The Incomplete Enchanter
Incomplete Enchanter 01
(1940)*
L. Sprague de Camp & Fletcher Pratt

Contents

	THE ROARING TRUMPET
		Chapter One
		Chapter Two
		Chapter Three
		Chapter Four
		Chapter Five
		Chapter Six
		Chapter Seven
		Chapter Eight
		Chapter Nine
		Chapter Ten
	THE MATHEMATICS OF MAGIC
		Chapter Eleven
		Chapter Twelve
		Chapter Thirteen
		Chapter Fourteen
		Chapter Fifteen
		Chapter Sixteen
		Chapter Seventeen
		Chapter Eighteen
		Chapter Nineteen
		Chapter Twenty
	Book information

THE ROARING TRUMPET

Chapter One

	There were three men and a woman in the room. The men were commonplace as to face, and two of them were commonplace as to clothes. The third wore riding breeches, semi-field boots, and a suede jacket with a tartan lining. The extra-fuzzy polo coat and the sporty tan felt with the green feather which lay on a chair belonged to him also.

	The owner of this theatrical outfit was neither a movie actor nor a rich young idler, He was a psychologist, and his name was Harold Shea. Dark; a trifle taller, a little thinner than the average, he would have been handsome if his nose were shorter and his eyes farther apart.

	The woman — girl — was a tawny blonde. She was the chief nurse at the Garaden Hospital. She possessed — but did not rejoice in — the name of Gertrude Mugler.

	The other two men were psychologists like Shea and members of the same group. The oldest, the director of the others' activities, was bushy-haired, and named Reed Chalmers. He had just been asking Shea what the devil he meant by coming to work in such conspicuous garb.

	Shea said, defensively: "I'm going to ride a horse when I leave this afternoon. Honest."

	"Ever ridden a horse?" asked the remaining member of the group, a large, sleepy-looking young man named Walter Bayard.

	"No," replied Shea, "but it's about time I learned."

	Walter Bayard snorkled. "What you ought to say is that you're going to ride a horse so as to have an excuse for looking like something out of Esquire. First there was that phony English accent you put on for a while. Then you took up fencing. Then Last winter you smeared the place with patent Norwegian ski-grease, and went skiing just twice."

	"So what?" demanded Shea.

	Gertrude Mugler spoke up: "Don't let them kid you about your clothes, Harold."

	"Thanks, Gert."

	"Personally I think you look sweet in them."

	"Unh." Shea's expression was less grateful.

	"But you're foolish to go horseback riding. It's a useless accomplishment anyway, with automobiles —"

	Shea held up a hand. "I've got my own reasons, Gert." Gertrude looked at her wrist watch. She rose. "I have to go on duty. Don't do anything foolish, Harold. Remember, you're taking me to dinner tonight."

	"Uh-huh."

	"Dutch."

	Shea winced. "Gert!"

	"So long, everybody," said Gertrude. She departed in a rustle of starched cotton.

	Walter Bayard snickered. "Big he-man. Dutch!"

	Shea tried to laugh it off. "I've tried to train her not to pull those in public. Anyway she makes more money than I do, and if she'd rather have four dates a week Dutch than two on my budget, why not? She's a good kid."

	Bayard said: "She thinks you're the wistful type, Harold. She told the super —"

	"She did? Goddamn it ..."

	Chalmers said: "I cannot see, Harold, why you continue to — uh — keep company with a young woman who irritates you so."

	Shea shrugged. "I suppose it's because she's the one not impossible on the staff with whom I'm sure I'll never do anything irrevocable."

	"While waiting for the dream-girl?" grinned Bayard. Shea simply shrugged again.

	"That's not it," said Bayard. "The real reason, Doctor, is that she got the psychological jump on him the first time he took her out. Now he's afraid to quit."

	"It's not a matter of being afraid," snapped Shea. He stood up and his voice rose to a roar of surprising volume: "And furthermore, Walter, I don't see that it's any damn business of yours ..."

	"Now, now Harold," said Chalmers. "There's nothing to be gained by these outbursts. Aren't you satisfied with your work here?" he asked worriedly.

	Shea relaxed. "Why shouldn't I be? We do about as we damn please, thanks to old man Garaden's putting that requirement for a psychology institute into his bequest to the hospital. I could use more money, but so could everybody."

	"That's not the point," said Chalmers. "These poses of yours and these outbreaks of temper point to an inner conflict, a maladjustment with your environment."

