SUBINSPECTOR OF CONTINUA

He frowned at the older man and lowered the ax reluctantly. "What does that mean?"

"One of the jobs of Central is seeking out and neutralizing unauthorized stresses in the Probability Fabric. They can cause untold damage to the orderly progress of entropic evolution."

O'Leary hefted the ax. "That's over my head. Tell me in simple language what this is all about."

"I'll try, Lafayette—not that I'm at all sure I know myself. It seems that this coordinate level, this, ah, um, universe? Dimension? Aspect of multi-ordinate reality?"

"You mean world?" O'Leary waved a hand to encompass all of Artesia.

"Precisely! Very well put. This world was the scene, some decades ago, of a Probability Fault, resulting in a permanent stress in continuum. Naturally, this required clearing up, since all sorts of untoward events can occur along the stress line, particularly where matter displacement has occurred."

"OK, let's skip over that. I'd say you were nutty as a pecan roll except for a few things that have happened to me lately. Too bad we don't have more time to discuss it. But what's that got to do with Adoranne?"

"I was merely attempting to establish my bona fides, dear boy. Some sort of skullduggery took place here twenty or thirty years ago; the situation still remains unresolved. It's my job to find the center of the stress pattern, restore all anachronisms and extra-continual phenomena to their normal space-time-serial niches, and thus eliminate the anomaly. But I confess I've made no progress. The center is here, nearby. At one time, I even suspected you, Lafayette—after all, you appeared under rather mysterious circumstances—but, of course, you checked out as clean as a scrublady's knees." He smiled glassily.

"What do you mean, checked out?"

"I took readings on you when I visited you in your room, before the ball. The lighter, you know. You gave a neutral indication, of course. You see, only an outsider—a person native to another continuum—would elicit a positive indication. Since you're a native, you gave no such reading."

"Mmmmmm. You'd better have your dials checked. But look—this isn't finding Adoranne. I was sure you had her. If not . . ." O'Leary looked at Nicodaeus, feeling suddenly helpless. "Who does?" Nicodaeus stroked his chin. "The plotter in the palace you say Lod spoke of?"

"I wasn't paying much attention; I thought he meant you. He was pretty drunk, but still cagey enough not to mention the name."

"Who would gain by the disappearance of her Highness? Someone with ambitions of usurpation, someone close to the throne, someone unsuspected," Nicodaeus mused. "Could it be one of Goruble's painted dandies?"

"Lod is the one who had his eye on the throne—and a yen for Adoranne, too. Maybe Alain—but somehow he strikes me as honest, in his blundering way. Then there's you—but for some reason I believe your story. But I'd still like to know who spread the word that I'd been here. They were staked out at the city gates, waiting for me. Are you sure you didn't spill the beans?"

"I assure you, I was discretion itself. Even King Goruble . . ." Nicodaeus paused, looking thoughtful.

"What about Goruble?" O'Leary said sharply.

"I had a few words with his Majesty, just after you were here. He questioned me closely. I wondered at the time what he was hinting at; he appeared to suspect I'd been shielding you."

"Did you tell him I'd been here?"

"No . . . and yet, now that you mention it, he seemed to know . . ." Nicodaeus' eyes were round. "Great heavens, Lafayette! Do you suppose?

But how could it be? I've been looking for someone, an outsider—but the king—"

"Lod said someone who wanted to take over the throne; Goruble already has it."

Nicodaeus frowned. "In these cases there's usually some individual—often a renegade agent of Central, I confess—who sees his chance to establish himself comfortably in a subtechnical environment and make himself dictator. To which Central would have no particular objection, if it weren't for the resultant chain of anomalies. But it never occurred to me—"

" . . . that he'd already taken over," O'Leary finished for him. "I don't know much about the history of Artesia, but from a few hints dropped here and there, I've gotten the impression King Goruble is far from beloved, and that he came to power some twenty-odd years ago under rather vague circumstances."

"I've been blind!" Nicodaeus exclaimed. "I've never tested him, of course. Who would have suspected the king? But it fits, Lafayette! It fits! He had the opportunity. He could walk into the princess's apartment without an alarm, lure her away, then presto—pop her into a locked room, and raise the outcry!"

"But what for? She's his niece."

"Not if our theory is correct, lad! He's an outsider, an interloper, a usurper, with no more claim to the throne than you! And Adoranne, as the niece of the previous king, represents a very real threat to his security—particularly since he is himself unpopular, while the masses adore the princess!"

"Then he was the one who was doing business with Lod—the plotter in the palace!" O'Leary nibbled at his lip. "But hold it, Nicodaeus. There's one big flaw in the picture: Lod—from what I could guess—was brought in from . . . somewhere else. One of these other continua of yours, I'd say. The same goes for that dinosaur he kept in his front yard. And his HQ itself—it looked like something that had been plucked up by the roots and dumped in the desert for Lod's use. The plotter we're looking for was using Lod as a diversion, to keep the people's minds off his own power grab, and the fancy quarters and the personal dragon were part of the bargain. But the only one around here with outside resources—is you!"

"Me? But Lafayette! I'm an inspector! I can't go moving buildings and tyrannosauri about at will! My workshop here suffices for a few modest surveillance instruments, nothing more! You're forgetting that our culprit was himself an outsider. If he transported himself here, why couldn't he have manipulated the rest?"

"You're still holding out on me, Nicodaeus. What about your real workshop?

I saw some pretty big machines down there; they aren't just for checking suspects' vibrations."

"Real workshop? I'm afraid I don't know what you mean, Lafayette."

"In the cellar—the big room with the iron door, and the smaller room that looks like a walk-in refrigerator."

"Like . . . like . . .?" Nicodaeus' eyes bugged. "Lafayette—did you say—walk-in refrigerator?"

"Yes, and—"

"With a large door—with a big latch mechanism, like this?" He sketched in the air.

"Right. What's it for?"

Nicodaeus groaned. "I fear, Lafayette, we'll not see Adoranne again. The device you describe is a Traveler—used to transport small cargoes from one coordinate level to another. I was dropped here in one, and expect, in due course, to be picked up by another. If Goruble had one here—a stolen vehicle belonging to Central, no doubt—then I fear Adoranne is already beyond our reach."

