THE TIME BENDER

Chapter I

Lafayette O'Leary came briskly up the cracked walk leading to Mrs. MacGlint's Clean Rooms and Board, reflecting on his plans for the evening: First, he'd grab a quick bite, then check to see how his plastics experiment was coming along; after that, a look in on his penicillium notatum NRRL

1249.B21 culture, and then . . . He hefted the weighty book under his arm. Professor Hans Joseph Schimmerkopf's book on mesmerism ought to be good for at least a week of evenings.

As O'Leary put foot on the sagging veranda, the front screen door popped wide open. A square figure five feet eleven in height confronted him, a heavy-duty broom held at port arms.

"Mr. O'Leary! What's that mess you've got percolating on my hot plate back in my third-best western exposure?"

Lafayette retreated a step. "Did I leave my polymers cooking, Mrs. MacGlint? I thought I turned them off—"

"Them fumes has faded the colors right out of the wallpaper! Not to say nothing about running up the electric bill! I'll put it on your bill, Mr. O'Leary!"

"But—"

"And all this reading at night! Burning light bulbs like they was free! My other boarders don't set up all hours, studying Lord knows what in them un-Christian books you got!" She eyed the volume under O'Leary's arm with unmistakable hostility.

"Say, Mrs. MacGlint," O'Leary edged back up on the porch, "a funny thing happened last night. I was running a little statistical study, using ball bearings, and I happened to drop a couple of

them—three-quarter-inchers—and they all rolled right to the northwest corner of the room—"

"Prob'ly marked up my linoleum, too! And—"

"I knew the floors slanted but I hadn't noticed how much," Lafayette gained another foot. "So I made a few measurements. I'd say there's a two-inch discrepancy from wall to wall. I knew you'd want to know, because Section Four, Article 19 of the Building Code—the part that covers Hazardous Conditions Due to Settlement of Foundations—is pretty clear. Now, the inspector will have to check it, of course, and after the house is condemned and the roomers find other quarters, then maybe they can save the place by pumping in concrete. That's pretty expensive, but it's better than breaking the law, eh, Mrs. MacGlint?"

"Law?" The landlady's voice squeaked. "Building Code? Why, I never heard such nonsense . . ."

"Do you want to report it, or shall I? I know you're awfully busy, keeping everybody's affairs in order, so . . ."

"Now, Mr. O'Leary, don't go to no trouble . . ." Mrs. MacGlint backed through the door; Lafayette followed into the gloom and cabbage aroma of the hall.

"I know you got your science work you want to get to, so I won't keep you." She turned and puffed off along the hall. O'Leary let out a long breath and headed up the stairs.

On the shelf behind the curtain in the former broom closet which served Lafayette as kitchen alcove were a two-pound tin of salt-water taffy, a cardboard salt shaker, a ketchup bottle, a can of soup and two tins of preserved fish. He didn't really like sardines, he confessed to himself, unwrapping a succulent taffy. Too bad they didn't can consommé au beurre blanc Hermitage. Tend-R Nood-L Soup would have to do. He started warming a saucepan of soup, took a beer from the foot-square icebox and punched a triangular hole in the lid. He finished off the candy, then the beer, waiting for the pot to boil, then set out a bowl, poured the soup and put two sardines on a cracker. Munching, he picked up his book. It was a thick, dusty volume, bound in faded dark blue leather, the cramped gilt letters on the spine almost illegible. He blew the dust away and opened it with care; the old binding crackled. The title page announced: Mesmerism, Its Proper Study and Practice; or The Secrets of the Ancients Unlocked.

By Herr Professor Doktor Hans Joseph Schimmerkopf, D.D., Ph.D., Litt. D., M. A., B. Sc., Associate Professor of Mental Sciences and Natural Philosophy, Homeopathic Institute of Vienna. 1888.

O'Leary riffled through the tissue-thin pages of fine print; pretty dry stuff, really. Still, it was the only book on hypnotism in the library that he hadn't already read, and what else was there to do? O'Leary looked out the narrow window at the sad late-afternoon light, yellowing into evening. He could go out and buy a newspaper; he might even stroll around the block. He could stop by the Elite Bar and Grill and have a cold beer. There were any number of ways a young, healthy, penniless draftsman in a town like Colby Corners could spend an evening in the sunshine of his happy youth. A rattle of knuckles at the door announced a narrow-faced man with thin hair and a toothbrush mustache slid into the room.

"Hi, Laff, howza boy?" the newcomer rubbed knuckly hands together. He wore a purple shirt and white suspenders supporting trousers cut high above bony hips.

"Hello, Spender," O'Leary greeted him without enthusiasm.

"Say, Laff, you couldn't slip me a five until Tuesday?"

"I'm busted, Spender. Besides which, you owe me five."

"Hey, what's the book?" Spender edged in beside him and poked at the pages. "When do you get time to read all this stuff? Pretty deep, huh?

You're a funny guy; always like studying."

"This is a racy one," O'Leary said. "The press it was printed on was smashed with crowbars by a crowd of aroused peasants. Then they ran the author down and gave him the full werewolf treatment—silver bullet, stake through the heart—the works."

"Wow!" Spender recoiled. "You studying to be a werewolf, O'Leary?"

"No, I'm more interested in the vampire angle. That's the one where you turn into a bat—"

"Look, Laff, that ain't funny. You know I'm kind of like superstitious. You shouldn't ought to read them books."

O'Leary looked at the other speculatively. "What I need now is some practical experience—"

"Yeah, well, I'll see you, boy." Spender backed out the door. O'Leary finished his repast, then stretched out on the lumpy bed. The water stains on the ceiling hadn't changed since yesterday, he noted. The opalescent globe shielding the sixty-watt bulb dangling on its kinked cord still contained the same number of dead flies. The oleander bush still scraped restlessly on the screen.

He flipped open Schimmerkopf's book at random and skimmed the print-packed pages. The sections on mesmerism were routine stuff, but a passage on autohypnosis caught his eye:

" . . . this state may readily be induced by the adept practitioner of the art of Mesmeric influence, or of hypnotism, as it is latterly termed, requiring only a schooled effort of Will, supported by a concentration of Psychical Energies. Mastery of this Force not only offers instantaneous relief from sleeplessness, night sweats, poor memory, sour bile, high chest, salivation, inner conflict, and other ills both of the flesh and of the spirit, but offers as well a veritable treasurehouse of rich sensation; for it is a commonplace of the auto-mesmerist's art that such scenes of remembered or imagined Delight as must be most highly esteemed by persons sensible of the lamentable drabness of Modern Life can in this fashion be evoked most freely for the delectation and adornment of the idle hour.

"This phenomenon may be likened to the hypnogogic state, that condition of semi-awareness sometimes achieved by a sleeping person who, partially awakened, is capable of perceiving the dream-state images, whilst at the same time enjoying consciousness of their illusory nature. Thus, he is rendered capable of examining the surface texture and detail of an imagined object as acutely as one might study the page of an actual book, throughout maintaining knowledge of the distinction between hallucinatory experience and real experience . . ."

That part made sense, O'Leary nodded. It had happened to him just a few nights ago. It was almost as though his awareness had been attuned to a different channel of existence; as though he had emerged from half-sleep at the wrong floor, so to speak, and stepped off the elevator into a strange world, not totally different, but subtly rearranged—until the shock of realization had jarred him back to the familiar level of stained wallpaper and the lingering memory of Brussels sprouts boiled long ago. And if you could produce the effect at will . . .

O'Leary read on, looking for precise instructions. Three pages further on he found a line or two of specifics:

" . . . use of a bright object, such as a highly polished gem, as an aid to the Powers of Concentration, may, with profitable results, be employed by the earnest student of these pages . . ."

Lafayette considered. He owned no gems—not even glass ones. Perhaps a spoon would work. But no—his ring; just the thing. He tugged at the heavy silver ornament on the middle finger of his left hand. No use; the knuckle was too big. After all, he'd been wearing it for years now. But he didn't need to remove the ring; he could stare at it just as well where it was, on his hand.

Lying on his back in the twilit room, he looked up at ancient floral-patterned paper, faded now to an off-white. This would be a good place to start. Now, suppose the ceiling were high, spacious, painted a pale gold color . . .

O'Leary persevered, whispering persuasively to himself. It was easy, the professor had said; just a matter of focusing the Psychical Energies and attuning the Will . . .

Lafayette sighed, blinked through the gloom at the blotched nongolden ceiling; he rose and went to the icebox for another warm beer. The bed squeaked as he sat on its edge. He might have known it wouldn't work. Old Professor Schimmerkopf was a quack, after all. Nothing as delightful as what the old boy had described could have gone unnoticed all these years. He lay back against the pillows at the head of the bed. It would have been nice if it had worked. He could have redecorated his shabby quarters and told himself that the room was twice as large, with a view of a skyline of towers and distant mountains. Music, too; with total recall, he could play back every piece of music he'd ever heard.

Not that any of it really mattered. He slept all right on the sagging bed—and taffy and sardines might get boring, but they went right on nourishing you. The room was dreary, but it kept off the rain and snow, and when the weather got cold, the radiator, with many thumps and wheezes, kept the temperature within the bearable range. The furniture wasn't fancy, but it was adequate. There was the bed, of course, and the table built from an orange crate and painted white, and the dresser, and the oval rag rug Miss Flinders at the library had given him.

And, oh yes, the tall locked cabinet in the corner. Funny he hadn't gotten around to opening it yet. It had been there ever since he had moved in, and he hadn't even wondered about it. Strange. But he could open it now. There was something wonderful in it, he remembered that much; but somehow he couldn't quite recall what.

He was standing in front of the cabinet, looking at the black-varnished door. A rich-grained wood showed faintly through the cracked glaze; the key hole was brass lined, and there were little scratches around it. Now, where was the key? Oh, yes . . .

Lafayette crossed the room to the closet and stepped inside. The light was dim here. He pulled a large box into position, stepped up on it, lifted the trapdoor in the ceiling, climbed up and emerged in an attic. Late afternoon sun gleamed through a dusty window. There was a faded rug on the floor, and large, brass-bound trunks were stacked everywhere. Lafayette tried the lids; all locked.

He remembered the keys. That was what he had come for. They were hanging on a nail, behind the door. He plucked them down, started for the trapdoor.

But why not take the stairs? Out in the hall, a white-painted banister gleamed. He went down, walked along a hall, found his room and stepped inside. The French windows were open, and a fresh breeze blew in. The curtains, billowy white, gleamed in the sun. Outside, a wide lawn, noble trees, a path leading somewhere.

But he had to open the cabinet, to see what was inside. He selected a key—a large, brassy one—and tried it in the keyhole. Too large. He tried another; also too big. There was only one more key, a long, thin one of black iron. It didn't fit. Then he noticed more keys, hidden under the last one, somehow. He tried them, one by one. None fitted. He eyed the keyhole, bright brass against the dark wood, scarred by near misses. He had to get the cabinet open. Inside there were treasures, marvelous things, stacked on shelves, waiting for him. He tried another key. It fit. He turned it carefully and heard a soft click!

A violent pounding shattered the stillness. The cabinet door glimmered, fading; only the keyhole was still visible. He tried to hold it—

"Mr. O'Leary, you open up this door this minute!" Mrs. MacGlint's voice cut through the dream like an ax. Lafayette sat up, hearing a buzzing in his head, still groping after something almost grasped, but lost forever now. The door rattled in its frame. "You open this, you hear me?" Lafayette could hear voices, the scrape of feet from the neighboring rooms. He reached, pulled the string that switched on the ceiling light, went across to the door and jerked it open. The vengeful bulk of Mrs. MacGlint quivered before him.

"I heard voices, whispering like, and I wondered," she shrilled. "In there in the dark. Then I heard them bedsprings creak and then everything got quiet!" She thrust her head past Lafayette, scanning the room's interior.

"All right, where's she hid?" Behind her, Spender, from next door, and Mrs. Potts, in wrapper and curlers, hovered, trying for a glimpse of the source of the excitement.

"Where is who hid?" O'Leary oofed as the landlady's massive elbow took him in the short ribs. She bellied past him, stooping to stare under the spindle-legged bed, whirled, jerked the alcove curtain aside. She shot an accusing look at O'Leary, bustled to the window and dug at the hook holding the screen shut.

"Must of got her out the window," she puffed, whirling to confront Lafayette. "Fast on your feet, ain't you?"

"What are you looking for? That screen hasn't been opened for years—"

"You know well as I do, young Mr. O'Leary—that I give house space to for nigh to a year—"

"Laff, you got a gal in here?" Spender inquired, sidling into the room.

"A girl?" Lafayette shook his head. "No, there's no girl here, and not much of anything else."

"Well!" Mrs. MacGlint stared around the room. Her expression twitched to blankness. Then she tucked in her chins. "Anybody would've thought the same thing," she declared. "There's not a soul'd blame me . . ." Mrs. Potts sniffed and withdrew. Spender snickered and sauntered out. Mrs. MacGlint moved past O'Leary, not quite looking at him.

"Respectable house," she muttered. "Setting in here in the dark, talking to hisself, alone . . ."

Lafayette closed the door behind her, feeling empty, cheated. He had almost gotten that cabinet door open, discovered what was inside that had promised such excitement. Ruefully he eyed the blank place beside the door where he had dreamed the mysterious locker. He hadn't had much luck with the professor's recipes for self-hypnosis, but his dreaming abilities were still impressive. If Mrs. MacGlint hadn't chosen that moment to burst in . . . But the trunks upstairs! Lafayette thought with sudden excitement. He half-rose—

And sank back, with a weak smile. He had dreamed those, too; there was nothing upstairs but old Mr. Dinder's shabby room. But it had all seemed so real! As real as anything in the wide-awake world; more real, maybe. But it was only a dream—a typical escape wish. Crawl through a trapdoor into another world. Too bad it wasn't really that easy. And the cabinet—obvious symbolism. The locked door represented all the excitement in life that he'd never been able to find. And all that fumbling with keys—that was a reflection of life's frustrations.

And yet that other world—the dim attic crowded with relics, the locked cabinet—had held a promise of things rich and strange. If only this humdrum world could be that way, with the feel of adventure in the air. But it couldn't. Real life wasn't like that. Real life was getting up in the morning, working all day on the board, then the evening's chores, and sleep. Now it was time for the latter.

