Free Land of Unreason by L. Sprague de Camp, Fletcher Pratt

sound, but he makes several slight mistakes in
arriving at the rationale of inverse values, with the result that he reaches
the correct result by the wrong route. My commentary will clarify the whole
matter."
     
                "What whole
matter?"
     
                "Why, the theory of
inverse values," said the elf, tucking the volume under his arm and
joining Barber in the path. "We can prove that nothing has any
value."
     
                "Huh?"
     
                "Certainly. Obviously
two oranges are worth twice as much as one orange."
     
                "I suppose so."
     
                "And one is worth half
as much as two. That is, value is proportionate to quantity."
     
                There seemed nothing to do
but humor this helpful but argumentative sprite. "I see," said
Barber.
     
                "But as quantity
approaches infinity, value becomes inverted. A thousand cubic feet of air has
no value. The amount of air is, practically speaking, infinite. But if the
amount of oranges in Fairyland were infinite? Suppose that, I say, suppose
it."
     
                "I am supposing it.
What then?"
     
                "Well, an orange is a
fruit. You add to the amount of oranges in existence that of lemons, pomegranates,
quinces, apples, et cetera, all the fruits that have a supposititious value.
The result is a total practically infinite, as in the case of air. Therefore,
all these fruits taken together must have an inverse value, or none at all, as
in the case of air. And if the total sum has no value, the individual
fractions—single oranges, for instance—have no value likewise ... The last part
is my commentary."
     
                "Beg pardon," said
Barber, "but isn't there a flaw in your reasoning?"
     
                "Not at all, not at
all, my dear fellow. Mechanically perfect. Cured my orbulina. Here's Cyril
now." They had climbed out of the declivity, and Barber saw the same
fairy, whacking away and muttering, "Forty-four, eighteen." Evidently
they were on the opposite side of his clearing than Barber had approached
before; he could see the tall thorn hedges beyond.
     
                "What's your
name?" demanded Jib. "Barber? I say, Cyril! I want you to meet my old
friend Barber."
     
                "Right-ho," said
the tweedy native, with energetic cordiality. "Delighted, charmed. How can
I help you?"
     
                Barber repeated the
now-wearisome question.
     
                "Oh, surely," said
Cyril. "Only too glad. Keep right along this path, but—let's see, this is
Monday, what? Then you have to take the left fork at the first turning. Carry
right on till you reach the forest. You'll have to ask your way after
you get into it, I'm afraid. The shapings do things to the forest paths. Look
here, do you want me to accompany you?"
     
                "It might be helpful,
but aren't you busy?"
     
                "Well, rather. I'm just
on the edge of setting a new record. But for a friend of old Jib's ..."
     
                "Oh, I wouldn't think
of bothering you, then. What do you mean by the forest?"
     
                "There are forests and
forests. This is the forest. Cheerio, then."
     
                He shook hands, and turned
to thumping at the sand again. Jib squatted down with his book on his knees,
and began to go through the motions of writing, oblivious of the fact that he
had left both the inkless pen and his paper behind.
     
    -
     

CHAPTER
VI
     
                Meandering ahead the path
took a slight downward slope and the hedges opened out to reveal a new and
monotonous succession of flower beds. To Barber, trying to gain some sense of
the geography of the place for a homeward journey he supposed he would have to
make in time, it seemed that he was going in exactly the same direction as