"You really think Goruble's our man?"

"None other. Alas, Lafayette, she was such a charming girl."

"Maybe it's not too late," O'Leary snapped. "Come on, we'll pay a call on His Majesty—and this time I won't be bluffing!"

The red-faced sergeant of the guard spotted them as they stepped off the main stairway at the third floor. He gave a yell and dashed up, gun in hand.

"Hold, my man!" Nicodaeus called. "I'm taking Sir Lafayette to interview his Majesty on a matter concerning the security of the realm! Kindly call your men in as an honor guard!"

"Honor guard?" The noncom raised his musket threateningly, "I'll honor-guard the louse, kidnapping our princess."

"I didn't," O'Leary cut in, "but I think I know who did. If you want to shoot me before I can tell, go ahead."

The sergeant hesitated. "Better lay down that ax, buster. Drop it right there."

"I'm keeping it," O'Leary said shortly. "Come with us or stay here, I don't care which, but don't get in my way." He turned, strode off toward the royal quarters. Behind him, after a moment of hesitation, there was a curse and a snapped order to fall in. A moment later the ten-man detail closed in around Lafayette and Nicodaeus, guns ready, eyes rolling ominously at the pair.

"Better not try nothing," the nearest man muttered. "I got a yen to clear my barrel."

O'Leary halted at the door to the king's chambers, ignoring the two gaping sentries. He tried the elaborate gold knob, pushed the door wide.

"Hey, you can't—" someone gasped.

"All right, Goruble, come on out!" O'Leary called. He looked around at cloth-of-gold hangings, high windows, rich rugs, spindle-legged furniture with the gleam of rare wood. The room was empty. He walked across to an inner door, threw it wide; it was an ornate bath, with a sunken tub and gold fittings.

The next door let into a vast bedroom with a canopied bed looking like a galleon under full sail. O'Leary checked two more rooms, Nicodaeus at his side, the troop of soldiers following, silent, awed by this rude invasion of the royal privacy.

"He's not here," Nicodaeus said as O'Leary prodded the hanging clothes in the closet of the last room.

"But—he's got to be here," a guardsman said. "He couldn'a left without we knew about it; after all, we're the royal bodyguard."

"I think I might know where he went," O'Leary said. "I'll go check."

"You ain't going no place, bud." The sergeant stepped forward to assert his damaged authority. "I'm taking you down to the dungeons, and when his Majesty shows up—"

"Sorry, no time." O'Leary brought the butt of the ax up in a swipe from the floor, caught the sergeant under the third button; he oofed and doubled over. O'Leary tossed the ax, handle-first, at the man behind him, straight-armed the next, ran for the door, whirled and slammed it behind him. There were shouts and loud thuds as he turned the key in the lock. In three jumps he was across the room, pulling aside the drapes that framed a portrait of the king as a frowning youth. He slapped panels; a section of wall tilted outward. He slipped through, clicked it shut behind him, turned—and froze at a scraping sound from the darkness.

"Nice footwork, O'Leary," the cavernous voice of Yokabump said. "I kind of figured you'd be taking to the woodwork soon. Where you headed?"

"I'm glad you're here," O'Leary said tensely. "You remember the rooms in the cellar? The ones with all the big machines?"

"Oh, you mean old Goruble's thinking rooms. Sure. What about 'em?"

"I need to get down there—fast!"

"Maybe you better stay clear o' that section for a while. The old boy himself walked right past me in the dark, not an hour ago, headed in the same direction—and I'd say he was in a lousy mood."

"An hour ago? Then maybe there's a chance! Come on, Yokabump! Lead the way as fast as you can, and hope it's fast enough!"

The polished slab door was closed tight as O'Leary came softly up to it, his tread muffled by the carpet of dust in the narrow passage.

"He's still in there," Yokabump whispered. There was a sound like a dynamo growling to a halt. "His footprints go in, and don't come out."

"You must have eyes like a cat," O'Leary said. "It's all I can do to see where I'm going." He put his ear to the door. Silence. O'Leary narrowed his eyes. There was a keyhole, just there, near the edge, he told himself; a small inconspicuous aperture. And the key—it would be hanging from a nail on the beam . . .

There was the faintest of bumps in the smooth flow of the timestream. O'Leary smiled grimly, groped over the rough-hewn member, found the tiny key.

"Hey, O'Leary!" Yokabump rumbled. "How'd you know that was there?"

"Shhhh." O'Leary quietly fitted the key into the door; there was a tiny click. He leaned against the door; it swung silently inward, revealing the dim-lit interior of the room, the massed dials and indicator lights, the tall shapes of the massive equipment housings, the festooned conduits and, in the center of the room, King Goruble, seated in a chair, holding a compactly built machine gun across his knees.

"Come right in, Sir Lafayette," Goruble said grimly. "I've been awaiting you."

Chapter XII

O'Leary gauged the distance to the rotund monarch. If he jumped to one side, then hit him low—

"I wouldn't recommend it," Goruble said. "I'm quite adept at the use of firearms. Come away from the door. I don't want you to be tempted. Just take a chair there." The king nodded to a seat beside the panel. O'Leary moved across, sat down gingerly, his legs under him, ready to move fast when the moment came.

"You look a trifle uncomfortable," Goruble said. His voice was hard. "Just lean back, if you please, and stretch your legs out. That way I think you'll be less likely to attempt anything foolish."

O'Leary followed orders. This was a new Goruble; the theories that had seemed farfetched minutes before were taking on a new plausibility. The small eyes that stared at him now were those of a man capable of anything.

"Where's Adoranne?" O'Leary demanded abruptly.

"Speak when spoken to," Goruble said harshly. "There are a few facts I want from you—before I make disposition of you."

"With that?" O'Leary glanced at the gun.

"Nothing so gory—unless you force me to, of course, in which case I can put up with the inconvenience. No, I'll merely remove you to a place where you can cause me no trouble."

"And what place would that be?"

"Don't bother your head about that," Goruble retorted coldly. "Now, tell me how much you know. If I find you holding back, I'll consign you to a certain small island I know of—capable of sustaining life, but not offering much in the way of amusements. But for each fact you confide in me, I'll add another amenity to your exile."