Lafayette lay in bed, aware of the gleam of light under the door, tiny night sounds, the distant stutter of an engine. It must be after midnight, and here he was, lying awake. He had to be up in six hours, hurrying off to the foundry in the gray morning light. Better get to sleep. And no more time wasted on dreams.

Lafayette opened his eyes, looked at a brick wall a yard or two away, warm and red in the late orange sunlight. The bricks were tarnished and chipped, and there was moss growing along one edge of each, and between them the mortar was crumbling and porous. At the base of the wall there was grass, vivid green, and little yellow flowers, hardly bigger than forget-me-nots. A small gray insect appeared over the curve of a petal, feelers waving, and then hurried away on important business. O'Leary had never seen a bug quite like it—or flowers like those, either. Or for that matter, a brick wall like this one . . .

Where was he, anyway? He groped for recollection, remembering Mrs. MacGlint's, the book he'd been reading, the landlady's invasion; then going to bed, lying awake . . . But how did he get here—and where was here?

Quite suddenly, O'Leary was aware of what was happening: he was asleep—or half-asleep—and he was dreaming the wall, each separate brick with its pattern of moss—a perfect example of hynogogic illusion!

With an effort of will, Lafayette blanked out other thoughts; excitement thumped in his chest. Concentrate! the professor had said. Focus the Psychic Energies!

The bricks became clearer, gaining in solidity. Lafayette brushed aside vagrant wisps of distracting thought, giving his full attention to the image of the wall, holding it, building it, believing it. He had known dreams were vivid; they always seemed real as they happened. But this was perfect!

Carefully he worked on extending the range of the scene. He could see a flagstone path lying between him and the wall. The flat stones were grayish tan, flaking in flat laminae, almost buried in the soil, with tiny green blades sprouting between them. He followed the path with his eyes; it led away along the wall into the shadow of giant trees. Amazing how the mind supplied details; the trees were flawless conceptualizations, every branch and twig and leaf, every shaggy curl of bark as true as life. If he had a canvas now, he could paint them . . .

But suppose, instead of letting his subconscious supply the details, he filled them in himself? Suppose, for example, there were a rosebush, growing there beside the tree. He concentrated, trying to picture the blossoms.

The scene remained unchanged—and then abruptly began to fade, like water soaking into a blotter; the trees blurred and all around dim walls seemed to close in—

Dismayed, Lafayette grabbed for the illusion, fighting to hold the fading image intact. He switched his gaze back to the brick wall directly before him; it had shrunk to a patch of masonry a yard in diameter, thin and unconvincing. He fought, gradually rebuilding the solidity of the wall. These hypnogogic phenomena were fragile, it seemed; they couldn't stand much manipulation.

The wall was solidly back in place now, but, strangely, the flowers were gone. In their place was a cobbled pavement. There was a window in the wall now, shuttered by warped, unpainted boards. Above it, an expanse of white-washed plaster crisscrossed by heavy timbers extended up to an uneven eave line silhouetted against an evening sky of deep electric blue in which an early moon gleamed. It was a realistic enough scene, Lafayette thought, but a bit drab. It needed something to brighten it up; a drugstore, say, its windows cheery with neon and hearty laxative ads; something to lend a note of gaiety.

But he wasn't going to make the mistake of tampering, this time. He'd let well enough alone, and see what there was to see. Cautiously, Lafayette extended his field of vision. The narrow street—almost an alley—wound off into darkness, closed in by tall, overhanging houses. He noted the glisten of wet cobbles, a puddle of oily water, a scattering of rubbish. His subconscious, it appeared, lacked an instinct for neatness. There was a sudden jar—a sense of an instant's discontinuity, like a bad splice in a movie film. O'Leary looked around for the source, but saw nothing. And yet, somehow, everything seemed subtly changed—more convincing, in some subtle way.

He shook off the faint feeling of uneasiness. It was a swell hallucination and he'd better enjoy it to the fullest, while it lasted.

The house across the way, he saw, was a squeezed-in, half-timbered structure like the one in front of which he was standing, with two windows at ground-floor level made from the round bottoms of bottles set in lead strips, glowing amber and green and gold from a light within. There was a low, wide door, iron-bound, with massive hinges; over it a wooden sign hung from an iron rod. It bore a crudely painted representation of the prow of a Viking ship and a two-handed battle-ax. Lafayette smiled; his subconscious had seized on the device from his ring: the ax and dragon. Probably everything in the scene went back to something he had seen, or heard of, or read about. It was a fine illusion, no doubt about that: but what was it that was changed?

Odors, that was it. Lafayette sniffed, caught a scent of mold, spilled wine, garbage—a rich, moist aroma, with undertones of passing horses. Now, what about sound? There should be the honking of horns, the clashing of gears—motor-scooter gears, probably; the street was too narrow for any except midget cars. And there ought to be a few voices hallooing somewhere, and, judging from the smell, the clash of garbage can lids. But all was silent. Except—Lafayette cupped a hand to his ear . . . Somewhere, hooves clattered on pavement, retreating into the distance. A bell tolled far away, nine times. A door slammed. Faintly, Lafayette heard whistling, the clump of heavy footsteps. People! Lafayette thought with surprise. Well, why not? They should be as easy to imagine as anything else. It might be interesting to confront his creations face to face, engage them in conversation, discover all sorts of hidden aspects of his personality. Would they think they were real? Would they remember a yesterday?

Quite abruptly, O'Leary was aware of his bare feet against the cold paving stones. He looked down, saw that he was wearing nothing but his purple pajamas with the yellow spots. Hardly suitable for meeting people; he'd better equip himself with an outfit a little more appropriate to a city street. He closed his eyes, picturing a nifty navy-blue trench coat with raglan sleeves, a black homburg—might as well go first class—and a cane—an ebony one with a silver head, for that man-about-town touch . . . Something clanked against his leg. He looked down. He was wearing a coat of claret velvet, breeches of brown doeskin, gleaming, soft leather boots that came up to his thigh, a pair of jeweled pistols and an elaborate rapier with a worn hilt. Wonderingly, he gripped it, drew it halfway from the sheath; the sleek steel glittered in the light from the windows across the way.

Not quite what he'd ordered; he looked as though he were on his way to a fancy-dress ball. He still had a lot to learn about this business of self-hypnosis.

There was a startled yell from the dark street to O'Leary's right, then a string of curses. A man darted into view, clad in dingy white tights with a flap seat, no shoes. He shied as he saw O'Leary, turned and dashed off in the opposite direction. O'Leary gaped. A man! Rather an eccentric specimen, but still . . .

Other footsteps were approaching now. It was a boy, in wooden shoes and leather apron, a wool cap on his head. He wore tattered knee pants, and carried a basket from which the neck of a plucked goose dangled, and he was whistling Alexander's Ragtime Band.

Without a glance at O'Leary, the lad hurried by; the sound of the shoes and the whistling receded. O'Leary grinned. It seemed to be a sort of medieval scene he had cooked up, except for the anachronistic popular tune; somehow it was comforting to know that his subconscious wasn't above making a slip now and then.

From behind the tavern windows, he heard voices raised in song, a clash of crockery; he sniffed, caught the odors of wood smoke, candle wax, ale, roast fowl. He was hungry, he realized with a pang. Taffy and sardines weren't enough.

There was a new noise now: a snorting, huffing sound, accompanied by a grumbling, like a boulder rolling slowly over a pebbled beach. A bell dinged. A dark shape trundled into view, lanterns slung from its prow casting long shadows that fled along the street. A tall stack belched smoke; steam puffed from a massive piston at the side of the cumbersome vehicle. It moved past, its iron-bound wooden wheels thudding on the uneven stones. Lafayette caught a glimpse of a red-faced man in a tricorn hat, perched high up above the riveted boiler. The steam car rumbled on its way, a red lantern bobbing at its tail gate. O'Leary shook his head; he hadn't gotten that out of a history book. Grinning, he hitched up his belt. The door of the Ax and Dragon swung open, spilling light on the cobbles. A fat man tottered out, waved an arm, staggered off up the narrow street, warbling tunelessly. Before the door shut, Lafayette caught a glimpse of a warm interior, a glowing fire, low beams, the gleam of polished copper and brass, heard the clamor of voices, the thump of beer mugs banged on plank tables.

He was cold, and he was hungry. Over there was warmth and food—to say nothing of beer.

In four steps he crossed the street. He paused for a moment to settle his French cocked hat on his forehead, adjust the bunch of lace at his chin; then he hauled open the door and stepped into the smoky interior of the Ax and Dragon.

Chapter II

In the sudden warmth and rich odors of the room, O'Leary paused, blinking against the light shed by the lanterns pegged to the wooden posts supporting the sagging ceiling. Heads turned to stare; voices trailed off into silence as Lafayette looked around the room. There were wine and ale barrels ranked along one side; to their right was a vast fireplace in which a whole hog, a goose, and half a dozen chickens turned on a spit over a bed of red coals. Lafayette sniffed; the odors were delightful!

The texture and solidity of the scene were absolutely convincing—even better than Professor Schimmerkopf had described—full tactile, auditory, visual and olfactory stimulation. And coming inside hadn't disturbed things in the least; after all, why should it? He often dreamed of wandering through buildings; the only difference was that this time he knew he was dreaming, while a small part of his mind stayed awake, watching the show. There was a vacant seat at the rear of the long room; O'Leary started toward it, nodding pleasantly at staring faces. A thin man in a patched tabard scrambled from his path; a fat woman with red cheeks muttered and drew a circle in the air. Those seated at the table toward which he was moving edged away. He sat down, put his hat beside him, looked around, smiled encouragingly at his creations.

"Uh, please go right ahead with what you were doing," he said in the silence. "Oh, bartender . . ." He signaled to a short, thick-necked man hovering behind a trestle between the beer kegs. "A bottle of the best in the house, please. Ale or wine, it doesn't matter."

The bartender said something; O'Leary cupped his ear.

"Eh? Speak up, I didn't get that."

"I says all we got is small beer and vin ordinaire," the man muttered. There was something odd about the way he spoke . . . Still, O'Leary reminded himself, he couldn't expect to get everything perfect the first time out.

"That'll do," he said, automatically making an effort to match the other's speech pattern.

The man gaped, closed his mouth with an audible gulp, stooped and plucked a dusty flagon from a stack on the floor, which, Lafayette noted idly, seemed to be of hardpacked dirt. A nice detail, he approved. Practical, too; it would soak up spilled booze.

Someone was muttering at the far end of the room. A barrel-shaped ruffian rose slowly, stepped out into the clear, flexed massive shoulders, then sauntered forward. He had a wild mop of unkempt red hair, a flattened nose, one cauliflowered ear, and huge, hairy fists, the thumbs of which were hooked in the rope tied around his waist. O'Leary noted the striped stockings below the patched knee breeches, the clumsy shoes, like loafers with large iron buckles. The man's shirt was a soiled white, open at the neck, with floppy sleeves. A foot-long sheath knife was strapped to his hip. He came up to Lafayette's table, planted himself and stared down at him.

"He don't look so tough," he announced to the silent room in a growl like a Kodiak bear.

Lafayette stared into the man's face, studying the mean, red-rimmed eyes, the white scar tissue marking the cheek bones, the massive jaw, the thick lips, lumpy from past batterings, the sprouting stubble. He smiled.

"Marvelous," he said. His eyes went to the barman. "Hubba hubba with that wine," he called cheerily. "And I'll have a chicken sandwich on rye; I'm hungry. All I had for dinner was a couple of sardines." He smiled encouragingly at his table mates, who crouched back, eyeing him fearfully. The redhead was still standing before him.

"Sit down," Lafayette invited. "How about a sandwich?" The lout's small eyes narrowed. "I say he's some kind of a Nance," the rumbling voice stated.

Lafayette chuckled, shaking his head. This was as good as a psychoanalysis! This oaf, a personification of a subconscious virility symbol, had stated an opinion doubtless heretofore suppressed somewhere deep in the id or superego, where it had probably been causing all sorts of neuroses. Now, by getting it out in the open, he could face it, observe for himself the ludicrousness of it and thereafter dismiss it.

"Come on, sit down," he ordered. "Tell me just what you meant by that remark."

"Nuts to youse," the heavyweight grated, looking around for approval. "Yer mudduh wears ankle socks."

"Tsk, tsk." Lafayette looked at the fellow reproachfully. "Better do as I say, or I'll turn you into a fat lady."

"Huh?" Big Red's rusty eyebrows crawled like caterpillars on his low forehead. His mouth opened, revealing a row of chipped teeth. The landlord sidled nervously around the redhead and placed a dusty bottle on the table with a roast fowl beside it sans plate.

"That'll be a buck fifty," he muttered. Lafayette patted his hip pocket, took out his familiar wallet, remembering belatedly that there was only a dollar in it. Hmmm. But why couldn't it have fifty dollars in it, instead? He pictured the impressive bill, crisp and green and reassuring. And why just one? Why not a whole stack of fifties? And maybe a few hundreds thrown in for good measure. He might as well dream big. He squinted, concentrating .

. .

There was an almost silent pop! as though a vast soap bubble had burst. O'Leary frowned. Funny sensation; still, it might be normal in hallucination; it seemed to happen every so often. He opened the wallet, revealed a stack of crisp bills, withdrew one with a grand gesture; it was a fifty, just as specified.

But the lettering . . . The hen-tracks across the top of the bill looked incomplete, barely legible—. The first letter was like an O with a small x on top, followed by an upside-down u, a squiggle, some dots . . . Then suddenly the strangeness faded. The letters seemed to come into focus, like a perspective diagram shifting orientation. The words were perfectly readable, O'Leary saw. But the first letter: it did look like an O

with an x on top of it. He frowned at it thoughtfully. There wasn't any such letter—was there? But there must be: he was reading it—

He smiled at himself as the explanation dawned. His dream mechanism, always consistent, had cooked up a foreign language to go with the foreign setting. Naturally, since he'd invented it himself, he could read it. The same probably applied to the spoken tongue. If he could wake up and hear his conversation here, it would all probably come out as gibberish, like the poems people dreamed and wrote down to look at in the morning. They never made sense. But the words on the bill were clear enough: the legend

"Royal Treasury of Artesia" was lettered above the familiar picture of Grant—or was it Grant? Lafayette saw with some surprise that he was wearing a tiny peruke and a lacy ruff. Play money, after all. But what did it matter? He smiled at himself. He couldn't take it with him when he woke up. He handed the bill over to the barman who gaped and scratched his head.

