Farm”. An unreleased track called “Mick Avory’s Underpants” . . .’
    But the kobold was no longer listening. He backed up against a tree, the worn foam of the headphones pressed against his ears.
    Bill said softly, ‘That’s it. He’s out of it for a couple of hours while he checks that out. Joshua, if you need breakfast, now’s a good time.’
    ‘The Kinks, Bill?’
    ‘A great 1960s band from the UK, who made it big in the US with—’
    ‘I don’t care. No disrespect to the Kinks. What’s with the tape?’
    ‘Trade goods, Joshua. Kobolds like human culture. Some of ’em are big on music. This one was hooked when he first heard “Waterloo Sunset”. He’s a kind of snitch. An informant. I get him the music he wants; he gives me – information.’
    ‘Yeah, but who uses a cassette machine?’
    ‘Well, he’s older than he looks, Joshua. He’s been doing trades like this for years. And he’s a