"I think I know the place you mean, but I didn't like it there, so I left—if you'll recall." O'Leary watched the stout ruler for a reaction to the shot in the dark. Goruble's mouth twitched in a frown.

"This time you'll have no confederate to snatch you back. Now, kindly start your recital. How much is known at Central?"

O'Leary considered and rejected a number of snappy answers. "Enough," he said after the momentary pause.

"You, I take it, are fully in the confidence of Nicodaeus. How did he discover your identity?"

"I told him," O'Leary hazarded.

"Ah." Goruble looked crafty. "And how did you discover your identity?"

"Someone told me," O'Leary replied promptly.

Goruble's brow furrowed. "I suggest you speak plainly!" he rapped. "Tell me all you know!"

O'Leary said nothing.

"You'd best discover your tongue at once," Goruble snapped. "Remember, I have it in my power to make it highly uncomfortable for you—or, on the other hand, to leave you in a situation of comparative ease." O'Leary was studying the half-open door of a cabinet on the wall behind the king. If there should be a small glass container lying just inside—and if it should be on its side, ready to roll out—and if there should be just the slightest jar, such as a sneeze . . .

"Surely you're not childish enough to imagine that you can distract me by eyeing some imaginary intruder behind me," Goruble smiled sourly. "I'm . .

." his nose twitched. "I'm far too . . . tooo . . ." He drew a sharp breath, blasted out a titanic sneeze, then grabbed for the gun, brought it back on target.

"It requires bore thad a bere sdeeze to distragd be." He fumbled for a handkerchief in his breast pocket. "I'm quite accustomed to the dust in these unused ways."

There was a soft creak as the cabinet door stirred in the faint gust of air raised by Goruble's explosion. Light glinted for an instant on something on the dark shelf; an eight-ounce beaker rolled into view, dropped—

At the impact of glass against concrete, Goruble leaped from the chair. The gun went off with a shattering roar, stitched a row of craters across the floor, blasted tufts of cotton from the chair seat as O'Leary dived from it, slamming Goruble aside with a shoulder. He snatched the gun as it flew from the king's hands and whirled, centered the sights on the monarch's paunch.

"Nice weapon," he said. "I'll bet a few of these made a lot of difference, back when you were stealing the throne."

Goruble made an unpleasant, snarling noise.

"Sit down over there," O'Leary ordered. "Now, let's cut the chatter. Where's Adoranne?" He was fingering the unfamiliar stock of the weapon, wondering which projecting button was the trigger. If Goruble had another gun stashed, and went for it now . . .

"Look here, you utter fool," Goruble snapped. "You don't know what you're doing."

"You wanted facts," Lafayette said. "Here are a few: You're sitting on somebody else's throne. You've kidnapped her Highness—who isn't your niece, by the way—because she's a potential threat to you. You brought Lod in from Outside, and his pet lizard, too. Unfortunately, I had to kill both of them."

"You—" Goruble dropped flat as O'Leary's questing finger touched a concave button on the breech of the gun and sent a round screeching past the king's ear to blast a pocket in the stone wall.

"Just a warning shot," O'Leary said hastily. "Now, open up, Goruble. Where is she?"

The king crouched on all fours, looking badly shaken; his jowls had lost their usual high color.

"Now, now, don't get excited," he babbled, coming shakily to his feet. "I'll tell you what you want to know. As a matter of fact, I'd intended all along to propose an arrangement with you." He slapped at the dust on his velvet doublet. "You didn't think I intended to hog it all, did you, my dear fellow?

I merely wished to, ah, consolidate the improvements I've made, before summoning you—that is, inviting you—or—"

"Get to the point. Where is she?"

"Safe!" Goruble said hastily.

"If she's not, I'll blow your head off!"

"I assure you she's well! After all, you suffered no harm, eh? I'm not bloodthirsty, you know. The, ah, earlier incident was just an unfortunate accident."

O'Leary raised his eyebrows. "Tell me about the accident." Goruble spread his hands. "It was the purest misfortune. I had come to his chambers late one evening, with a proposal, a perfectly reasonable proposal—"

"By 'he,' I suppose you mean your predecessor?"

"My, ah, yes, my predecessor. Hot-tempered man, you know. He had no reason to fly into a pet. After all, with my, ah, special resources, the contribution I would make would be well worth the consideration I sought. But he chose instead to pretend that I had insulted him—as though an offer of honorable marriage to his sister could be anything but an honor to the primitive—that is, underdeveloped—or—"

"Get on with it."

"I was a bit put out, of course; I spoke up frankly. He attempted to strike me. There was a struggle; in those days, I was a rather powerful man. He fell . . ."

"Hit his head, I suppose?"

"No, there was a sword—his own, of course—and somehow, in the excitement, he became, er, impaled. Through the heart. Dead, you know. Nothing I could do."

Goruble was sweating. He sank down in the bullet-pocked chair, dabbing at his temples with a lace hanky. "I was in an awkward spot. I could hardly be expected to summon the guard and tell them what had happened. The only course open to me was . . . to dispose of the body. I brought it down through the inner passage, and, ah, sent it away. Then what? I racked my brain, but I could evolve only one scheme: to assume supreme authority—temporarily, of course—until such time as more, ah, regular arrangements could be made. I made certain preparations, called in the members of the council, explained the situation and enlisted their support. There were one or two soreheads, of course, but they came around when the realities of their position were explained to them."

"I get the general idea." O'Leary moved up and pressed the muzzle of the machine gun against Goruble's chin. "Take me to Adoranne—right now. I'll get the rest of your confession later."

Goruble's eyes crossed as he stared down at the cold steel jabbing his throat. "Certainly. The dear child is perfectly well."

"Don't talk; just show me."

Goruble rose carefully and led the way into the passage. O'Leary glanced both ways, but saw no sign of Yokabump. The clown must have fled at the first inkling of the strange doings here in the palace catacombs. Goruble was picking his way in near-darkness, moving along toward the chamber O'Leary had likened to a walk-in refrigerator. The king fumbled out keys under O'Leary's watchful eye, manipulated locks; the heavy panel swung silently open. Goruble stepped back as bright light gleamed through the widening opening. He indicated the interior of the eight-by-ten cubby-hole. O'Leary moved clear of the opening door, took in the dial-covered walls, the console installation like an all-electric kitchen—and at one side, Adoranne, bound hand and foot and gagged with a silken scarf and tied to a gold-brocaded easy chair. She tugged frantically at her bonds a she saw O'Leary, her blue eyes wide. She was wearing a pale blue nightgown, he saw, an imaginative garment as substantial as a spiderweb. O'Leary smiled encouragingly at the girl and motioned with the gun at Goruble.