"Geez, I can't break no fifty, yer lordship," he muttered. As the man spoke, O'Leary listened carefully. Yes, it was a strange language—but his mind was interpreting it as modified Brooklynese.

"Keep it," Lafayette said grandly. "Just keep the wine flowing—and how about bringing over a couple of glasses, and possibly a knife and fork?" The barman hurried off. The redhead was still standing, glowering.

"Down in front," Lafayette said, indicating the seat opposite him. "You're blocking the view."

The big man shot a glance at the customers watching him and then threw out his chest.

"Duh Red Bull don't drink wit' no ribbon-counter Fancy-Dan," he announced.

"Better change your mind," O'Leary cautioned, blowing dust from the lopsided green bottle the waiter had brought. "Or I may have to just shrink you down to where I can see over you."

The redhead blinked at him; his mouth puckered uncertainly. The barman was back with two heavy glass mugs. He darted a look at the Red Bull, quickly removed the cork from the bottle, slopped an inch or two of the wine in one cup and shoved it toward Lafayette. He picked it up and sniffed. It smelled like vinegar. He tasted it. It was thin and sour. He pushed the mug away.

"Don't you have something better—" he paused. Just suppose, he mused, there was a bottle of a rare vintage—Chateau Lafitte-Rothschilde, '29, say—over there under that heap of dusty bottles . . . He narrowed his eyes, picturing the color of the glass, the label, willing it to be there—

His eyes popped open at the abrupt flicker in the smooth flow of—of whatever it was that flowed when time passed. That strange little blink in the sequence of the seconds! It had happened before, just as he was providing the reserves in his wallet, and before that, out in the street. Each time he had made a modification in things, he had felt the jar. A trifling flaw in his technique, no doubt. Nothing to worry about.

"—the best in the place, yer Lordship," the barman was protesting.

"Look under the other bottles," O'Leary said. "See if there isn't a big bottle there, shaped like this." He indicated the contours of a Burgundy bottle.

"We ain't got—"

"Ah—ah! Take a look first." Lafayette leaned back, smiling around at the others. My, what an inventive subconscious he had! Long faces, round ones, old men, young women, fat, thin, weathered, pink-and-white, bearded, clean-shaven, blonds, brunettes, baldies—

The barman was back, gaping at the bottle in his hand. He put it on the table, stepped back. "Is this here what yer lordship meant?" O'Leary nodded complacently. The barman pulled the cork. This time a delicate aroma floated from the glass. O'Leary sampled it. The flavor was musty, rich, a symphony of summer sun and ancient cellars. He sighed contentedly. It might be imaginary wine, but the flavor was real enough. The redhead, watching open-mouthed, leaned forward slightly, sniffed. A thick tongue appeared, ran over the scarred lips. Lafayette poured the second glass half full.

"Sit down and drink up, Red," he said.

The big man hesitated, picked up the glass, sniffed, then gulped the contents. An amazed smile spread over the rugged features. He threw a leg over the bench and sat, shoving the mug toward Lafayette.

"Bo, that's good stuff you got there! I'll go fer another shot o' that!" He looked around belligerently. Lafayette refilled both glasses. A turkey-necked gaffer down the table edged closer, eyeing the bottle.

"Garçon," Lafayette called, "more glasses!" The man complied. Lafayette filled one for the oldster and passed it along. The old man sipped, gaped, gulped, licked toothless gums and grinned.

"Hey!" he cackled. "We ain't seen wine like this since the old king died." A round-faced woman in a starched wimple with a broken corner shushed him with a look and thrust out a pewter mug. Lafayette filled it.

"Everybody drink up!" he invited. Clay cups, topless bottles, copper mugs came at him. He poured, pausing now and then to take a healing draft from his own mug. This was more like it!

"Let's sing!" he suggested. Merry voices chimed in, on Old MacDonald. The words were a little different than the ones O'Leary was accustomed to, but he managed, adding a fair baritone to the din. A hand touched the back of his neck; a buxom wench in a tight-laced blouse and peasant skirt slid into his lap, nibbled at his ear, bringing with her, O'Leary noted, a disconcerting odor of goat. He snorted, twisted to get a better look at the girl. She was cute enough, with red cheeks, a saucily turned-up nose, corn-yellow hair and pouty lips—but it seemed nobody had told her about soap. Still, there might be a remedy for that. Lafayette narrowed his eyes, trying to remember the odor of the perfume he had smelled once when a bottle broke at the drugstore when he was sweeping up just before closing time .

. .

There was the familiar jog in the machinery. He sniffed cautiously. Nothing. Again—and he caught a whiff of Ivory soap; a third time, and the scent of Chanel No. 22 wafted to his nostrils. He smiled at the girl. She smiled back, apparently noticing nothing unusual. More glasses were thrust out. Lafayette disengaged himself from the soft and eager lips, poured, paused to swallow, refilled the girl's glass, then Red's pint mug, and another, and another . . .

The old man sitting next to the big redhead was frowning thoughtfully at the bottle in O'Leary's hand. He said something to the skinny grandma beside him. More frowns were appearing now. The singing was faltering, fading off into silence. The merry drinkers at the next table fell silent. People began crossing themselves—or rather, describing circles over their chests.

"What's the matter?" he inquired genially, lifting the bottle invitingly. Everyone jumped. Those nearest were rising hastily, moving back. A babble was growing—not the gay chatter of a moment before, but a fearful muttering.

Lafayette shrugged, pouring his glass full. As he moved to place the bottle on the table, a thought struck him. He hefted the flask. It seemed as heavy as ever. He reached over and poured the Red Bull's glass full. The big man hiccupped, made a wobbly circle before him with a finger like a Polish sausage, lifted the glass and drank. Lafayette tilted the bottle, peered inside the neck; a dark surface of deep red liquid gleamed an inch from the top. No wonder they were spooked, he thought disgustedly. He had carelessly decanted several gallons of wine from a one-liter bottle.

"Ah . . . look," he started, "that was just a trick, sort of . . ."

"Sorcerer!" someone yelled. "Warlock!" another charged. There was a general movement toward the door.

"Wait!" O'Leary called, rising. At that, there was a stampede. In thirty seconds the tavern was deserted—with the sole exception of the Red Bull. The big man—sweating heavily but still game, Lafayette observed approvingly—held his ground. He licked his lips, cleared his throat.

"Dem other slobs," he growled, "pantywaists."

"Sorry about the bottle," O'Leary said apologetically. "Just a slip on my part." He could hear the voices of a gathering mob outside. The word

"sorcerer" seemed to ring out with distressing frequency.

"A little magic, that ain't nuttin'," Red said. "But they got a idear dat on account of you're a . . . like a phantom ya might stick a . . . you know, whammy, on 'em, er maybe split open duh ground and drag 'em down into duh Pit. Er—"

"That's enough," Lafayette cut in, noticing the increasing nervousness on the battered features as the man enumerated the possible fates of those who trafficked with spooks. "All I did was pour out a few drinks. Does that make me a ghost?"

Big Red smiled craftily, eyeing Lafayette's clothes. "Don't rib me, mister," he grated. "I know duh Phantom Highwayman when I see him." O'Leary smiled. "You don't really believe in phantoms, do you?" The Red Bull nodded vigorously. Lafayette noticed that he smelled of Chanel No. 22; apparently he'd overdone the perfume a trifle.

"On nights when duh moon is like a ghostly galleon," Red stated, "dat's when yuh ride."

"Nonsense," Lafayette said briskly. "My name is Lafayette O'Leary, and—"

"Now, what I got in mind, Bo, you and me, we could make a great team," Red bored on. "Wit' dem neat tricks you can do, like riding tru duh sky an all, and wit' my brains—"

"I'm afraid you're on the wrong track, Red." O'Leary refilled his glass for the fourth—or was it the fifth time? Lovely wine—and the glow was just as nice as though he hadn't dreamed up the whole thing. Would he have a hangover, he wondered, when he woke up in the morning? He hiccupped and refilled Red's glass.

" . . . cased a coupla joints dat I figger dey'll be a cinch to knock over," the rumbling voice was saying. "Duh way I got duh caper doped out, I keep duh eyeball peeled for duh city guardsmen. Dem guys is all over like fleas in a four-bit flop dese days. If youse ast me, duh country ain't no better'n a police state; it ain't like de old days when I was a nipper. Anyways, youse can pull duh job, an' pass duh swag to me, and while duh johns is busy tailing youse, I'll—"

"You're talking nonsense, Red," O'Leary interrupted. "Crime doesn't pay. I'm sure you're really an honest fellow at heart, but you've been influenced by evil companions. Why don't you get yourself a job—at a service station, maybe—"

The Red Bull's forehead furrowed ominously. "Youse try'na tell me I look like a grease monkey?"

Lafayette peered at his companion's rugged features through a light fog which seemed to have arisen. "Nooo," he said thoughtfully. "More of an ape, I think. An oil ape." He beamed, raising his glass. "Tha's pretty clever, don't ye agroo? I mean don't you agree?"

The Red Bull growled. "I gotta good mind tuh rip youse apart, spook er no spook—!"

"Ah—ah!" Lafayette wagged a finger at the other. "No threats, please." The redhead was on his feet, swaying slightly. "I can bust a oak plank in two wit' one punch," he stated, displaying a fist like a flint ax.

"Sit down, Red," O'Leary ordered. "I want to talk to you. As a figment of my imagination, you should be able to tell me lots of interesting things about my psyche. Now, I've been wondering, what role has sibling rivalry played—"

"I can ben' a iron bar inta pretzel wit' one hand tied behind me," the Red Bull stated. "I can—"

"Red, if you don't sit down, I'll be forced to take steps," Lafayette warned.

"Now tell me, how does it feel to start existing all of a sudden, just because I dreamed you—"

"I can tear duh head off a alligator," Red declaimed. "I can rip duh hind leg off a elephant . . ." As the redhead rambled on, Lafayette concentrated. Red's voice rose higher, from bass to baritone, through tenor to a high contralto. " . . . handle any ten guys at oncet," he shrilled, "wit' bot' hands tied behind me . . ."

Lafayette made a final effort, listened for the result:

" . . . I'm thimply a brute, when arouthed," Red squeaked. "Thomentimeth I jutht get tho mad I could thpit!" He broke off, an amazed look settling over his meaty features. "Thpit?" he chirped.

"Now, Red, drink your wine and pay attention," Lafayette said severely.

"You're port of an impartent experiment. I mean you're pent of an apartment—you're portable part of—apart of port—an appointment of pit—ah, the hell with it!" He picked up his wine mug. Then door burst open. A tall man with long curls slammed into view, gorgeously arrayed in a floppy hat with feathers, a purple and blue striped jacket, a wide sash, baggy pants above sloppily rolled boots. He whipped out a slender epée and advanced on the lone occupied table. Another ornately outfitted swordsman crowded in behind him, and a third, and a fourth. They spread out and ringed the table, blades at the ready.

"Hi, fellas." Lafayette waved his heavy glass. "How about a little snort?"

"In the King's name," the leading dandy roared. "You're under arrest! Will you come along quietly, or have we got to run you through?" A fierce black mustache curled up on each side of his face like a steer's horns. O'Leary eyed the nearest sword point, six inches from his throat. Rolling his eyes sideways, he could see two more blades poised, aimed at his heart. Across from him, the Red Bull gaped, his mouth hanging open.

"You, there!" the mustached officer bellowed, eyeing the redhead. "Who're you?"

"Me, offither?" the big man chirped. "Why, I wath jutht thitting here, thipping my therry and waiting for my thupper."

The cop blinked, then guffawed. "The bum looks enough like the Red Bull to be his twin."

"Beat it, you," another ordered. The redhead scrambled from his place and hurried unsteadily to the door. Lafayette caught a glimpse of faces peering in as it opened. The mob was still noisy outside.

"All right, on your feet," the man on his left commanded. O'Leary smiled negligently at the man, focusing his attention on the swords. Salamis, he thought. Swords into salamis, kazam!

A sharp point prodded his side; he jumped. The bright steel blade was set against his ribs, just above the kidney. "Salami!" O'Leary commanded aloud. "Turn into a salami, damn it!"

The blade—still stubbornly steel—poked harder. "No spells now, or you won't make it to a cell!"

"Hey!" Lafayette yelled. "Careful! You'll break the skin!"

"Look, Mac, have I got to slit your weasand to convince you this is a pinch?

We're musketeers of the city guard, see? We're putting the sneeze on for disturbing the peace!"

"You mean about the wine bottle," O'Leary said. "I can explain—"

"Tell it to the executioner," a three-striper snarled. "On your feet, bub!" Lafayette got up. "This is ridiculous," he started. A hard hand gripped his arm and propelled him doorward. He shook it off, grabbed his hat from the table and settled it over his eyes. No need to get excited, he reminded himself. The salami gambit hadn't worked, but that was because he hadn't had time to concentrate properly and get his Psychic Energies attuned—besides which, he had already discovered it was tricky trying to change anything in plain view. He was a little woozy from the wine, but as soon as he had a quiet moment, he would handle these fellows . . .

He stumbled through the door, out into the frosty night air. A rank of frightened faces gaped at him. Fists shook. A vegetable came flying and bounced off his shoulder.

"All right, clear the way there!" the tallest musketeer roared. "Make way, in the King's name!" He and two of his men laid about them with the flats of their blades, opening a route to a waiting steamcar.

"Watch it, Mac," said the musketeer detailed to guard O'Leary. "Us police aren't what you'd call popular." He ducked as a ripe tomato whizzed past.

"Can't say as I blame 'em much, the way his Majesty has got us putting the screws on lately. Everything that ain't compulsory is illegal."

"Sounds like a totalitarian regime," O'Leary commented. "Why don't you start a revolution?"

"You kidding? King Goruble's got a army that would—" he broke off. "Never mind that," he said. He looked at O'Leary curiously and edged closer.

"Say, is that the straight dope?" he said from the side of his mouth. "I mean about you being a sorcerer?"

O'Leary eyed the man. "You mean an intelligent fellow like you believes in magic?"

"Naw—but, well—they got you on a 902—that's a necromancy rap; o'course that's just a standard charge we use to hold suspicious characters for twenty-four hours. But I figure maybe where there's a frog there's a puddle—"

"Did you ever see anyone perform magic?" Lafayette demanded.

