Christopher Stasheff

But why would Big Tom have thrown the fight?

So Rod would take him on as a serving-man?

And what about Adam and One-Ear? Their talk would seem to indicate they’d been at the pep rally down by the wharf, which would mean they were members of the proletarian party. What had the young rabble-rouser called it? The House of Clovis, yes.

But if Adam and One-Ear were a representative sample, the House of Clovis was a house divided against itself. There seemed to be two factions, one backing the Loguire - the juvenile orator? - and one led by the Mocker, whoever that might be. The usual two factions, nonviolent and violent, tongue and sword.

Now, why would Big Tom have wanted a butler job? Social climber, maybe? No, he wasn’t the fawning type. Better wages? But he’d seemed to be moderately prosperous as the neighborhood heavy.

To keep an eye on Rod?

Rod rolled over on his side. Tom just might be a member in good standing of the House of Clovis. But why would the House want to keep tabs on Rod? They couldn’t suspect anything,. could they?

If Fess’s guess was right, and the House was backed by an off-planet power, they definitely might suspect something -never mind how.

But wasn’t Rod letting his paranoia show again?

He was wide awake, every muscle tense. He sighed and rolled out of bed; he couldn’t sleep now. Better reset Fess and have a talk. Rod needed the robot’s electronic objectivity; he bad very little of his own.

Big Tom stirred and wakened as Rod lifted the rusty door latch.

‘Master? Where dost thou go?’

‘Just got a little worried about my horse, Big Tom. Think I’ll run down to the stables and make sure the hostler’s treating him right. Go back to sleep.’

Big Tom stared a moment.

Certes,’ he said, ‘thou’rt a most caring one, master.’

He rolled over and burrowed his head into the folded cloak he used for a pillow. ‘To be so much concerned for a horse,’ he muttered, and snored again.

Rod grinned and let himself out of the room.

He found a stairway a few paces away - dark and musty, but closer to the stables than the main door.

There was a door at the bottom of the stair, one that was not very Christopher Stasheff

often used; it groaned like a bullfrog in heat when he opened it.

The inn-yard was flooded with the soft, golden light of the three moons. The largest was only a little smaller than Terra’s, but much closer, it filled a full thirty degrees of sky, a perpetual harvest moon.

‘Great planet for lovers,’ Rod mused; and, because his eyes were on the moon, he didn’t notice the gray strand of cord stretched a little above the doorstep. He tripped.

His arms swung up, slapping the ground to break his fall.

Something hard struck the back of his head, and the world dissolved in a shoal of sparks.

There was a ruddy glow about him, and a throbbing ache in his head. Something cold and wet moved over his face. He shuddered, and came wide awake.

He lay on his back; a limestone roof vaulted over him, glimmering with bits of captured light. Pinch-waisted limestone columns stretched from the roof to a green carpet - stalactites and stalagmites joined. The green carpet stretched away in all directions for at least a mile. He was in a vast underground cavern. The light seemed to come from everywhere, a dancing, wavering light, setting the sparks in the ceiling into an intricate ballet.

The green carpet spread under him; he could feel it, cold and springy, damp, under his back: moss, three inches thick. He tried to put out a hand to touch the moss, and discovered that he couldn’t move his arms or legs. Lifting his head, he looked for ropes binding him, but there was not so much as a thread.

He shook his head, trying to get the ache out of it so he could think clearly.

‘Fess,’ he muttered, ‘where am I?’

There was no answer.

Rod bit his lip. ‘Come on, iron horse! Are you asleep at the switch?’