"After you, your borrowed Majesty," he said. Goruble quickly stepped through the door, went to Adoranne's chair, skipped behind it and faced O'Leary.

"There are a few other matters I must mention to you," he said, looking unaccountably smug. "First—"

"Never mind that. Untie her."

Goruble held up a plump hand. "Patience, if you please. I hardly think you'd dare fire the shatter-gun in such intimate juxtaposition to the object of your anxieties . . . He put a palm familiarly on the bare, rounded shoulder of the princess. "And if you should feel impelled to some more animalistic assault, let me point out that the controls are within my easy reach." He nodded to a variety of levers set in the wall to his left. "True, you might manage to halt me—but the danger of ricochets . . ." he smirked. "I'd suggest you exercise caution."

O'Leary looked from Adoranne to the monarch, noting the close-set walls, the nearness to hand of the levers . . .

"All right," he said between his teeth, "spit it out."

"The Traveler here—as perhaps you're aware—is a standard utility model. It can place its cargo at predetermined triordinates and return to base setting, requiring a controller at the console, of course. But what you don't know is that I have made certain special arrangements, to fit my, ah, specialized needs here."

The king nodded to a point between himself and O'Leary just outside the half-open door. "If you'd take a step forward so that I can point out the modifications—ah, that's close enough," he said sharply as O'Leary reached the threshold. "I found it convenient to so arrange matters that I could dispatch useful loads to random locations without the necessity for my accompanying them."

He pointed to a number of heavy braided copper cables dangling across the panel. "My modifications were crude, perhaps, but effective. I was able to bring the entire area of the corridor there, to a distance of some fifteen feet, well within effective range." He smiled contentedly, reached for a lever. O'Leary jerked the gun up, had a quick mental image of the explosive pellets smacking into Adoranne's soft flesh; he tossed the gun aside, leaped—

—and landed on his face. He was lying in a drift of powdery snow packed against a rocky wall that rose from a gale-swept ledge of glittering ice. He gasped as a blast of arctic wind ripped at him; through a blur of tears he saw a small purple sun low in the black sky, a ragged line of ice peaks. His lungs caught at the thin air—like breathing razor blades.

He tried to scramble to his feet; the wind knocked him down. He stayed low then, rolled, reached the inadequate shelter of a drifted cranny. He wouldn't last long here. There had to be some place to get in out of the cold . . . He picked a spot ten feet distant, where the rock wall angled sharply. Just out of sight around that outcropping, he thought desperately, there's a door set in the stone. All I have to do is reach it. He pictured it, built the image, then . . . There!

Had he felt the familiar faint thump in the orderly flow of entropy? It was hard to tell, with this typhoon blasting at him. But it had to be! It must be a hundred below zero here. The stone at his back and the ice under his hands had burned like hot coals at first. Now everything was getting remote, as though he were encased in thick plastic.

He forced himself to move, crawled forward, almost went down on his face as the full force of the wind struck him. His hands were like wooden mallets now. He made another yard, skidded back as a particularly vicious gust slammed against him, tried again—and saw the soft glow of yellow light across the snow ahead, a cheery reflection in the ice. He rounded the shoulder of rock; there it was, a glass door in an aluminum frame, a tall rectangle of warmth against the cold and dark.

No point in dwelling on the incongruity of it—just reach it. The latch was a foot from his hand. He lunged, caught it, felt the door yield and swing in. He fell half-through the door into a sea of warmth.

He rested a moment, then pulled himself farther inside. The door whooshed shut behind him. Soft music was playing. He lay with his cheek against a rug, breathing in short, painful gasps. Then he sat up, looked around at oil-rubbed, wood-paneled walls, a built-in bar with gleaming glasses and a silver tray, a framed painting showing colors aswirl on a silvery field. He got to his feet, lurched across to the bar, found a bottle, poured a stiff drink, took it at a gulp.

OK, no time to waste; no time to wonder what sort of place this was he'd found, or where it was in the universe. It certainly wasn't anywhere on the familiar old planet Earth.

He had to get back. Goruble had obviously been all ready to travel, just waiting to finish off his enemy before he left. O'Leary closed his eyes. Ignoring the throb of returning sensation in his hands and feet and ears, he pictured the dark, musty passage under Goruble's palace. Adoranne was there; she needed him . . .

There was a thump as though the world had grounded on a sand bar. O'Leary's eyes flew open. He was standing in pitch darkness, in an odor of dust and mildewed wood. Had he made a mistake?

"Over this way, Sir Lafayette," a rumbling voice whispered. "Boy, you sure get around."

"Yokabump!" O'Leary groped toward the voice, felt a massive shoulder under his hand at belt height. "Where is he? I've got to get there before—"

"Wow! Your mitts are like a couple of ice bags!" Yokabump tugged O'Leary forward. "Just around the corner here, there's a door. I was staying out of sight and I couldn't see what was happening, but I heard you yell. Then old Goruble was snickering and talking to himself, and I sneaked a peek. I pretty near jumped him myself when I seen her Highness, tied to a chair. But then I figured—"

"Then they're still here?"

"Sure. His Majesty's working away like a one-man band, switching wires around. I'm glad you didn't stay away long."

"How did you know where I was?"

"I heard the air sort of whoosh. I noticed that before, when you did the fade from the dungeon—"

"Oh, you were hanging around then, were you?"

"Sure, I like to keep in touch."