"No, but my wife's aunt's cousin claims he knew a fellow—"

"I'm no magician," Lafayette said. "As a matter of fact, I'm—but you wouldn't understand."

"Look, what I was wondering—well, my wife, she's kind of running to fat lately; stringy hair, no make-up; you know the routine. Only been married a year. Maybe you could give me something to slip into her martini to kind of like put the old zazzle back; warm her up a little, if you know what I mean .

. ." He winked elaborately, and casually shoved an overeager spectator back into line.

"That's silly—" Lafayette started, then paused. Well, why not? Good practice. He squinted, pictured a popular movie starlet whose name he had forgotten, imagined her as married to the cop at his side, then pictured her hurrying along a street, attracted by the mob noise . . . The scene winked. O'Leary relaxed, feeling complacent. OK, now he could get back in command of the situation . . .

"Roy!" a girlish voice called above the clamor. "Oh, Roy!" The cop beside O'Leary jumped, looked around. A lovely girl with huge dark eyes and soft brown hair was pushing through the crowd.

"Gertrude! Is it you?" the cop bleated, a look of delighted astonishment spreading across his face.

"Oh, Roy! I was so worried!" The girl hurled herself at the cop, staggering him. His sword dropped. O'Leary retrieved it and handed it back.

"I heard there was a dangerous arrest, and you were on it, and I know how brave you are, and I was afraid—"

"Now, now, Gertrude, I'm in the pink. Everything's jake."

"You mean it was a false alarm? Oh, I'm so relieved."

"False alarm? Yeah—I mean . . ." The musketeer turned to blink at Lafayette. He swallowed hard. "Cripes!" he muttered. "This guy is the McCoy!" He thrust the girl aside. "Excuse me, baby!" He cupped a hand beside his mouth. "Hey, Sarge!"

The large musketeer loomed up beside him. "Yeah?"

"This guy—" the cop jerked a thumb at O'Leary. "He's the goods! I mean, he's a sorcerer, like they said!"

"You lose your marbles, Shorty? Get your pris'ner and let's move out!"

"But look at Gertrude!" He pointed. The big cop glanced, jumped, gaped. He swept his hat off, executed an elaborate bow.

"Holy Moses, Gertrude," he said, "you got a new hairdo or something?"

"Hairdo?" Shorty snorted. "She's lost fifty pounds o' lard, stacked what's left in the right places, developed a curl in her hair, and remembered how to smile! And he done it!" He pointed at O'Leary.

"Oh, it was nothing," Lafayette said modestly. "And now, if you fellows don't mind—"

Abruptly, steel rasped. Four sharp blades jumped out, poised, ringing O'Leary in. The sergeant mopped sweat from his forehead with his free hand.

"I'm warning you, mister, don't try nothing! I'll have twelve inches of steel into you before you get past the first abracadabra!"

Lafayette snorted. "The whole thing is getting silly," he said. "That's the trouble with dreams; just when they begin to get interesting, things start to go wrong. I may as well just wake up and start over tomorrow night." He squinted, concentrating; he was getting pretty good at the trick now, he thought complacently. Just picture what you wanted, build it up in the mind's eye—

Someone was jerking at his arm. Damned nuisance. Hard to concentrate. Mrs. MacGlint's; the old family wallpaper, the homey smells, the creaky floor . . . He opened an eye and saw a ring of angry faces. He shut his eyes tight, seized on the fading visualization of his room, working to solidify it. Wake up, he commanded himself. This is just a whacky dream . . . The sounds around were fading now; he could almost see the blotched walls, the curtained alcove, the orange-crate table—

The hand was hauling at his arm again. He stumbled, almost fell. His eyes snapped open. A voice yelled in his ear.

The mob sounds swelled back to normal. Lafayette's breath made a frosty cloud before his face. The musketeers were staring at him, mouths wide.

"Did you see that, Sarge?" Shorty choked. "Like he turned to smoke!" They were backing away. The three-striper stood his ground, swallowed hard.

"Look, pal," he said desperately, "be nice and come along quiet, huh? I mean, if you got to do a fade, do it in front of witnesses, you know what I mean? If I report in with a story like this—and no pinch—well, it's goodby retirement, and me with twenty-one years on the force." For the moment, O'Leary saw, it seemed there was no help for it: he was stuck in the damned dream—at least until he could manage a moment of peace and quiet.

"Certainly, Sergeant," O'Leary said grandly, "I'll be glad to accompany you. Just keep it couth, if you don't mind."

"Sure, kid gloves all the way, buddy. Now, if you don't mind just stepping this way?" The sergeant indicated the lane to the waiting vehicle. O'Leary strolled to the car, stood by while one of the guardsmen opened the rear door and then clambered up, seating himself on the wooden bench.

"All clear," he said. "Button her up." As the cops hurried to close the door, O'Leary caught a glimpse of four nervous faces looking oddly different . . . Then he saw it: The big sergeant was now clean-shaven; somehow in the reshuffling of scenes, his immense mustachios had been inadvertently transferred to the upper lip of Shorty. O'Leary smiled, relaxed. There was really no need to be in a crashing hurry to get back to reality; why not stay with it a bit longer, and see what his subconscious came up with next? He could always wake up later.

O'Leary braced himself with one foot against the opposite bench and settled down for the ride.

Chapter III

It was a bumpy twenty-minute trip. Lafayette held on, feeling his teeth clack at each uneven cobble, regretting that he had neglected to provide padded seats and a window. The wagon swayed, mounted a slight incline and then halted with a jolt. Feet clattered; voices muttered. The door clanked and swung open. Lafayette stepped down, looked around interestedly at a wide, cobbled courtyard fronted on all four sides by elaborate façades of rusticated stone, ornate with columns, pilasters, niches with statues, bright-lit rows of high, Gothic-arched windows. Far above, the slopes of massive mansard roofs gleamed a dull green in the moonlight. There were flower beds and geometric shapes of manicured lawn; clumps of tall poplars shimmered their silvery leaves in the night breeze. Flaming lanterns atop tall poles lighted a cavernous colonnaded entry, beside which two brass-helmeted, ramrod-stiff guardsmen in baggy knickers of Bromo-Seltzer blue and puff-sleeved jackets in red and yellow stripes stood with arquebuses at order arms.

"Now, if you'll just step this way, ah, sir," the sergeant said nervously, "I'll turn you over to the household detachment. After that you can disappear any time you like, just so I get a receipt from the desk sergeant first, OK?"

"Be calm, Sergeant," O'Leary soothed. "I'm not going to vanish just yet." He shook his head admiringly. "This if the fanciest police station I ever saw."

"You kidding, mac? I mean," the noncom amended hastily, "uh, this is the palace. Where the King lives, you know. King Goruble the First."

"I didn't know," said Lafayette, starting in the indicated direction. He stumbled and grabbed for his hat. It was difficult, walking in unfamiliar boots across uneven paving stones, and the sword had a disconcerting way of attempting to get between his legs.

The rigid sentries snapped to as the detachment mounted the wide steps; one barked a challenge. The sergeant replied and urged O'Leary on into the well-lit interior of a high-vaulted, mirror-lined hall, with a floor of polished marble in red and black squares. Elaborate gilt chandeliers hung from the fretted ceiling; opposite the mirrors, vast, somber draperies reflected woodland scenes.

Lafayette followed his escort along to a desk where a man in a steel breastplate sat, picking his teeth with a dagger. He cocked an eyebrow at O'Leary as the party came up.

"Book this, uh, gentleman in, Sarge," Lafayette's escort said. "And give me a receipt."

"Gentleman?" The desk sergeant put the dagger away and picked up a quill.

"What's the charge?"

"A 902." Lafayette's cop looked defiantly at the pained expression that appeared on the other's lined face.

"Are you kidding, Sarge?" the desk man growled "Grow up! You can use a 902 to hold a drunk overnight, but you don't book 'em into Royal Court—"

"This one's the real article."

"That's right, Sarge," Shorty chimed in. "You oughta see what he done to Gertrude!"

"Gertrude? What is this, an assault?"

"Naw, Gertrude's the wife. He took fifty pounds off'n her and put the old shake back in her hips. Wow!" Shorty made lines in the air indicating Gertrude's new contours, then looked guiltily at O'Leary.

"Sorry, Bud," he whispered behind his hand. "I appreciate the favor, but—"

"You guys are nuts," the desk man said. "Get out of here before I lose my temper and have the lot of you clapped into irons!"

The musketeer sergeant's face darkened. He half-drew his sword with a rasp of steel. "Book him and give me a receipt, or I'll tickle your backbone from the front, you paper-pushing son of a—"

The desk sergeant was on his feet, whipping a saber from the sheath hung on the back of his chair, which fell over with a clatter. "Draw on a member of the Queen's Own Light Cavalry, will you, you flat-footed night watchman—"

"Quiet!" someone barked. Lafayette, who had been watching the action open-mouthed, turned to see a dapper, gray-haired man in short sleeves frowning from an open doorway, surrounded by half a dozen elaborately garbed men in fantastic powdered wigs.

"What's the meaning of this altercation, right outside our gaming room?" The newcomer aggrievedly waved the playing cards clutched in a hand heavy with rings.

Everyone came to attention with a multiple clack of heels.

"Ah, Your Majesty, sir, this police officer," the desk sergeant stumbled, "he was wising off, sir, and—"

"I beg your Majesty's pardon, Your Majesty," the arresting sergeant cut in,

"but if Your Majesty would—"

"See here, can't you go somewhere else to argue?" the king demanded.

"Confound it, things are coming to a pretty pass when we can't play a few quiet hands of stud without some unseemly interruption!" The monarch turned to re-enter the room, his courtiers scattering from his path.

"If it please your Majesty," the formerly mustached musketeer persisted,

"this prisoner is—"

"It doesn't please us in the least!" The king thrust out his mustached lip.

"Scat, we say! Begone! And silently!"

The sergeant's face grew stubborn. "Your Majesty, I got to have a receipt for my prisoner. He's a dangerous sorcerer."

The king opened his mouth, then closed it.

"Sorcerer?" He eyed O'Leary with interest. At close range, Lafayette noted, the king looked older, more careworn, but meticulously groomed, with fine lines around his eyes and mouth.

"Are you sure of this?" the king asked in a low voice.

"Absolutely, your Majesty," the arresting cop assured him. The desk sergeant bustled around the desk. "Your Majesty, I'm sorry about this; these nut cases, we get 'em all the time—"

"Are you a magician?" The king pursed his mouth, raising one carefully arched eyebrow at Lafayette.

"Why does everyone ask the same question?" Lafayette shook his head. "It would all be lots more fun if you just accepted me as one of yourselves. Just consider me a . . . ah . . . scientist."

The king's frown returned. "You show less than proper respect for our person. And what in the name of the Sea-field is a—what did you call yourself?"

"A scientist. Someone who knows things," O'Leary explained. "You see, I'm engaged in an experiment. Now, none of you fellows realize it, but none of you actually exist."

The king was sniffing loudly. "The fellow reeks of wine," he said. He sniffed again. "Smells like good stuff," he remarked to a satin-coated dandy at his elbow.

"Phaugh, Majesty," the courtier said in a high nasal, waving a hanky under his nose. "Methinks the scoundrel is well and truly snockered. Didst hear him but now? None of us exist, quoth he—including your Majesty!"

"Sire, he's a warlock, take my word for it!" the sergeant burst out. "Any minute he's liable to poof! Disappear!"

"Yeah, yer Majesty," Shorty added, wagging his head, making his curls flop.

"The guy is terrific!"

"How say you, knave?" The courtier fixed O'Leary with a slightly blood-shot eye. "Art a dabbler in the Black Arts?"

"Actually, it's all very simple," Lafayette said. His head was beginning to throb slightly as the glow of the wine faded. "I just—ah—have this slight ability to manipulate the environment."

The king's forehead wrinkled. "What does that mean?"

"Well . . ." Lafayette considered. "Take wine, for example." He squinted his eyes, concentrated on the upper right drawer of the desk beside him. He felt a slight, reassuring jar. "Look in the drawer," he said. "The top one." The king gestured. "Do as he says."

One of the perfumed flunkeys minced forward, drew open the drawer, glanced inside, then, looking surprised, lifted out a bottle and held it up.

"Hey!" The desk sergeant started.

"Drinking on duty, eh?" The king beetled an eyebrow at the unfortunate fellow. "Ten days in the dungeon on canned soup."

"B-but, your Majesty, it's not mine!"

"That's right," Lafayette put in. "He didn't even know it was there."

"Then it's ten days for not knowing the contents of his own desk," the king said blandly. He took the bottle, looked at the label, held it up to the light and squinted at it.

"Good color," he stated. "Who has a corkscrew?" Four manicured hands shot out with four elaborate corkscrews. The king handed over the bottle and watched as the cork was drawn with a loud whok!

He took the bottle, sniffed, then tilted it and took a healthy drag. A delighted expression lifted his rather sharp features.

"Zounds! We like it! Damned good vintage, that! Better than we find at our own table!" He looked at Lafayette approvingly.

"Still say you're not a magician, eh?"

"No, 'fraid not. After all, magic's impossible." O'Leary wagged an admonitory finger. "I suppose I seem a little unusual to you, but there's a perfectly simple explanation. Now, in this dream—"

"Enough!" The king held up a manicured hand. "This talk of dreams, we like it not—and yet, this wine we like right well. 'Tis a matter for our council to consider." He turned to a slight, pasty-faced man with a large moist nose, who was dressed in powder-blue silk with ruffles at the throat.

"Summon my councilors, we shall look into this affair. Mayhap the fellow has a simple explanation for these, ah, irregularities." He smacked his lips, looked fondly at the bottle and handed it to O'Leary. As the latter reached for it, the monarch seemed to start suddenly, half withdrew the bottle, then held it out again, staring at O'Leary's hand as he took the flask.

"We'll meet—immediately," the king said, sounding shaken.

"Tonight, Majesty?" a fat man in pink velvet squeaked.

"Certainly! In the High Chamber in a quarter of an hour!" King Goruble waved a hand at the musketeers. "Be there! And as for you—" he shot a sharp glance at O'Leary. "You come with us, lad. We have a few questions to put to you."

The king waved his retainers back and closed the heavy door behind himself and Lafayette, who stared around the richly decorated gaming room admiringly. There were huge gilt-framed pictures against the paneled walls, a well stocked bar, deep rugs, soft lights to supplement the bright luminaries hanging over the card and billiard tables.