	Shea grinned. "Call it a little suppressed romanticism. I figured it out myself long ago. Look. Walt here spends his time trying to become midwestern tennis champ. What good'll it do him? And Gert spends hours at the beauty parlour trying to look like a fallen Russian countess, which she's not built for. Another fixation on the distant romantic. I like to dress up. So what?"

	"That's all right," Chalmers admitted, "if you don't start taking your imaginings seriously."

	Bayard put in: "Like thinking dream-girls exist." Shea gave him a quick glare.

	Chalmers continued: "Oh, well, if you start suffering from — uh — depressions, let me know. Let's get down to business now."

	Shea asked: "More tests on hopheads?"

	"No," said Chalmers. "We will discuss the latest hypotheses in what we hope will be our new science of paraphysics, and see whether we have not reached the stage where more experimental corroboration is possible.

	"I've told you how I checked my premise, that the world we live in is composed of impressions received through the senses. But there is an infinity of possible worlds, and if the senses can be attuned to receive a different series of impressions, we should infallibly find ourselves living in a different world. That's where I got my second check, here at the hospital, in the examination of — uh — dements, mainly paranoiacs. You" — he nodded at Bayard — "set me on the right track with that report on the patient with Korsakov's psychosis.

	"The next step would be to translate this theoretical data into experiment: that is, to determine how to transfer persons and objects from one world into another. Among the dements, the shift is partial and involuntary, with disastrous results to the psyche. When —"

	"Just a minute," interrupted Shea. "Do you mean that a complete shift would actually transfer a man's body into one of these other worlds?"

	"Very likely," agreed Chalmers, "since the body records whatever sensations the mind permits. For complete demonstration it would be necessary to try it, and I don't know that the risk would be worth it. The other world might have such different laws that it would be impossible to return."

	Shea asked: "You mean, if the world were that of classical mythology, for instance, the laws would be those of Greek magic instead of modern physics?"

	"Precisely. But —"

	"Hey!" said Shea. "Then this new science of paraphysics is going to include the natural laws of all these different worlds, and what we call physics is just a special case of paraphysics —"

	"Not so fast, young man," said Chalmers. "For the present, I think it wise to restrict the meaning of our term 'Paraphysics' to the branch of knowledge that concerns the relationship of these multiple universes to each other, assuming that they actually exist. You will recall that careless use of the analogous term 'metaphysics' has resulted in its becoming practically synonymous with 'philosophy'."

	"Which," said Shea, "is regarded by some as a kind of scientific knowledge; by others as a kind of knowledge outside of science; and by still others as unscientific and therefore not knowledge of any kind."

	"My, my, very neatly put," said Chalmers, fishing out a little black notebook. "E. T. Bell could not have said it more trenchantly. I shall include that statement of the status of philosophy in my next book."

	"Hey," said Shea, sitting up sharply, "don't I even get a commission?"

	Chalmers smiled blandly. "My dear Harold, you're at perfect liberty to write a book of your own; in fact I encourage you."

	Bayard grinned: "Harold would rather play cowboy. When I think of a verbal pearl, I don't go around casting it promiscuously. I wait till I can use it in print and get paid for it. But to get back to our subject, how would you go about working the shift?"

	Chalmers frowned. "I'll get to that, if you give me time. As I see it, the method consists of filling your mind with the fundamental assumptions of the world in question. Now, what are the fundamental assumptions of our world? Obviously, those of scientific logic."

	"Such as —" said Shea.

	"Oh, the principle of dependence, for instance. 'Any circumstance in which alone a case of the presence of a given phenomenon differs from the case of its absence is casually relevant to that phenomenon'."

	"Ouch!" said Shea. "That's almost as bad as Frege's definition of number."

	Bayard droned: " 'The number of things in a given class —' "

	"Stop it, Walter! It drives me nuts!"

	" '— is the class of all classes that are similar to the given class.' "

	"Hmm," remarked Chalmers. "If you gentlemen are through with your joke, I'll go on. If one of these infinite other worlds — which up to now may be said to exist in a logical but not in an empirical sense — is governed by magic, you might expect to find a principle like that of dependence invalid, but principles of magic, such as the Law of Similarity, valid."

	"What's the Law of Similarity?" asked Bayard sharply.

	"The Law of Similarity may be stated thus: Effects resemble causes. It's not valid for us, but primitive peoples firmly believe it. For instance, they think you can make it rain by pouring water on the ground with appropriate mumbo jumbo."

	"I didn't know you could have fixed principles of magic," commented Shea.