"Shhh." O'Leary pushed through the rough wooden door into the passage he had vacated so precipitously five minutes earlier. He was fifteen feet from the open door to the Traveler—roughly the distance he had crawled on the ice ledge. Goruble was peering anxiously at dial faces; in the chair, Adoranne tugged futilely at the bell cord binding her arms. O'Leary eased out into the passage, started softly forward. He would reach the door, then in one jump, grab Goruble and hustle him away from the controls. O'Leary's head cracked a low beam in the dark. Goruble looked up sharply at the sound, stood gaping for an instant as O'Leary, half-stunned, staggered toward him; then the usurper whirled and reached as O'Leary jumped—

—Light glared abruptly; something caught at O'Leary's foot, pitching him headlong into a mass of thorny shrubbery. Steamy air redolent of crushed foliage, rotted vegetation, humid soil and growing things closed around him like a Turkish bath. He floundered, fought his way clear of clinging tendrils of rubbery green, ducked as an inch-long insect buzzed his face. Sharp-edged red and green leaves scraped at him. Small flying midges swarmed about him, humming. There was a rasp of scales on bark; a wrist-thick snake of a vivid green hue slid into view on a leafy bough just ahead, raised a wedge-shaped head to stare. Somewhere above, birds were screeching back and forth from the tops of the towering trees. O'Leary struggled upright, groped for footing in the tangle of fallen greenery. This time he'd fool Goruble: about ten feet in that direction, he estimated. The snake was still there, looking him over. He ducked aside from it, crawled over a fallen tree limb and fanned at the warming insects. About here, he decided . . .

A movement caught by the corner of his eye made him whirl. A great striped feline with a bushy yellowish mane was poised in the crotch of a yard-thick tree six feet above O'Leary's head, the green eyes fixed on him like stabbing spears. The jaws parted in a roar that fluttered leaves all around. The cat drew in its hind legs, gathering itself for a leap, roared again and sprang.

O'Leary squeezed his eyes shut, muttered a quick specification, threw himself to one side as the heavy body hurtled past. He slammed into an unyielding wall as a tremendous impact sounded behind him, followed by an ear-splitting yell, a ripping of cloth.

He staggered upright. He was back inside the Traveler, just behind Adoranne's chair. The big cat recovered from its first thwarted spring, whirled toward the fleeing figure of Goruble, whose velvet doublet had been split from top to bottom in the first near-miss, revealing a monogrammed silk undershirt.

O'Leary caught an instant's glimpse of Yokabump's bignosed face in the dark passage beyond the king. Then Goruble was going down face-first as the attacking predator sailed over him, skidded to a halt, rounded to renew the assault. O'Leary grabbed for the lever Goruble had used and pulled it down as the half-lion, half-tiger bounded across Goruble, sprang for the threshold—and disappeared with a sharp whack! of displaced air. O'Leary sagged and let out a long sigh. Yokabump waddled to the door and bent to rub his shin.

"The old boy moves pretty good," he said. "I nearly missed. He's down for the count, though."

O'Leary went to Adoranne, "I'll have you loose in a minute." He started in on the knots. Yokabump produced a large clasp knife and sawed at the heavy cord on her wrists. A moment later she rose out of the chair and threw herself into O'Leary's arms.

"Oh, Sir Lafayette . . ." He felt hot tears on the side of his neck and discovered that he was beaming broadly. He patted her silken hip in a comforting way.

"Now, now, your Highness," he soothed, "it's all over but the singing and dancing."

"Oh-oh, he's coming around." Yokabump indicated the fallen monarch, stirring and groaning on the floor.

"Better tie him up," O'Leary suggested. "He's too tricky to let wander around loose."

"By your leave, Sir Lafayette." The dwarf stepped to Goruble's side and squatted down on bowed legs.

"Ah, there, your Majesty," he said in a lugubrious tone. "Have you got any last words to say before . . . before . . ."

"What . . ." the king gasped. "Where—"

"Just lie quiet, your Majesty; it's easier that way, they say."

"Easier? Ow, my head . . ." Goruble tried to sit up. Yokabump pressed him back. "It was the best, your Majesty; he got you. Tore your insides out. Don't look. It's too horrible."

"My insides? But—but I don't feel a thing, just my head."

"A merciful provision of nature. But about those last words—better hurry."

"Then—it's all over for me?" Goruble slumped back. "Ah, the pity of it, Yokabump. And all because it was too tender hearted. If I'd done away with the infant—"

"Tender hearted?" O'Leary cut in. "You killed the king, stole his throne, lived it up for twenty-odd years, then brought in a goon to terrorize your own would-be subjects, gave him a dinosaur to assist in the job, and finally tried to do away with her Highness. That's tender hearted?"

"One thing leads to another," Goruble gasped, "as you'll find for yourself. I needed a distraction; the people were grumbling about taxes and even after all these years, still asking too many questions about the former king's death. They weren't too happy with the story that I was his wandering cousin come home. So I made a number of trips in the Traveler, found Lod living in a cave and brought him here. Then I fetched along that great ugly reptile; it fitted in with the old legend of a dragon. Eventually, of course, I intended to do away with it and reap the plaudits of the yokels. But the scheme backfired. Lod grew stronger, while I heard the muttering daily grow louder. The people wanted Adoranne, and always there were rumors of the lost prince." He sighed. "And to think that I could have saved all this, if I could merely have brought myself to murder a tot."

"What's a tot got to do with it?"

"Eh? Why, I refer to the infant prince, of course. Exile was the most I could manage. And now see what it's brought me to."

"You . . . exiled the little prince?" Adoranne gasped. "You horrid, wicked man! And to think I thought you were my uncle! And all these years, you've known where the lost crown prince was."

"No, my dear, I didn't. He was crying in his crib, poor motherless tot—orphaned by my hand, though accidentally. I sent him—I didn't know where. But he thrived—ah, all too well. Cosmic justice, I suppose. And now—"

"How do you know he thrived?" Adoranne exclaimed.

"Just look at him for yourself," Goruble said. "There he is, standing over me, looking down at me with that accusing expression." Adoranne gasped. O'Leary looked to left and right, puzzled. Yokabump nodded his heavy head wisely.

"Now you're seeing visions, eh?" O'Leary commented. "But it's a little late for regrets."

Goruble was staring up at O'Leary. "You mean—you didn't know?"

"Know what?"

"The prince—the child that I sent away, twenty-three years ago—is you!" Beside O'Leary, Adoranne gasped aloud. "Then . . . then you, Sir Lafayette .

. . are the rightful king of Artesia."

"Now, hold on," O'Leary protested. "Are you all crazy? I'm an American. I never saw this place until a week or so ago."