"I see you have electric lights here," O'Leary commented. "I can't quite figure out just what sort of place this is I've wandered into."

"This is the kingdom of Artesia." The king pulled at his lower lip, watching O'Leary speculatively. "Have you lost your wits, boy? Perhaps, ah, forgotten your name, your station?"

"No; I'm Lafayette O'Leary. I don't have a station: It's just that I can't quite place the, ah, context. Swords, steam cars, knee breeches, electric lights . . ."

"O'Leary, eh? A curious name. You came from a far land, I wot; you know nothing of our fair realm of Artesia?"

"Ummm," said Lafayette. "I guess you could say that; but in another sense, I live here—or near here."

"Eh? What mean you?"

"Oh, nothing much. You wouldn't understand."

Goruble worried his lower lip with even, white, false-looking teeth. "What errand brought you hither?" He sounded worried, O'Leary thought.

"Oh, no errand. Just . . . looking around."

"Looking for what?"

"Nothing special. Just sight-seeing, you might say."

"You came not to, ah, crave audience with ourself, perchance?"

"No—not that I'm not honored."

"How came you here?" Goruble demanded abruptly.

"Well, it gets a little complicated. To tell you the truth, I don't really understand it myself."

"You have—friends in the capital?"

"Don't know a soul."

Goruble took three paces, turned, took three paces back. He stopped and eyed O'Leary's right hand.

"Your ring," he said. "An interesting bauble." His eyes cut to O'Leary's face.

"You, ah, bought it here?"

"Oh, no, I've had it for years."

Goruble frowned. "Where did you get it?"

"I guess you could say it came with me. It was hanging around my neck on a string when they found me on the orphanage doorstep."

"Orphanage? A place for waifs and strays?"

O'Leary nodded.

Goruble became suddenly brisk. "Just slip it off, there's a good fellow; I'd fain have a look at it."

"Sorry; it's too small to get over the knuckle."

"Hmmm." The king looked at O'Leary sharply. "Yes, well, let us make a suggestion, my lad. Turn the ring so that the device is inward. Others, seeing the symbol of the ax and dragon, might place some bothersome interpretation on't."

"What kind of interpretation?"

Goruble spread his hands. "There's a tale, told in the taverns. A mystical hero, 'tis said, will appear one day bearing that symbol, to rid the land of, ah, certain encumbrances. Sheer balderdash, of course, but it might prove embarrassing to you to be taken for the warrior of the prophecy."

"Thanks for the tip." O'Leary twisted the ring on his finger. "Now, do you mind if I ask a few questions?"

"Ah, doubtless you're wondering why you were brought here to the palace, rather than being trussed in chains and cast into a dungeon along with the usual run of felons."

"No, I can't say that I am. Nothing around here seems to make any sense. But now that you mention it, why am I here?"

"'Twas our royal command. We instructed the captain of the city garrison a fortnight since to comb the city and bring to us any person suspect of witchery."

Lafayette nodded, found himself yawning and patted his mouth. "Excuse me," he said. "Go on, I'm listening."

"'Tis a most strange manner of deportment you affect," the king said snappishly. "Hast no respect for royalty?"

"Oh, sure, uh, your Majesty," O'Leary said. "I guess I'm just a little tired." The monarch sat himself in a deep leather chair, and watched open-mouthed as Lafayette settled himself in another, crossing his legs comfortably.

"Here!" the king barked, "we've given you no leave to sit!" O'Leary was yawning again. "Look, let's skip all that," he suggested in a reasonable tone. "I'm pooped. You know, I have an idea these dream adventures are just as fatiguing as real ones. After all your mind—part of it, anyway—thinks you're really awake, so it reacts—"

"Have done!" the king yelped. "Your prattle threatens to unhinge my wits!" He glared at O'Leary as though pondering a difficult decision. "Look here, young man, you are sure there isn't something you'd like to, well, tell us? A matter we might ah, discuss plainly?" He leaned forward, lowering his voice. "To our mutual advantage?"

"I'm afraid I don't know what you mean."

"Answer us plainly, yea or nay? Speak without fear; we offer you amnesty."

"Nay," Lafayette said flatly. "Absolutely nay."

"Nay?" the king's shoulders slumped. "Drat it, I was hoping . . . perhaps . .

."

"Look here," Lafayette said in a kindly tone, "why don't you tell me what your problem is? Maybe I can help you. I do have certain, ah, techniques—" The king sat erect, looking wary. "We took you here aside to, ah, advise you privily that you'd have our royal pardon in advance for the practice of your forbidden arts in the service of the crown. You spurn our offer—and in the same breath hint at the possession of demonic power. Almost it seems you ask to have your bones stretched!"

"I wonder," O'Leary said. "If I went to sleep now, would I wake up here—or back at Mrs. MacGlint's house?"

"Bah!" the king exploded. "But for a certain mystery we sense about you, we'd banish you forthwith to the county jail on a charge of lunacy!" He eyed the wine bottle on the table. "Tell us," he said in a confidential tone, "how did the bottle get in the desk drawer?"

"It was always there," O'Leary said. "I just pointed it out."

"But how—" the king shook his head. "Enough." He went to a bell cord.

"We'll hear your case in open court—if you're sure you have nothing to impart in confidence?" He looked at O'Leary expectantly.

"This is all nonsense," O'Leary protested. "Impart what? Why don't you tell me about yourself? I have an idea that you represent some sort of authority symbol."

"Symbol?" Goruble roared. "We'll show you whether we be symbol or sovereign!" He yanked the cord. The door opened; a squad of household troops stood waiting.

"Escort him to the bar of justice," Goruble ordered. "He stands accused of sorcery."

"Oh, well," O'Leary said airily, "I guess it's no use trying to be reasonable. It may be amusing at that. Lead on, my good man." He gestured sardonically at the bull-necked corporal as the squad moved to box him in. It was a five-minute walk along echoing corridors to the chamber where the hearing was to be held. A crowd of gaudily clad men and a few women in full skirts and cleavage eyed O'Leary curiously as he came in under guard. The ceremonial sentries beside the double doors motioned him and his escort through into a domed chamber, a rococo composition in red and green marble and heavy hangings of green velvet with gold fringes that reminded Lafayette of the lobby of the Colby opera house. At one side of the room a vast chair occupied a raised dais. A row of boys in baggy shorts, long stockings, pointed shoes, sailor's shirts and bangs raised long horns and blew a discordant fanfare. Through doors at the opposite side of the room the figure of the king appeared, wearing a scarlet robe now, followed by the usual retinue of hangers-on. Everyone bowed low, the women curtsying. Lafayette felt a smart kick in the shin.

"Bow, bumpkin!" hissed a bearded stranger in pea-green knickers. Lafayette bent over, rubbed the spot where the other's boot had bruised him. "How would you like a punch in the jaw?"

"Silence! Wouldst have me rub your nose on the floor, wittol!"

"You and what other six guys?" O'Leary came back. "Ever had a broken leg before?"

"Before what?"

"Before you had a broken arm. I may just cross your eyes, too, while I'm at it."

"Art daft, varlet?"

"Maybe you haven't heard. I'm here on a witchcraft rap."

"Ulp?" The man moved away hastily. The king was seated on his throne now, amid much bustling of courtiers stationing themselves in position according to an elaborate scheme of precedence, each elbowing for a spot a foot or two closer to the throne. There were more trumpetings; then an old dodderer in a long black robe stepped forward and pounded a heavy rod on the floor.

"The Court of Justice of His Majesty King Goruble is now in session," he quavered. "All those who crave boons, draw nigh." Then, without pausing:

"Let those who have offended against the just laws of the realm be brought forward."

"That's you, bud," a black-haired guard muttered. "Let's go." O'Leary followed as the man pushed through the throng to a spot ten feet from the throne where King Goruble sat, nibbling a slice of orange.

"Well, how plead you, my man?"

"I don't know," O'Leary said. "What's the charge?"

"Sorcery! Guilty or not guilty?"

"Oh, that again. I was hoping you'd thought up something more original, like loitering at the post office."

An effeminate-looking fellow in parakeet green stepped from the ranks of the retainers grouped around the throne, made an elaborate leg and waved a bit of lace from which an odor of dime store perfume wafted.

"An't please your Majesty," he said, "the fellow's insolence gives him away.

'Tis plain to see, he has a powerful protector. The villain is, I doubt not, a paid spy in the hire of the rebel Lod!"

"Lod?" Lafayette raised his eyebrows. "Who's he?"

"As is doubtless well known to you, this creature, thus y-clept is the fearsome giant, the bandit who impertinently presses a suit for the hand of her highness, the Princess Adoranne."

"And dreams of the day he will usurp our throne," Goruble added. He slapped the carved arm of the throne, looking angry.

"Well, fellow, do you deny it?" the green-clad exquisite persisted.

"I never heard of this Lod," Lafayette said impatiently. "And I've already told you the sorcery business was silly. There isn't any such thing!" Goruble narrowed his eyes at O'Leary, pinched his chin between jeweled fingers.

"No such thing, eh?" He gestured. "Let Nicodaeus come forward." A tall, well muscled but slightly paunchy gray-haired man in yellow tights and a short cloak ornately appliquéd with stars and crescent moons stepped from the ranks, bowed medium low before the throne, took a pair of rimless glasses from a breast pocket, put them on, turned and studied Lafayette.

"You deny the existence of magic, eh?" he asked in a mellow baritone. "A skeptic." He wagged his head, smiling ruefully, reached up and took an egg from his mouth. A little murmur of wonder went through the crowd. The gray-haired man sauntered a few feet, paused before a plump lady-in-waiting, plucked a gaily-colored scarf from her well filled bodice, tossed it aside, drew out another, and another. The fat woman retreated, squealing and giggling as the onlookers tittered.

"Well done, Nicodaeus!" a fat man in pale purple puffed. "Oh, jolly well done!"

Nicodaeus strolled to the dais, and with a murmured apology took a mouse from the king's pocket. He dropped the tiny animal on the floor and it scurried away, amid dutiful squealing from the ladies. He plucked another from the king's shoe, a third from the royal ear. The monarch twitched, shot a sharp glance at O'Leary, waved the magician aside.

"Well, how say you now, O'Leary!" he demanded. "True, the feats of my faithful Nicodaeus are harmless white sorcery, blessed in the temple of Goop the Good and employed only in defense of our crown; but none can deny the ordinary laws of nature have here been set aside."

"Fooie," Lafayette said. "That's just sleight-of-hand. Any carnival sideshow prestidigitator has a better routine than that."

Nicodaeus looked thoughtfully at O'Leary, walked over to stand before him.

"Do you mind telling me," the magician said quietly, "just where you come from?"

"Well, I'm, ah, a traveler from a distant land, you might say," O'Leary improvised. Nicodaeus turned to face King Goruble.

"Majesty, when I heard your police had picked up a sorcerer, I looked over the report. The arrest was made in a tavern in the Street of the Alehouses, about eight P.M. All the witnesses agree that he performed some sort of hocus-pocus with a wine bottle. Then when the officers were taking him out to the wagon, he reportedly tried to vanish, but didn't quite have the skill to manage it. I also heard a story that he cast some sort of spell on a woman, the wife of one of the arresting officers; changed her appearance, it seems."

"Yes, yes, I know all that, Nicodaeus!"

"Your Majesty, in my opinion all this is meaningless gossip, the product of wine-lubricated imaginations."

"Eh?" Goruble sat forward. "You're saying the man is innocent?"

"Not at all, Majesty! The really important point hasn't been mentioned yet. The accused was first seen, as I said, in the alehouse . . ." He paused dramatically. "Before that—no one had caught a glimpse of him!"

"So?"

"Your Majesty doesn't seem to get the point," Nicodaeus said patiently.

"The city guards say he wasn't observed to approach the street where he was taken. The sentries at the city gates swear he never passed that way. He came from a far land, he says. Did he come on horse back? If so, where are the stains of travel—and where's the animals itself? Did he walk? Look at his boots; the soles show no more dust than a stroll in a garden might account for!"

"Are you saying he flew here?" Goruble shot a sharp look at Lafayette.

"Flew?" Nicodaeus looked annoyed. "Of course not. I'm suggesting that he obviously slipped into the city by stealth—and that he has confederates who housed and clothed him."

"So you agree he's a spy?" Goruble sounded pleased. Lafayette sighed. "If I wanted to sneak into town, why would I suddenly walk into a tavern in plain sight of the cops?"

"I think the costume explains that," Nicodaeus said, nodding. "You've tricked out as the Phantom Outlaw, I believe. You intended to convince the gullible patrons of the dive that you were this mythical ghost, and then force them to do your bidding by threats of supernatural vengeance." Lafayette folded his arms. "I'm getting tired of this nonsense," he stated loudly. "Starting now, this dream is going the way I want it to, or I'm just going to wake up and to hell with it!" He pointed at Nicodaeus. "This phony, now; if you'll detail a couple of men to hold him down while somebody goes through his pockets, and the trick compartments in the dizzy-looking cloak, you'd find out where all those mice come from! And—" The magician caught O'Leary's eye, shook his head. "Play along," he whispered from the corner of his mouth.

Lafayette ignored him. " . . . I'm getting just about fed up with nonsense about magic and torture chambers," he went on. Nicodaeus stepped close.

"Trust me, I'll get you out of this." He turned to the king and bowed his head smoothly. "The king is wise—"

"Nuts to all of you," O'Leary said. "This is just like a dream I had a couple of weeks ago. I was in a garden with nice green grass and a little stream and fruit trees, and all I wanted to do was relax and smell the flowers, but people kept coming along, bothering me. There was a fat bishop on a bicycle and a fireman playing a banjo, and then two midgets with a pet skunk—"

"Your Majesty, a moment!" Nicodaeus cried out. He threw a comradely arm about Lafayette's shoulders, led him closer to the throne. "It just came to me!" he announced. "This man is no criminal! We've been making a terrible mistake! How stupid of me not to have realized sooner."

"What are you babbling about, Nicodaeus?" Goruble snapped. "One minute you're sewing up a watertight case, the next you're hugging the man like a long-lost brother!"

"My mistake, my liege!" Nicodaeus said hastily. "This is a fine young man, an upstanding subject of your Majesty, a model youth."

