Frek and the Elixir by Rudy Rucker

cap, the blade lying along one side of the crown. A tight little red jacket rose up to his chin, with many pockets, and a pouch of nutfungus at the waist. He flexed his cheeks, pulling smoke out of the pipe. Rather than breathing the smoke in, he let it trickle up around his weathered face.
    The Grulloo—he’d said his name was Jeroon—had a bit of a body that tapered out from the back of his head like a fish’s, thinning down to a branching, sticklike tail. Much of his tail was buried deep in the heart of a thick old log with a red strip of nutfungus along one side. He cocked back his head and peered up imploringly with his pipe clenched between his square yellow teeth. His face was tight with pain.
    â€œPoor Jeroon,” said Frek, his heart opening. He fluttered to the ground. It was a matter of minutes to fetch Jeroon’s wedge and to pound it into the log with the little axe. Jeroon’s wedge, axe, and knife were elegantly formed; they were the products of please plants cunningly tweaked to draw metal from the soil.
    â€œOh, that’s good,” said Jeroon when his tail came free. Although his tail was camouflaged to resemble a branching stick, it was completely flexible. He set his pipe down on the ground and brought the tail around to his face, sniffing and licking at the injured spots. And then the pipe was back in his mouth and he was scrambling about on the split log, prying at the thick veins of shiny red nutfungus and stashing the pieces in his pouch.
    Frek caught a whiff of the pipe smoke. He’d always wondered what tobacco smelled like. Sort of good. You couldn’t get it in Middleville.
    â€œHist,” said Jeroon, suddenly looking upward. He ballooned his cheeks to draw the smoke from the pipe, turning his head from side to side, the smoke leaking out of his mouth and up around his nose. He slowly stalked all around the clearing, listening. He moved with a bow-legged rocking motion, tossing his tail from side to side to keep his balance. He was like a two-limbed toon tyrannosaur—but less than half a meter tall.
    Now Frek, too, could hear what Jeroon was listening to. The whir of wings. A lifter beetle? No, this sounded different. More of a flapping sound.
    â€œIt’s Okky,” whispered Jeroon. “We’re for it, lad. Let’s bolt!”
    â€œWhich way?” asked Frek, crouching down to face the Grulloo.
    â€œCan you carry me?” asked Jeroon, hand-walking forward. He’d pocketed his wedge and his axe hung from a loop in the side of the coat.
    â€œAll right.”
    â€œFriends for life,” said Jeroon, leaning far to one side and extending the hand at the end of his right leg. “I’ll give you something wonderful when we get to my house. A boon.”
    â€œFriends,” answered Frek, shaking Jeroon’s hand. The Grulloo’s grip was firm and strong, his skin hard and calloused.
    Jeroon got his arms, or legs, around Frek’s midsection and they lifted up into the air. The overburdened angelwings weren’t liking this, they were chittering in dismay.
    â€œThat way,” said Jeroon, speaking around the pipe stem still clenched in his teeth. He was pointing with his tail, curved around to gesture in the direction they flew. The pipe smoke floated up into Frek’s face, making him cough. Breathing tobacco was a different story from smelling it.
    â€œPut out the pipe, Jeroon.”
    â€œNot yet,” said the Grulloo, puffing out his cheeks so hard that the pipe bowl glowed bright orange. “We may need it against Okky.” The color made Frek think of the door in the UFO under his bed—which seemed like a lifetime ago. Frek worked his wings, staying ahead of the smoke.
    They were above the tangled dark shapes of the Grulloo Woods, heading away from the river. This was wild, unknown country. Nobody ever came here. It was all Frek could do to avoid hitting the trees, but Jeroon seemed to know