"I knew you by the ring," Goruble said weakly.

"What ring?" Adoranne asked quickly.

O'Leary held out his right hand. "You mean this?" Adoranne seized his hand, turned the ring to show the device.

"The ax and dragon—the royal signet!" She looked at O'Leary wide-eyed.

"Why didn't you show it sooner, Sir Lafayette—your Majesty?"

"He told me to reverse it," Lafayette said. "But—"

"I should have known then that my plans would come to naught," Goruble went on. "But I thought that by casting suspicion on you, I could dispose of you painlessly."

"Your jail's a long way from painless," O'Leary put in.

"Then you escaped somehow. Sterner measures were called for. I employed my specialized remote control equipment to send you away. How you returned, I still don't know. I followed your progress and waited here for the showdown, only to have it—alas—end in my defeat, disemboweled by a ravening monster unleashed by my own hand."

"Oh, that," Yokabump called from inside the Traveler, where he was gazing at dials and levers, "that was just a gag, your ex-Majesty. You're not hurt. On your feet now, and we'll toss you into your own dungeon until your trial comes up."

"Not hurt?" Goruble sat up, felt gingerly over his corpulent frame. "You mean . . ." His eyes went to the open door to his stolen machine. In an instant, he was on his feet, plunging between O'Leary and Adoranne, dashing for the entry.

Yokabump reached for a lever, waited, threw it just as the fat monarch sprang for the entry. There was a clap of air and Goruble was gone.

"I hope he lands in the same spot as the cat," the jester said, dusting his hands. "The skunk. Leaves me out of a job, I guess—unless your new Majesty wants to take me on?" He looked hopefully at O'Leary.

"Wait a minute," Lafayette protested. "Adoranne's the heir to the throne!

I'm just a guy who wandered into the scene."

The princess took his arm and looked up at him warmly. "I know a way to solve the dilemma," she said softly. "The whole question will become merely academic if we . . . if I . . . if you . . ."

"Oh, boy," Yokabump chortled. "Wait'll I spread the word. There's nothing like a royal wedding to cheer everybody up!"

Chapter XIII

A glittering assemblage filled the ballroom, hanging back shyly from O'Leary in his new eminence.

"As I see it, Lafayette—that is, your Majesty," Nicodaeus was saying.

"Knock off the 'majesty' stuff," O'Leary said. "Adoranne's the queen. I already told you how I happened to come here."

"Remarkable," Nicodaeus shook his head. "Of course, you had a strong natural affinity for this tricoordinate universe, having lived here until the age of two. Odd that you have no recollection of palace life at all."

"It did seem familiar, in a way. But I thought it was just because I'd invented it. And I caught on to the language in a hurry. I guess it was all there, in my subconscious."

"Of course, and when you began consciously striving to break down the interplane barriers, it was only natural that you should revert to your natural world of origin, thus canceling out at last the Probability Stresses you'd been creating in the other continuum. But I don't think it's ever been done before without equipment. Quite an achievement."

"I still don't see how it works," Lafayette protested. "I just dreamed it up. How could it be real?"

"It was here all along, Lafayette. Your discontent with your drab existence was an expression of the unconscious yearning toward your native clime. As for your belonging—with all the infinite universes to choose from, surely for every man there must be one where he is king."

"But that doesn't explain how I can invent anything from a bathtub to an iguanodon—and find it waiting just around the next bend."

"You created nothing; those things existed—somewhere. You've merely been manipulating them along lines of weakness in the probability fabric. I'm afraid all that will have to come to an end, however, as soon as I've reported in. We can't have anyone—even yourself, your Majesty—mucking about the natural order of things."

O'Leary looked at his watch. "Where's Adoranne?" he inquired. "The party's due to begin any minute."

"She'll be along. Now I have to be going, Lafayette. It's time for my regular Friday evening report." The inspector of continua nodded and hurried away. The orchestra was playing what sounded like a Strauss waltz, except that O'Leary had been assured the number had been composed by someone named Cushman Y. Blatz. He stepped through the tall glass doors to the terrace, sniffed the perfume of flowers on the warm night air. Not a bad place at all, this Artesia—king or no king. And with Adoranne as his intended bride—

There was a sudden rush of feet across the lawn below. O'Leary looked around in time to see Count Alain, dust-streaked and grim-faced, leap the balustrade, naked sword in hand. O'Leary dropped his glass with a crash.

"Hey, you startled me—" he started. Alain sprang to him, jammed the sword point against his new green velvet doublet.

"All right, where is she, you slimy schemer!" he rasped. "One yell, and I'll let you have it. Now speak up—and she'd better be unharmed!"

"Look, you've got the wrong slant on all this," O'Leary protested, backing away. Alain followed relentlessly.

"You're a bold scoundrel," the count snarled. "I take it you've done away with his Majesty—else you'd not be disporting yourself openly, here on his very terrace!"

"Well, we just sort of, ah, sent him away."

"And her Highness!" The sword jabbed harder.

"She's here—she'll be down in a minute! Look, Al, old boy, I can explain."

"As I thought; you had her all along. And I, dolt that I was, spent a day and a night on a fool's errand."

"I told you that was a dry run. Did you see what was left of Lod?"

"When thieves fall out . . ." Alain quoted. "You slew him by a trick, I suppose; but you'll have no chance to trick me."

There was a sharp cry from the direction of the open doors. O'Leary looked, saw Adoranne standing in the opening, indescribably lovely in a gown of white, with diamonds in her hair.

"Your Highness!" Count Alain said huskily. "You're safe! And as for this wretch . . ." He tensed his arm, looking O'Leary in the eye. Adoranne screamed. A dark shadow moved behind Alain; there was a dull clunk! and the young nobleman dropped the sword with a clang and fell against O'Leary, who caught him, letting him down on the flagged pavement. The wide figure of the Red Bull stood grinning a vast, crooked grin.

"I seen duh slob about tuh ram duh iron to yuh, bo," he stated. He ducked his red-maned head at Adoranne. "Hi, yer Highness." He tugged at O'Leary's limp arm. "Look, I waited around like yuh said, and the pickin's was great." The thick red fingers lifted half a dozen gold watches from a baggy side pocket. "T'anks, pal. You and me make a great team. But, look, I got a idear fer a caper dat'll make dis stuff look like chicken feed." Adoranne gave a long sigh and sagged against the doorframe. O'Leary jumped to her, caught her slender body, lifted her in his arms.