"What do you know about him?" Goruble's voice was sharp. "A moment since, you said you'd never seen him before!"

"Yes, well, as to that—"

There was a tinkle of bells, and a face like a gargoyle's appeared between the king's feet.

"What's afoot?" a deep bass voice rumbled. "Your patterings disturb my slumbers!"

"Be quiet, Yokabump!" King Goruble snapped. "We're conducting important business."

The face came farther out, a small body behind it. The dwarf, rising to bandy legs, looked around, scratching his chest.

"Solemn faces!" he bellowed. "Sour pusses! You're all a bunch of stick-in-the-muds!" He whipped out a harmonica, tapped it on his oversized palm and started a lively tune.

"Sticks-in-the-mud, you mean," Goruble corrected. "Go away now, Yokabump! We told you we're busy!" He glared at Nicodaeus. "Well, we're waiting! What do you know of the fellow that should prevent his hanging by his thumbs!"

Yokabump stopped playing.

"You mean," he boomed, pointing at O'Leary, "you don't recognize this hero?"

Goruble stared down at him. "Hero? Recognize? No, we don't." Yokabump bounded forward and struck a pose.

"When the dragon came out of the west.

The worst ran away with the best;

But one man with an ax stopped the beast in his tracks

And came home with the hide of the pest."

King Goruble frowned darkly. "Nonsense!" he said flatly. He turned to the dwarf. "No interference from you, manikin; this is a matter of deepest import. Don't distract us with foolish stories."

"But he is, in very truth, sire, the dragon slayer of the prophecy!"

"Why, ah, as a matter of fact . . ." Nicodaeus patted O'Leary heartily on the shoulder. "I was just about to make the announcement." Yokabump waddled up to O'Leary, threw back his head and stared at him.

"He doesn't look like a hero," he announced in his subcellar bass. "But a hero he is!" He turned his heavy head, winked grotesquely at the magician, faced O'Leary again. "Tell us, Sir Knight, how you'll face the foul monster, how you'll overcome those mighty jaws, those awful talons!" Goruble chewed at his lip, staring at O'Leary.

"Jaws and talons, eh," Lafayette said, smiling condescendingly. "No wings?

No fiery breath? No—"

"Scales, yes—I think," Nicodaeus said. "I haven't seen him myself, of course, but the reports—"

A slender fellow in a pale yellow suit with a starched ruff came forward, sniffing a snuff box. He closed it with a click, tucked it in a sleeve and eyed O'Leary curiously.

"How say you, fellow? Wilt dispatch the great beast that guards the approaches to the stronghold of Lod?"

There was a sudden silence. Goruble blinked at O'Leary, his lips thrust out.

"Well?" he demanded.

"Agree!" Nicodaeus muttered in O'Leary's ear.

"Certainly!" Lafayette made an expansive gesture. "I'll be only too pleased to attend to this little matter. My favorite sport, actually. I often kill half a dozen dragons before breakfast. I'll promise to annihilate any number of mythical beasts, if that will make you happy."

"Very well." Goruble looked grim. "A celebration is in order, we suppose," he said sardonically. "We hereby decree a fete for tonight in honor of our valiant new friend, O'Leary." He broke off and shot Lafayette a fierce look.

"And you'd better deliver the goods, young fellow," he added in an undertone, "or we'll have the hide off you in strips!" Chapter IV

The room that O'Leary was shown to was forty feet long, thirty wide, carpeted, tapestried and gilt decorated. There was an immense four-poster bed, a vast, carved wardrobe, a gaily decorated chamber pot in a rosewood stand, a tall mirror in a frame, and a row of curtained windows with a view of lanterns strung in a garden where fountains played among moonlit statues of nymphs and satyrs. He tried a door, looked into a cedar-lined closet filled with elaborate costumes on satin-covered hangers. Another door opened into a tiny chapel, complete with a wheel of Goop and a fresh package of sacrificial incense sticks. There was one more door. O'Leary paused to give thought to what would be behind it, picturing the details of a cozy tiled bath with heated floor, glassed-in shower stall, plenty of hot water . . . He reached for the knob, swung the door wide, stepped through. There was a loud squeal. Lafayette halted, staring. In the center of the small room was a long wooden tub containing soapy water and a girl. Her dark hair was piled high on her head, a few bubbles provided inadequate concealment for her charms. She stared back at him, amazement on her pretty features.

"Wha . . .?" Lafayette stammered. "Where . . . but I was just . . ." He waved a hand vaguely toward the door.

The girl gazed at him wide-eyed. "You—you must be the new wizard, sir!" She took the towel from the rack attached to the side of the tub and stood up, wrapping it around herself.

"I—I'm sorry!" O'Leary blurted, his eyes straying to the expanse of white thigh revealed by the skimpy towel "I was just—I mean—" He stared around at shelves stacked with clean sheets and towels.

"Something's wrong here," he said protestingly. "This was supposed to be a bathroom!"

The girl giggled. "You can have my bath, sir, I'd hardly started."

"But it wasn't supposed to be like this! I had in mind a nice tile bath, and a shower and plenty of hot water and soap and shaving cream—"

"This water's just right, sir," the girl stepped out onto the rug, loosened the towel and began modestly drying her neck, holding the towel more or less in front of her. "I'm Daphne; I'm the upstairs chambermaid."

"Gosh, miss, I didn't mean to disturb you. I was just—"

"I've never met a real magician before," Daphne said. "It was so exciting!

One minute I was right there in my room, looking at the crack in the plaster, and the next—zip! Here I was!"

"You were somewhere else—taking a bath?" Lafayette frowned. "I must have made a mistake. Probably distracted by all the excitement."

"I heard about the fete," the girl said. "It is exciting. There hasn't been a real affair in the palace for months, not since that horrible ogre Lod came with his men under a truce flag to woo Princess Adoranne."

"Look, ah, Daphne, I have to get ready; after all, I'm sort of the guest of honor, so—"

"Oh." Daphne looked disappointed. "You didn't summon me on purpose?"

"No. Ah, I mean, I have to take a bath now."

"Would you like me to scrub your back?"

"No, thanks." O'Leary felt himself blushing. "I'm sort of used to bathing myself. But thanks just the same. But, uh, maybe I'll see you at the party."

"Me, sir? But I'm only a chambermaid! They won't even let me watch from the kitchen door!"

"Nonsense! You're as pretty as any of them! Come as my guest."

"I couldn't, sir! And beside, I haven't a thing to wear." She tucked the towel demurely about her slender figure, smiling shyly.

"Well, I think that can be fixed." Lafayette turned to the clothes closet, considering. "What size do you wear, Daphne?"

"Size? Why, as you see, sir . . ." She held her arms from her sides, twirled slowly around. Lafayette took a deep, calming breath, fixed his eyes on the closet, concentrating. He opened the door, glanced over the array of finery, reached, pulled out a pink-and-gold-brocaded gown.

"How about this?"

She gasped. "It's lovely, sir! Is it really for me?"

"It certainly is. Now, just run along like a good girl; I'll be looking forward to seeing you at the party."

"I've never seen anything so pretty." She took the dress tenderly in her arms. "If you'll just lend me a robe, sir, I'll be off like a flash. I know just where I can borrow a pair of shoes to go with it, and . . ." Lafayette found a terry-cloth robe, bundled it about her shoulders and saw her to the door.

"I'd like to apologize again about, ah, disturbing you in your bath," he said.

"It was just an accident."

"Think nothing of it, sir." She smiled up at him. "This is the most exciting thing that ever happened to me. Who'd have ever thought magicians were so young—and so handsome?" She went to tiptoes, kissed him quickly on the end of the nose, then turned and darted away along the hall. There was a rap at the door as Lafayette was buttoning the last gilt button on the dark blue coat he had selected from the dozens in the closet.

"Come in," he called. He heard the door open behind him.

"I hope you don't mind my barging in on you," a deep voice said. Lafayette turned. Nicodaeus, trim in a gray outfit, closed the door behind him. He took out a pack of cigarettes, offered them and lit up with what appeared to be a Ronson lighter.

"Say, you're the first one I've seen smoking cigarettes here," O'Leary said.

"And that lighter—"

Nicodaeus fingered the lighter, looking at O'Leary. "Plenty of time for explanations later, my young friend. I just wanted to take a few minutes before the festivities begin to, er, have a little chat with you."

"I want to thank you for helping me out this evening." Lafayette buckled on his sword belt, paused to admire the cut of his new knee breeches in the mirror. "For a while there, it looked like old Goruble had his heart set on railroading me into the Iron Maiden. What's eating the old boy?"

"He had an idea that if you knew a little magic, you might be a big help in the upcoming war with Lod's rebels. He was a bit put out when you denied it. You must excuse him; he's rather naïve in some ways. I was glad to help you out; but frankly, I'm a little curious about you myself. Ah . . . if you don't mind telling me, why are you here?" In the mirror O'Leary watched the magician, still fiddling with the lighter.

"Just a sight-seeing trip."

"You've never visited Artesia before?"

"Nope. Not that I know of. There was one dream I remember, about a glass house and a telescope—but there's probably no connection." He turned suddenly. Close behind him, Nicodaeus started and dropped the lighter in his pocket.

"What's that you had in your hand?" O'Leary demanded. "What are you creeping up behind me for?"

"Oh, that . . ." Nicodaeus blinked, smiling weakly. "Why, it's, ah, a little camera; you see I have a hobby—candid shots—and I just—"

"Let me see it."

Nicodaeus hesitated, then dipped into the pocket of his weskit and fished it out. It was made in the shape of a lighter—even worked as one, O'Leary saw—but it was heavy. And there were tiny dials set in its back. He handed it back. "I guess I'm overly suspicious, after being threatened by a number of horrible fates in less than two hours."

"Think nothing of it, my dear O'Leary." Nicodaeus glanced at the other's hand. "Ah, I noticed your ring. Very interesting design. Mind if I have a closer look at it?"

O'Leary shook his head. "I can't take it off. What's so interesting about a ring?"

Nicodaeus looked grave. "The device of the ax and dragon happens to have a peculiar significance here in Artesia. It's the insignia of the old royal house. There's an old prophecy—you know how people pretend to believe in that sort of thing—to the effect that the kingdom will be saved in its darkest hour by a, ahem, hero, riding a dragon and wielding an ax. He was supposed to appear bearing a symbol of his identity. I suppose that annoying clown Yokabump spotted the ring—he has sharp eyes—and improvised the rest. Luckily for you, I might add. He could have set up a howl that it was an evil charm. Lod carried an ax, you see, and of course he owns a dragon."

Lafayette glanced sharply at Nicodaeus, then laughed. "You almost sound as though you believed in the monster yourself."

Nicodaeus chuckled comfortably. "A mere fable, of course. Still, I'd wear the ring reversed if I were you."

"I can't help wondering," O'Leary said, "why should you care what happens to me any more than the rest of them? They all seem to want to see me strung up by the ears."

"Just a natural desire to help a stranger in distress," Nicodaeus answered, smiling. "After all, having saved you from a session with the hot irons, I have a sort of proprietary interest in seeing you safely through."

"At one point you just about had Goruble convinced I was a spy."

"A red herring; I wanted to distract him from the sorcery aspect. Like all Artesians, he's prey to superstition."

"Then I was right; you're not native here."

"Actually, I'm not," the magician admitted. "I, ah, come from a country to the south, as a matter of fact. I—"

"They must be way ahead of Artesia, technologically speaking. That lighter, for example. I'll bet you're responsible for the electric lights in the palace." Nicodaeus nodded, smiling. "That's correct. I do what I can do to add to the amenities of palace life."

"Just what is your position here?"

"I'm an adviser to his Majesty." Nicodaeus smiled blandly. "He thinks I'm a master of magic, of course, but among these feather-heads a little common sense is sufficient to earn one a reputation as a wise man." He smiled comfortably. "Look here, my young friend—and I think I have established that I am a friend—isn't there something that you'd care to, ah, confide in me? I could perhaps be of some assistance, in whatever it is you have in mind."

"Thanks, but I don't have anything in mind that I need help with."

"I'm sure we could work out some arrangement, to our mutual benefit," Nicodaeus went on. "I, with my established position here; you Mr. O'Leary, with your, ah, whatever you have . . ." He paused on an interrogative note.

"Call me Lafayette. I appreciate what you did for me, but I really don't need any help. Look, the party must be about to begin. Let's beat it downstairs. I don't want to miss anything."

"You're determined to pursue your course alone, I see," Nicodaeus said sadly. "Ah, well, just as you wish, Lafayette. I don't mind saying I'm disappointed. Frankly, I've gotten just a little bit bored lately. I thought—but never mind." He eyed Lafayette, nibbling his lower lip. "You know, I wonder if it wouldn't be safer for you to just slip away tonight, before the fete. If you wait until later, his Majesty is likely to start having second thoughts and send you along to the rack after all. Now, I can arrange to have a fast horse waiting—"

"I don't want to leave now, before the party," O'Leary said. "Besides," he added grinning, "I promised to kill off a dragon, remember?" Lafayette winked at Nicodaeus. "I think it might be a little difficult to kill a superstition. But I have to at least go through the motions. Meanwhile, I hear this Princess Adoranne is quite a dish."

"Careful, lad. The princess is Goruble's most jealously guarded treasure. Don't make the mistake of thinking—"

"Thinking—that's the one thing I've determined not to do, as long as I'm here," O'Leary said with finality. "Let's go, Nicodaeus. This is the first royal function I've ever been to; I'm looking forward to it."

"Well, then." Nicodaeus clapped O'Leary on the back. "On to the ball!

Tonight, revelry, and tomorrow, the fight to the death!"

"Fight to the death?" O'Leary looked startled.

"You and the dragon," Nicodaeus reminded him.

"Oh, that." Lafayette smiled. Nicodaeus laughed.

"Yes, that," he said.

At the high-arched entry to the ballroom, O'Leary paused beside Nicodaeus and looked out over an expanse of mirror-polished white marble the size of a football field, crowded with the royal guests, splendid in laces and satins of every imaginable hue, gleaming in the light from the chandeliers that hung from the gold-ribbed vaults of the ceiling like vast bunches of sparkling grapes. Heads turned as the majordomo boomed out the name of Nicodaeus, then looked inquiringly at O'Leary.

"Better get on your toes, Humphries," the magician advised the beribboned official. "This is Lafayette O'Leary, the young champion who's here to rid the kingdom of Lod's monster."

"Oh, beg pardon, milord. An honor!" He bowed and pounded his staff on the floor.

"Sir Lafayette of Leary!" he trumpeted. "The King's champion!"

"I'm not a sir," Lafayette started.

"Never mind." Nicodaeus took his arm and led him along toward the nearest group. "We'll see about an earldom for you at the first opportunity. Now . .

." He nodded casually at the expectant faces that moved in to surround them. "Ladies, sirs, may I present my good friend, Sir Lafayette."

"Are you really going to fight that horrid monster?" a cuddly creature in pale blue flounces breathed, fluttering her fan. A tall, hollow-faced man with thin white hair raised a bony finger. "Ride in fast, smite the brute in the soft under-parts and get out. That's my advice, Sir Lafayette! I've always found that boldness pays."

"Will you cut off his head?" a plump blonde squeaked. "Ooooh, how terrible!

Will there be much blood?"

"I'd like to be riding with you, lad," a stout gentleman with an imposing nose and a walrus mustache wheezed. "Unfortunately, my gout . . ." Lafayette nodded, offered breezy comments, accepted a drink from a tray after giving a moment's thought to the contents and feeling the slight jar that signaled successful manipulation. No use drinking cheap booze. He tested the drink: Rémy-Martin. He tossed the first shot down and scooped up another glass. The cognac had a pleasant, warming effect. He took another from a passing tray.

A sudden murmur ran through the assemblage. Horns tootled a fanfare.

"The princess," murmured the crowd. Lafayette looked in the direction toward which necks were craning and saw a cluster of women entering through a wide archway.

"Which is Adoranne?" He nudged Nicodaeus.

"She'll appear next."

A girl strolled into view, leading a tiger cub on a leash. She was tall, slender, moving as gracefully as a swan in a gown of palest blue scattered over with tiny pearls. Her hair—the color of spring sunshine, Lafayette decided instantly—was straight, cut short in a charming style that complemented the coronet perched atop it. She had a short patrician nose—at least it was the kind of nose that suggested that word to O'Leary—large blue eyes, a perfectly modeled cheek and chin line. Her figure was that of a trained athlete: trim, slim, vibrant with health. Lafayette tried to take a deep breath, his lips puckering instinctively for a long low whistle of admiration, but managed only a gasp.

"What's the matter?" Nicodaeus whispered.

"Now I know what they mean by breathtaking," he muttered. "Come on." He started through the crowd.

"Where are you going?" Nicodaeus plucked at his sleeve.

"I want to meet the princess."

"But you can't approach royalty! You have to wait for her to summon you!"

"Oh, don't let's bother with all that protocol. I want to see if she looks as marvelous up close as she does from here."

He pushed through between two bony dowagers just rising from creaky curtseys and smiled at the girl as she turned inquiringly toward him.

"Hi," Lafayette said, looking her over admiringly. "They told me you were beautiful, but that was the understatement of the year. I didn't know I could imagine anything this nice."

A big young man with curly dark hair and cigarette-ad features stepped forward, flexing Herculean shoulders that threatened to burst his royal blue gold-braid-looped tunic. He inclined his head to the princess, then turned to give O'Leary a warning look.

"Withdraw, bumpkin," he said in a low voice.

O'Leary waved a hand. "Go play with your blocks." He started around the man, who took a quick step to bar his way.

"Are you deaf, oaf?" he rapped.

"No, I'm Lafayette O'Leary, and if you don't mind, I'd like to—" The young Hercules put a finger against O'Leary's chest. "Begone!" he hissed fiercely.

"Now, now, no rough stuff in front of the princess," O'Leary admonished, brushing the hand aside.

"Count Alain," a cool feminine voice said. Both men turned. Princess Adoranne smiled an intimate little smile at the count and turned to Lafayette.

"This must be the brave man who's come to rid us of the dragon." She tugged at the leash as the tiger cub came snuffling around O'Leary's ankles. "Welcome to Artesia."

"Thanks." Lafayette nudged the count aside. "I didn't exactly come here to kill dragons, but since I'm here, I don't mind helping out."

"Have you slain many dragons, Sir Lafayette?" She smiled at him coolly.

"Nope, never even saw one." He winked. "Did you?"

"Adoranne's lips were parted in an expression of mild surprise. "No," she admitted. "There is but one, of course—the beast of the rebel Lod."

"I'll bring you his left ear—if dragons have ears." The princess blushed prettily.

"Fellow, you're overbold," Alain snapped.

"If I'm going to go dragon hunting, that's a characteristic I've been advised to cultivate." Lafayette moved closer to the princess. "You know, Adoranne, I really should have demanded half the kingdom and your hand in marriage."

Count Alain's hand spun O'Leary around; his fist hovered under Lafayette's nose.

"I've warned you for the last time."

Lafayette disengaged his arm. "I sincerely hope so. By the way, isn't there a little matter you wanted to attend to?" Lafayette envisioned an urgent physiological need.

Count Alain looked uncomfortable. "Your pardon, Highness," he said in a strained voice. He turned hastily and hurried toward an inconspicuous door. O'Leary smiled blandly at the princess. "Nice fellow," he said. "Good friend of yours?"

"One of my dearest companions since were played together as children."

"Amazing," Lafayette said. "You remember your childhood?"

"Very well, Sir Lafayette. Do you not?"

"Well, sure, but let's not get started on that. Would you like to dance?" The princess' ladies, drawn up in a rank behind her, sniffed loudly and moved as if to close in. Adoranne looked at O'Leary thoughtfully.

"There's no music," she said.

Lafayette glanced toward the potted palms, envisioned a swinging five-man combo behind them. They were in tuxes, and the music was on the stands, and the instruments out. The leader was saying a word to the boys now, raising a hand . . . He felt the small thump.

"May I?" Lafayette held out a hand as the opening blast of the Royal Garden Blues rang across the ballroom. Adoranne smiled, handed the cub's leash to a lady standing by and took Lafayette's hand. He drew her close—a feather-light vision of sky-blue and pearls and a faint scent of night-blooming jasmine.

"Sir Lafayette!" she gasped. "You have a strange manner with a lady."

"I'll show you a quaint native dance we do at home." She followed without apparent difficulty as he tried out one of the Arthur Murray steps he had so often practiced solo in his room with the instruction book in his left hand.

"You follow beautifully," O'Leary said. "But then, I guess that's to be expected."

"Of course. I've been well instructed in the arts of the ballroom. But tell me, why did you agree to go out against Lod's dragon?"

"Oh, I don't know. To keep from finding out if your pop really meant what he said about hot irons, maybe."

"You jest, sir!"

"Sure."

"Tell me, did you swear some great oath to do a mighty deed?"

"Well . . ."

"And an oath of secrecy as well," she nodded, bright-eyed. "Tell me," she asked in an excited whisper, "who are you—really? The name—Sir Lafayette—does it disguise some noble title in your own land of Leary?"

"Now where did you get that idea?"

"You comport yourself not as one accustomed to bending the knee," she said, looking at him expectantly.

"Well, now that you mention it, where I come from, I don't have to kneel to anybody."

Adoranne gasped. "I knew it! How exciting! Tell me, Lafayette, where is your country? Not to the east, for there's naught but ocean there, and to the west lies only the desert stronghold of Lod."

"No fair to try to worm my secrets out of me," Lafayette said waggishly.

"It's more fun if I'm mysterious."

"Very well, but promise me that when you reveal yourself, it will be first to me."

"You can count on that, honey," Lafayette assured her.

"Honey?"

"You know, sweet stuff."

Adoranne giggled. "Lafayette, you have the cutest way of putting things!"

"That's one of the nice things about being here," he said. "Usually I'm pretty dumb when it comes to light conversation."

"Lafayette, you're trying to cozen me! I'll wager there's never a moment when you're at a loss for words."

"Oh, there have been some moments. When the musketeers came to arrest me, for example. I'd been having a few quick ones with somebody called the Red Bull—"

Adoranne gasped. "You mean the infamous cutpurse and smuggler?"

"He seemed to have some illegal ideas, all right. A reflection of the anarchist in me, I suppose."

"And they arrested you!" Adoranne giggled. "Lafayette, you might have been lodged in a dungeon!"

"Oh, well, I've been in worse places."

"What thrilling adventures you must have had! A prince, wandering incognito—"

The music stopped with a clatter as though the players had tossed their instruments into a pile. Everybody clapped, calling for more. Count Alain shouldered past O'Leary, ducking his head to the princess.

"Adoranne, dare I crave the honor of the next?"

"Sorry, Al, she's taken," Lafayette took the girl's hand, started past the count, who pivoted to face him.

"'Twas not your leave I spoke for, witling!" he hissed. "I warn you, begone before I lose my temper!"

"Look, Al, I'm getting a little tired of this," Lafayette said. "Every time I'm on the verge of having an interesting chat with Adoranne, you butt in."

"Aye! a greater dullard even than yourself should see when his company's not wanted. Now get ye gone!" People were staring now as the count's voice rose.

"Alain!" Adoranne looked at him with a shocked expression. "You mustn't speak that way to . . . to . . . a guest," she finished.

"A guest? A hired adventurer, by all accounts! How dare you lay a hand on the person of the Princess Royal!"

"Alain, why can't you two be friends?" Adoranne appealed. "After all, Sir Lafayette is sworn to perform a great service to the crown."

"His kind finds it easy to talk of great deeds," Alain snapped, "but when the hour comes for action—"

"I notice you didn't volunteer, Al," O'Leary pointed out. "You look like a big strong boy—"

"Strong enough to break your head. As for dragon slaying, neither I nor any other man can face a monster bigger than a mountain, armored and fanged—"

"How do you know he's armored and fanged? Have you seen him?"

"No, but 'tis common knowledge—"

"Uh-huh. Well, Alain, you run along now. After I've killed this dragon I'll let you come out with a tape measure and see just how big he is—unless you're too shy, that is."

"Shy, eh!" The count's well chiseled features scowled two inches from Lafayette's nose. "I'm not too shy to play a tattoo on your ill-favored hide, a-horse or afoot!"

"Count Alain!" Adoranne's cool voice was low but it carried a snap of authority. "Mend your manners, sir!"

"My manners!" Alain glared at O'Leary. "This fellow has the manners of a swineherd! And the martial skill as well, I'll wager!"

"Oh, I don't know, Al," O'Leary said casually. "I've done a bit of reading on karate, aikido, judo—"

"These are weapons I know not," Alain grated. "What do you know of the broadsword, the poniard, the mace? Or the quarterstaff, the lance—"

"Crude," Lafayette said. "Very crude. I find the art of fencing a much more gentlemanly sport. I read a dandy book on it just last month. The emphasis on the point rather than the edge, you know. The saber and epée—"

"I'm not unfamiliar with rapier form," Alain said grimly. "In fact, I'd welcome an opportunity to give you lessons."

Lafayette laughed indulgently. "You teach me? Al, old fellow, if you only knew how foolish that sounds. After all, what could you possibly know that I don't, eh?" He chuckled.

"Then, Sir Nobody, perhaps your worship would condescend to undertake my instruction!"

"Alain!" Adoranne started.

"It's all right, Adoranne," O'Leary said. "Might be fun at that. How about tomorrow afternoon?"

"Tomorrow? Ha! And overnight you'd scuttle for safety, I doubt not, and we'd see no more of you and your pretensions! 'Tis not so easy as that, knave. The inner courtyard is moon-bright! Let's repair to our lessons without further chatter!"

Nicodaeus was at Lafayette's side. "Ah, Count Alain," he said smoothly.

"May I suggest—"

"You may not!" Alain's eyes found O'Leary's. "I'll await you in the courtyard." He bobbed his head to the princess, turned on his heel and pushed his way through the gaping circle of onlookers who at once streamed away in his wake.

"All this excitement about a fencing lesson," O'Leary said. "These people are real sports fans."

"Sir Lafayette," Adoranne said breathlessly, "you need not heed the count's ill-natured outburst. I'll command that he beg your forgiveness."

"Oh, it's all right. The fresh air will do me good. I'm feeling those cognacs a little, I'm afraid."

"Lafayette, how cool you are in the face of danger. Here." She took a lacy handkerchief from somewhere and pressed it in Lafayette's hand. "Wear this and please, deal generously with him." Then she was gone.

"Adoranne—" O'Leary began. A hand took his arm.

"Lafayette," Nicodaeus said at his ear. "Do you know what you're doing?

Alain is the top swordsman in the Guards Regiment."

"I'm just giving him a few tips on saber technique. He—"

"Tips? The man's a master fencer! He'll have his point under your ribs before you can say Sam Katzman!"

"Nonsense. It's all just good clean fun."

"Fun? The man is furious!"

Lafayette looked thoughtful. "Do you really think he's mad?"

"Just this side of frothing at the mouth," Nicodaeus assured him. "He's been number one with Adoranne for some time now—until you came along and cut him out of the pattern."

"Jealous, eh? Poor fellow, if he only knew . . ."

"Only knew what?" Nicodaeus asked sharply.

"Nothing." He slapped Nicodaeus heartily on the back. "Now let's go out and see what he can do."

Chapter V

The courtyard was a grim rectangle of granite walled in by the looming rear elevations of the servant's residential wings of the palace, gleaming coldly in the light of a crescent moon. The chill in the air had sharpened; it was close to freezing now. Lafayette looked around at the crowd that had gathered to watch the fencing lesson. They formed a ring three or four deep around the circumference of the impromptu arena, bundled in cloaks, stamping their feet and conversing in low, excited mutters. The wagers being made, O'Leary noted, were two to one in favor of the opposition.

"I'll take your coat," Nicodaeus said briskly. O'Leary pulled it off, shivered as a blast of frigid wind flapped his shirt against his back. Twenty feet away, Count Alain, looking bigger than ever in shirt sleeves, chatted casually with two elegant-looking seconds, who glanced his way once, nodded coldly, and thereafter ignored him.

"Ah, I see the surgeon is on hand." Nicodaeus pointed out a portly man in a long gray cloak. "Not that there'll be much he can do. Count Alain always goes for the heart."

The count had accepted his blade from one of his aides now; he flexed it, tested its point with a finger and made a series of cuts at the air.

"I'd better warm up, too," O'Leary drew his rapier from its scabbard, finding it necessary to use both hands to get the point clear. "It's kind of long, isn't it?" he said. He waved the weapon, took up a stance.