"She's fainted," he announced, in a cracking voice. "Somebody do something!"

"I got to do a fast fade, chum," the Red Bull announced. "How's about we rondyvooze at duh Ax and Dragon at midnight Tuesday? How's about I wear a yeller tulip dis time, OK?" He eased over the balustrade and was gone. People were rushing up now, emitting squeaks as they saw the limp princess.

"I'll take her to her room," O'Leary said. "The poor girl's had a shock." With a fussy chamberlain leading the way and half a dozen ladies-in-waiting clucking alongside, O'Leary puffed up three flights, staggered along the marble-floored corridor and waited while the door was opened. Then he pushed through, made for the wide, canopied bed, with its yellow silk coverlet and eased his burden gently down. Behind him, the door clicked softly. He turned. He was alone in the room with Adoranne. Damn the nitwits! Where were the smelling salts? Probably because he hadn't given his royal invitation, they were all hanging back. Well—

Adoranne's eyes fluttered. "Count Alain . . ." she breathed. "Is he . . . all right?"

O'Leary sat on the edge of the bed. "Sure, he's OK. The Red Bull just cracked him over the head. Are you feeling OK now?"

"Of course, Lafayette. But you—he threatened you with his sword."

"The poor guy still doesn't know the score. That's all right. He was just trying to help you."

"You'll not hold a grudge?" Adoranne's shapely arms reached up around Lafayette's neck and pulled his face down. Her lips were as soft as pink velvet. There were tiny diamond buttons up the front of her silvery dress. Lafayette's hand wandered to them . . .

"Your Majesty," Adoranne murmured.

"Do we have to wait until tomorrow?" O'Leary heard himself saying hoarsely.

"You are the king," Adoranne's hand went to the buttons. They parted easily: one, two . . . a curve of white throat . . . three, four, five . . . a bit of lace . . . six, and a tug at a ribbon, and—

There was a distinct thump! and the lights dimmed to a single bulb glaring fifty feet away over a dark door frame. O'Leary sat up, heard bedsprings squeak under him. "Adoranne?" His hand groped, finding only a coarse blanket stretched over a lumpy mattress.

"Hey, shaddup," a voice growled from six feet away. "Can't a guy get some sleep?"

"Where—where am I?" O'Leary choked out.

"Sleeping it off, hey? I didn't see youse when I come in. Yer in the Railroad Men's Y, second floor, a buck for the bed; four bits extra for a shower. But what I says is, who needs it?"

O'Leary stumbled from the bed, picked his way between bunks to the lighted door. He went down the stairs two at a time, pushed through the swinging door to the street, stared at dark shop windows, the blue gleam of mercury vapor lamps on tall steel poles. A few passers-by gave his clothes curious stares. He was back in Colby Corners.

It was an hour later. O'Leary stood on a corner, staring glumly at the gibbous moon hanging above Wienerburer's Gro. And Mkt. Just a little while ago he had seen that moon rise above a garden wall, gleaming through the poplars, reflecting in a fountain below the terrace where he and Nicodaeus had stood waiting for Adoranne. He swallowed an egg a passing goose had laid in his throat. Adoranne . . . and those buttons . . . He straightened his back. One more try. He had to be able to get back. It wasn't fair to get stuck here, now, after all he'd gone through! He squeezed his eyes shut, again evoking the recollection of the garden, the French doors behind him, the music of the Blatz waltz. He sniffed, recalling the scent of jasmine, the fresh fragrance of the garden, hearing the murmur of wind through the trees . . .

There was a clatter of metal, a groaning wow-wow-wow; an engine blattered into life. O'Leary stared dismally at the jalopy parked across the way; it dug off with a squeal of rubber and roared away down the street in a cloud of exhaust fumes. So much for night-blooming jasmine and the wind in the willows.

Something was wrong. Always before, when he hadn't been distracted by something like a dinosaur snapping at his heels, he'd been able to make the shift, if he just tried hard enough. But now—a total blank. It was as though his abilities had suffered a paralytic stroke. He couldn't feel so much as a tentative stir even when he focused every erg of Psychic Energy he possessed.

But there had to be some way. If he could only get word to Nicodaeus, tell him—

O'Leary stood stock-still, balancing a fragile idea. Nicodaeus. He had talked to him before, from the phone in the jail. And the number—it had ten digits, he remembered that . . .

He screwed his eyes shut and tried for total recall. The reek of the cell, the chill of the morning air—Artesia was unaccountably cooler than Colby Corners—the white-washed wall. The phone had been an old-fashioned one, with a brass mouthpiece. And the number—

It started with a nine . . . five three four, that was it; then a nine, two oh's, and ended with—was it two eleven? Or one one two? . . . Lafayette looked along the street. There was a phone booth there, half a block away. He tried his pocket; it yielded a dime. He set off at a run. The phone booth was small, cramped, of an old-fashioned design, with a folding wooden door. Inside, an ancient instrument with a brass mouthpiece and a hand crank hung crookedly from a wall thick with carved initials and frank anatomical sketches accompanied by phone numbers. He held his breath, dropped the coin, twirled the crank. There was a long silence. Then a click. Then more silence. Then a sharp ping! and a hum.

"Central," a bright voice said tinnily in his ear. "Number, please."

"Uh—nine, five, three, four, nine, oh, oh, two, one, one," Lafayette got off breathlessly.

"That number is no longer in service. Please consult your directory."

"Wait!" O'Leary yelled. "I have to talk to you!"

"Yes, sir?"

"I have to get back—back to Artesia," O'Leary gulped, rallying his thoughts.

"I was there, you see. I belong there and everything was going swell; then, for no reason—here I was! And now—"

"I'm sorry, sir, where did you say you were calling from?"

"What? Why, from this phone booth—here in Colby Corners, on the corner next to the Schrumph's candy shop—what's that got—"

"An error has been made, sir. Calls from that sector are not authorized—"

"Let me talk to the supervisor!" O'Leary demanded. "It's a matter of life or .

. . or exile!"

"Well . . . one moment, please."