"I hope your practice has been against skilled partners," Nicodaeus said.

"Oh, I just practice by myself." O'Leary tried a lunge, went a little too far, had to hop twice to get his balance.

"This thing's heavy," he commented, lowering the tip to the ground. "I'm used to a lighter weapon."

"Be grateful for its weight; Count Alain has a superb sword arm. He'll beat a light blade aside like a wooden lath."

"Hey," Lafayette said, nudging the magician. "Look over there, in the black cloak. That looks like—"

"It is," Nicodaeus said. "Don't stare. The cloak is accepted by all present as an effective disguise. It wouldn't do for a lady of her rank to witness an affair of this sort."

Lafayette fumbled out Adoranne's hanky, fluttered it at her and tucked it in his shirt pocket. Across the yard, Count Alain, watching the byplay, set his left fist on his hip, proceeded to whip his blade through a dazzling warmup pattern. O'Leary gaped at the whistling steel.

"Say, Nicodaeus," he murmured thoughtfully, "he's good!"

"I told you he was a winner, Lafayette. But if, as you said, you're better—"

"Look, ah, maybe I was hasty." He watched as the count described a lightning series of figure eights, finished with an elaborate redoublement and lowered his point with a calculating glance at O'Leary.

"Go ahead," Nicodaeus whispered. "Show him a little swordsmanship. It will give you a psychological advantage if you can slice yours a hair closer to the test pattern than he did."

"Ah, look here, Nicodaeus, I've been thinking; it wouldn't really be fair of me to show him up, in front of his friends."

"He'll have to take that chance. After all, he was the one who insisted on the meeting."

Alain's seconds were nodding now. They turned and started across toward O'Leary.

"Nicodaeus!" O'Leary grabbed his second's arm. "This isn't going just the way I'd figured. I mean, I assumed that since Alain—that is, I don't see how—"

"Later." Nicodaeus disengaged his arm, strode across, engaged in deep conversation with his two opposite numbers. Lafayette hefted the sword, executed a pair of awkward thrusts. The weapon felt as clumsy as a crowbar in his cold-numbed fingers. Now Alain stepped forward a few paces and stood waiting, his slim blade held in his bronzed fist as lightly as a bread stick.

"Come along, Lafayette." Nicodaeus was at his side. "Now, I'll hold a white handkerchief between your crossed blades . . ."

Lafayette hardly heard Nicodaeus, who was talking rapidly as he urged him forward. Perhaps if he fell down, pretended to hurt his knee . . . no, no good. Maybe if he sneezed—a sudden attack of asthma—

It wouldn't do. There was only one course left. Damn! And just when he'd started having a good time. But it couldn't be helped. And this time it had better work. O'Leary shut his eyes, conjured up the image of Mrs. MacGlint's Clean Rooms and Board, the crooked hall, the cramped bedroom, the peeling, stained wallpaper, the alcove, the sardines . . . He opened his eyes. Nicodaeus was staring at him.

"What's the matter? You're not sick?"

O'Leary snapped his eyes shut, muttering to himself: "You're asleep, dreaming all this. You're in bed, feeling that broken spring in the mattress—the one that catches you under the left shoulder blade. It's almost morning now, and if you just open your eyes slowly . . ." He opened one eye, saw Count Alain waiting ten feet away, the rank of expectant faces behind him, the stone wall looming above.

"It's not real," he hissed under his breath. "It's all a fake, an hallucination!

It isn't really here!" He stamped a boot against the stone paving. "This isn't real stone, ha ha, just imaginary stone. I'm not really cold; it's a nice night in August! There's no wind blowing . . ."

His voice trailed off. There was no use in kidding himself: The stone was solid as ever underfoot. The icy wind was still cutting at his face like a skinning knife and Alain waited, light glinting on the naked steel in his hand. Nicodaeus was looking at him concernedly.

" . . . instructions," he was saying. "Well, do the best you can, my boy." He took out the white handkerchief and flapped it.

"It's the distractions," O'Leary mumbled to himself. "I can't concentrate, with all these people watching."

"Gentlemen, on guard!" Nicodaeus said sharply. Count Alain raised his sword, held it at the engagé. Dumbly, Lafayette stepped forward, lifted his heavy blade, clanged it against the other. It was like hitting a wrought iron fence.

"Say, just a minute!" O'Leary lowered his blade and stepped back. Alain stared at him, his black eyes as cold as outer space. O'Leary turned to Nicodaeus. "Look here, if this is a real duel, and not just a friendly lesson—"

"Ha!" Alain interjected.

" . . . then as the challenged party, I have the choice of weapons, right?" Nicodaeus pulled at his lower lip. "I suppose so, but the meeting has already begun."

"It's never too late to correct an error in form," O'Leary said firmly. "Now, you take these swords—primitive weapons, really. We ought to use something more up to date. Pistols, maybe; or—"

"You demand pistols?" Nicodaeus looked surprised.

"Why not pistols?" At least—O'Leary was thinking of the princess's eyes on him—he wouldn't look as silly missing with a pistol as he would with Alain chasing him around the courtyard slashing at his heels.

"Pistols it is, then," Nicodaeus was saying. "I trust suitable weapons are available?"

"In my room," O'Leary said. "A nice pair of weapons."

"As Sir Lafayette desires," one of Alain's seconds was saying. "Subject to Count Alain's agreement, of course."

"I'm sure the count won't want to chicken out at this point," O'Leary said.

"Of course pistols are pretty lethal—" he broke off, suddenly aware of what he was saying. Pistols?

"On second thought, fellows—" he started.

"I've heard of them," Alain was nodding. "Like small muskets, held in the hand." He shot O'Leary a sharp look. "You spoke only of cold steel when you goaded me to this meeting, sirrah; now you raise the stakes."

"That's all right," O'Leary said hastily. "If you'd rather not—"

" . . . but I accept the gage," Alain declared flatly. "You're a more bloodthirsty rogue than I judged by the look of you, but I'll not cavil. Bring on these firearms!"

"Couldn't we just cut cards?" But Nicodaeus was already speaking to a mop-haired page, who darted away, looking eager.

Alain turned his back, walked off a few paces, spoke tightlipped to his seconds, who shot back looks at O'Leary. He shrugged apologetically, got scowls in return.

Nicodaeus was chewing his lip. "I like this not, Lafayette," he said. "With a lucky shot, he could blow your head off, even if you nailed him at the same time."

Lafayette nodded absently, his eyes half shut. He was remembering the pistols, picturing them as they lay snug in their jeweled holsters. He envisioned their internal workings, visualized the parts . . . His ability to manipulate the environment seemed to come in spells, but it was worth a try. Tricky business, at this range. He felt a reassuring flicker, faint but unmistakable—or was it? Perhaps it had just been a gust of wind. The boy was back, breathing hard, holding out the black leather belt with its elegant bright-work and its burden of long-barreled pistols.

"I'll take those." Nicodaeus lifted the guns from the page's hands, crossed to the waiting count and offered both pistol butts. Alain drew one from its holster, hefted it, passed it to his seconds, who turned it over, wagged their heads, muttered together and handed it back. O'Leary took his, noted distractedly that it was a clip-fed automatic with a filed front sight. It looked deadly enough.

"What distance is customary, Lafayette?" Nicodaeus enquired in a whisper.

"Oh, about three paces ought to be enough."

"What?" Nicodaeus stared at him. "At that range, no one could miss!"

"That's the idea," O'Leary pointed out. "Let's get on with it." He licked his lips nervously, hardly hearing as Nicodaeus instructed both combatants to stand back to back, their weapons held at their sides, and at the signal to take three paces, turn and fire.

Alain stepped into position and stood stiffly, waiting. Lafayette backed up to him.

"All right, go!" Nicodaeus said firmly. O'Leary gulped, took a step, another, a third and whirled, raising the gun.

Alain's weapon was already up, pointed straight at O'Leary's heart. He saw the count's finger tighten on the trigger at the same instant that he sighted on the white blob of the other's shirt front and squeezed. A jet of purple ink squirted in a long arc, scoring a dead center hit as a stream of red fluid from Alain's gun spattered on his own shoulder.

"I got you first!" O'Leary called cheerily, snapping another shot that arched across to catch Alain on the ear. It was a good, high-pressure jet, O'Leary noted approvingly. It followed the haughty count as he reeled back, played over his face and down the already empurpled shirt, and piddled out just as Alain, in retreat, collided with his own startled seconds and went down. The crowd, in silent shock until then, burst out with a roar of laughter, above which a distinct titter from the direction of Princess Adoranne was clearly audible.

"Well, I guess I win," O'Leary lowered the gun, smiling and taking the accolade of the crowd. Alain was scrambling to his feet, scrubbing at his face with both hands. He stared at his violet palms, then with a roar leaped at his second, wrested the sword from the startled man's grip and charged.

"Lafayette!" Nicodaeus roared. O'Leary looked around in time to see his rapier flying toward him, hilt first. He grabbed it and brought it up just in time to receive Alain's onslaught.

"Hey!" O'Leary back-pedaled, frantically warding off the count's wild attack. Steel clanged on steel as the bigger man's fury drove O'Leary back, back. His feet stumbled on the uneven pavement and the heavy blows numbed his arm, threatening to knock his weapon from his grip. There was no question of counterattack.

A mighty chop sent Lafayette's blade spinning. He had a momentary glimpse of Alain's face, purple with ink and fury, as he brought back his blade, poised for the thrust.

There was a flash and a resounding clong! as something white shot down from above to strike the count's head, bound aside and smash against the wall. Alain dropped his sword, folded slowly, knees first, and slammed out flat on his face.

A fragment of the missile clattered to O'Leary's feet. He let out his breath in a hoarse gasp, stooped and brought up the shard. It bore a familiar pattern of angels and rosebuds: the chamber pot from his room. He looked up quickly, caught a glimpse of a saucy face, ringed with dark curls, just withdrawing from a darkened window.

"Daphne," he muttered, "nice timing, girl."

* * *

Back in the ballroom there was a great deal of hearty laughter and congratulatory slapping of Lafayette's back.

"As pretty a piece of foolery as I've seen this twelve-month," chortled a grizzled old fellow in pale yellow knee pants and a monocle. "Young Alain's had it coming to him, what? Bit of a prig, but a trifle too stout a lad to bait!"

"You handled the situation nicely, my boy," Nicodaeus nodded sagely. "A fatality would have been in rather bad taste, and of course, you've made your point now, statuswise."

Adoranne came up, looking prettier than ever with her cheeks pink from the cold air. She put a hand on Lafayette's arm.

"I thank you, noble sir, for sparing the count's life. He's learned a lesson he'll not soon forget."

A sudden loud shriek rang out across the crowded ballroom floor, followed by the piercing accents of an angry female voice. At this new diversion, Lafayette's circle of admirers broke up and moved off craning their necks to make out the source of the outbursts.

"Whew!" O'Leary looked around for a waiter and lifted the ninth—or was it the tenth?—brandy of the evening from a passing tray. "Adoranne," he started, "now's our chance to get away from the mob for a minute. I noticed there's a nice garden outside."

"Oh, Lafayette, let's discover what it is that's set the duchess to clamoring like a fishwife spoiled of a copper!" She tugged at his hand playfully. He followed as Nicodaeus moved ahead, calling for way for her Highness.

"It's a chambermaid," someone was passing the word. "The saucy minx was mingling with her betters, wearing a stolen gown, mind you!" O'Leary had a sudden sinking feeling. He'd forgotten all about his invitation to Daphne. The petite chambermaid, transformed in rose-colored silk set off by white gloves, silver slippers and a string of luminous white pearls, defiantly faced a bony matron buckled into stiff yellowish-white brocade like a suit of armor. The latter shook a finger heavenward, her neck tendons vibrating like cello strings, the coronet atop her mummified coiffure bouncing with the vigor of the verbal assault.

" . . . my girl, and I'll see to it that after the flogging, you're sent away to a workhouse where—"

"Ah, pardon me, Duchess," O'Leary stepped forward, winked encouragingly at Daphne and faced the incensed noblewoman. "I think there's been a slight misunderstanding here. This young lady—"

"Lady! I'll have you know this is a common servant girl! The audacity of the baggage appearing here—and in my gown! My seamstress completed it only today."

"You must be mistaken," O'Leary said firmly. "The dress was a gift from me and I invited her here."

Behind him there was a sharp gasp. He turned. Adoranne looked at him, wide-eyed, then managed a forced smile.

"Another of our good Sir Lafayette's jests," she said. "Be calm, Veronica dear; the girl will be dealt with."

"No, you don't understand," O'Leary protested. "There's been a mistake. I gave her the dress this evening."

"Please, noble sir," Daphne broke in. "I . . . I'm grateful for your chivalrous attempt to aid a poor servant girl, but it's no use. I . . . I stole the dress, just as her ladyship said."

"She did not!" Lafayette waved his arms. "Are you all out of your mind? I tell you—"

The duchess pointed a skeletal finger at a decorative motif on the bodice of the gown. "Is that, or is that not, the crest of the House of High Jersey?" Her voice was shrill with triumph.

"She's quite right of course," Nicodaeus muttered at O'Leary's side. "What's all this about giving her the dress?"

"I . . . I . . ." O'Leary stared from the duchess to Daphne, who stood now with downcast eyes. A suspicion was beginning to dawn: somehow, his ability to summon up artifacts at will wasn't quite as simple as he'd thought. When he had called for a bathroom, he'd gotten a tub—complete with occupant—transferred, the girl had said, from her garret room. And when he had ordained a dress in the closet, he hadn't created it from nothing; he had merely shifted the nearest available substitute to hand—in this case, from the wardrobe of the duchess.

"I'll pay for the dress," he blurted. "It's not her fault. She didn't know it was stolen—that is, I didn't steal it—not really. You see, I invited her to the party, and she said . . ."

He trailed off. Interested smiles were fading. Adoranne tossed her head, turned and moved grandly away. The duchess was glaring at him like a mother tyrannosaurus surprising an early mammal sucking eggs.

"Adoranne, wait a minute! I can explain—" He caught Daphne's tear-brimmed eye.

"Come along, Lafayette," Nicodaeus tugged at his sleeve. "The joke didn't go over; these people are pretty stuffy about protocol."

"Daphne," O'Leary started. "I'm sorry—" The girl raised her head, looked past him. "I do not know you, sir," she said coldly, and turned away.