O'Leary waited, hearing his heart pound. Half a minute passed. Then a distinguished-sounding voice said, "Yes?"

"Hello! Look, I've been the victim of some sort of mistake; I was perfectly happy there in Artesia—"

"One moment, please," the voice interrupted. Then in an aside: "Operator, this seems to be some sort of eccentric; the call originates in one of the null sectors, I note. Probably an inebriated local, dialing in by mistake. Lucky to get a line, at that. With the circuits as busy as they are, a fifty-year wait isn't uncommon."

"I'm not drunk! I wish I were!" O'Leary yelled. "Somebody listen! I'm King Lafayette the First of Artesia! This is all some terrible mistake! I want to talk to Nicodaeus! He'll tell you! Come to think of it, it's probably all his fault. He went to make his report, and he probably mixed things up and forgot to tell you I belonged there, in spite of having arrived sort of informally."

"Nicodaeus? Yes, I heard of his remarkable report, half an hour ago. You say you were involved?"

"I was there! You can't send me back here! I don't belong here! My little bride is waiting for me, my people demand their king, Yokabump needs a job, and the thought of the foundry—"

"Oh, yes, you must be the fellow Fishnet or something of the sort; quite a merry chase you led our man. Do you know you've been creating a Probability Stress of .8 for weeks now? A remarkable technique you worked out, but I'm afraid we here at Central can't let it go on. You've caused a rather severe power drain on the Cosmic Energy Source. The dinosaur alone—"

"I didn't do that! He was already there!"

"One was, true, but you seem to have brought along another. At any rate, a Suppressor has now been focused on you. It will hold you firmly in place in your present continuum. It will even eliminate all dreaming, so you can look forward to sleep uninterrupted by bothersome fantasies from now on."

"I don't want to sleep uninterrupted by fantasies! I want to go home! Back to Artesia! I belong there, don't you understand?"

"No, my dear fellow; I can understand your desire to return—a rather pleasant, though backward, locus, or so our man states in his report—but we can't have you grasshoppering about all over the continua, now can we?

But thank you for your interest, and now goodby—"

"Wait! Call Nicodaeus! He'll confirm what I said!"

"I'm a busy man, Mr. Fishnet; I have a backlog—"

"If you leave me here, there'll be a . . . a Probability Stress! And with the loused-up filing system you've got, it will be forty years before you remember what's causing it. And by then, I'll be a retired draftsman, still subsisting on sardines—and no dreams!"

"Well, I'll just make a check. Hold the line, please; if you ring off, you may never get through again."

O'Leary gripped the receiver, waiting. Through the glass in the door, he saw a fat woman approach along the street, digging in her purse for a coin. She seized the door handle, yanked, then caught sight of O'Leary and gave him an indignant look.

He covered the mouthpiece. "I'll be through in a minute," he muttered, mouthing the words through the glass. The woman snapped her jaw shut and glared at him.

Another minute ticked past. There was no sound on the line but a wavering hum. The fat woman rapped on the glass. O'Leary nodded, made motions indicating that he was waiting for a reply. The woman caught the door handle, pulled it half open. "See here, you, I'm in a hurry." He jerked the door shut, and braced a foot against it as the invading female shook it furiously.

"Come on," O'Leary muttered. "What's keeping you?" The fat woman stalked away. O'Leary relaxed. What was that fellow on the line doing? It had been a good five minutes now. What if he never came back? A fifty-year wait, he'd said. Lafayette pictured a pert face with jet-black hair, an impish smile. Never to see her again . . . He blinked. Jet-black hair? But Adoranne was a blonde—

O'Leary turned at a sound. The fat lady was back, a large cop in tow.

"That's him!" He heard the shrill screech through the door. "Half an hour already he's been sitting there, just to spite me, not even talking. Look at him!"

The cop stooped and peered inside, looking O'Leary up and down, taking in the green doublet, the long yellow hose, the ruff at the neck, the medals, ribbons, gold chain.

"All right, you," the cop said; he hauled at the door. O'Leary braced himself, foot against the panel. The cop set himself, heaved—

The booth seemed to shimmer, faded to a smoky outline, and was gone. O'Leary fell backward off a marble bench beside the graveled walk under the towering dark trees.

He scrambled up, looked around at the palace gardens, the tall, lighted windows above the terrace, the colored lights strung around the dancing pavilion. He was back—back in Artesia!

He started across the grass at a run, emerged from a screen of shrubs and skidded to a halt. By a tinkling fountain just ahead Adoranne stood—kissing Count Alain.

O'Leary ducked back out of sight. "Alain, it's all so strange," the princess was saying. "I can't believe he's gone—just like that—without even saying goodby."

"Now, Adoranne, don't fret. I guess he meant well. But after all, he was some kind of warlock."

"He was fine, and noble, and brave, and I—I'll never forget him," Adoranne said.

"Certainly; I'm grateful to him for rescuing you—even if he did leave that infernal dragon eating rosebushes in the side garden. When the legend said he'd bring back the thing's hide, I never expected the dragon would still be in it."

"I'm so . . . so glad you're here, Alain." Adoranne looked up into the young count's handsome face. "You won't flit off and leave me all alone, will you?"

"Never, your Highness . . ."

The couple resumed their stroll, hand in hand. As soon as they had passed, O'Leary crept out, crossed to the terrace, went along it to a small door leading to the kitchens. Inside, a startled cook looked up.

"Shhh!" O'Leary cautioned. "I'm traveling incognito." He wound his way past the hot ranges and the tables laden with food, went out by a rear door, took the service stair to the fourth floor. There was no one in sight, here in the servants' wing. He hurried along the corridor, rounded a corner. A chambermaid in drab gray glanced up from her dusting; O'Leary looked into the tear-reddened eyes of Daphne.

"Oh!" A breath-taking smile took the place of the girl's heartbroken expression of a moment before. "Your Majesty!" she breathed.

"Lafayette to you, girl," O'Leary said as he swept her into his arms.

"Princess Adoranne is an adorable cutie, and I had an obligation to do what I could for her. But when it got right down to it, it was your face that kept haunting me."

"But—but you're a king, sire, and I'm just—"

"Let's leave the title to Adoranne and Alain. We've got too many things to catch up on to be bothered running the country."