	"Certainly," replied Chalmers solemnly. "Medicine men don't merely go through hocus-pocus. They believe they are working through natural laws. In a world where everyone firmly believed in these Laws, that is, in one where all minds were attuned to receive the proper impressions, the laws of magic would conceivably work, as one hears of witch-doctors' spells working in Africa today. Frazer and Seabrook have worked out some of these magical laws. Another is the Law of Contagion: Things once in contact continue to interact from a distance after separation. As you —"

	Shea snapped his fingers for attention. "Just a second, Doctor. In a world such as you're conceiving, would the laws of magic work because people believed in them, or would people believe in them because they worked?"

	Chalmers put on the smile that always accompanied his intellectual rabbit-punches. "That question, Harold, is, in Russell's immortal phrase, a meaningless noise."

	"No, you don't," said Shea. "That's the favourite dodge of modem epistemologists: every time you ask them a question they can't answer, they smile and say you're making a meaningless noise. I still think it's a sensible question, and as such deserves a sensible answer."

	"Oh, but it is meaningless," said Chalmers. "As I can very easily demonstrate, it arises from your attempt to build your — uh — conceptualistic structure on an absolutistic rather than a relativistic basis. But I'll come back to that later. Allow me to continue my exposition.

	"As you know, you can build us a self-consistent logic on almost any set of assumptions —"

	Bayard opened his half-closed eyes and injected another sharp observation: "Isn't there a flaw in the structure there, Doctor? Seems to me your hypothesis makes transference to the future possible. We should then become aware of natural laws not yet discovered and inventions not yet made. But the future naturally won't be ignorant of our method of transference. Therefore we could return to the present with a whole list of new inventions. These inventions, launched into the present, would anticipate the future, and, by anticipating, change it."

	"Very ingenious, Walter," said Chalmers. "But I'm afraid you overlook something. You might indeed secure transference to a future, but it would not necessarily be the future, the actual future of our own empirico-positivist world. A mental frame of reference is required. That is, we need a complete set of concepts of the physical world, which concepts condition the impressions received by the mind. The concepts of the future will be the product of numerous factors not new known to us. That is —"

	"I see," said Shea. "The frame of reference for the actual future is not yet formed, whereas the frames of reference for all past worlds are fixed."

	"Precisely. I would go beyond that. Transference to any world exhibiting such a fixed pattern is possible, but to such worlds only. That is, one could secure admission to any of H. G. Wells' numerous futures. We merely choose a series of basic assumptions. In the case of the actual future we are ignorant of the assumptions.

	"But speculative extrapolation from our scanty supply of facts has already carried us — uh — halfway to Cloud-Cuckoo land. So let us return to our own time and place and devote ourselves to the development of an experimental technique wherewith to attack the problems of paraphysics.

	"To contrive a vehicle for transposition from one world to another, we face the arduous task of extracting from the picture of such a world as that of the Iliad its basic assumptions, and expressing these in logical form —"

	Shea interrupted: "In other words, building us a syllogismobile?"

	Chalmers looked vexed for an instant, then laughed. "A very pithy way of expressing it, Harold. You are wasting your talents, as I have repeatedly pointed out, by not publishing more. I suggest, however, that the term 'syllogismobile' be confined for the present to discussions among us members of the Garaden Institute. When the time comes to try to impress our psychological colleagues with the importance of paraphysics, a somewhat more dignified mode of expression will be desirable."

-

	Harold Shea lay on his bed, smoked, and thought. He smoked expensive English cigarettes, not because he liked them especially, but because it was part of his pattern of affectation to smoke something unusual. He thought about Chalmers' lecture.

	It would no doubt be dangerous, as Chalmers had warned. But Shea was getting unutterably bored with life. Chalmers was able but stuffy; if brilliance and dullness could be combined in one personality, Reed Chalmers combined them. While in theory all three members of the Institute were researchers, in practice the two subordinates merely collected facts and left to the erudite Doctor the fun of assembling them and generalizing from them.

	Of course, thought Shea, he did get some fun out of his little poses, but they were a poor substitute for real excitements. He liked wearing his new breeches and boots, but riding a horse had been an excruciating experience. It also had none of the imaginary thrill of swinging along in a cavalry charge, which he had half-unconsciously promised himself. All he got was the fact that his acquaintances thought him a nut. Let 'em; he didn't care.

	But he was too good a psychologist to deceive himself long or completely. He did care. He wanted to make a big impression, but he was one of those unfortunates who adopt a method that produces the effect opposite to the one they want.

	Hell, he thought, no use introspecting myself into the dumps. Chalmers says it'll work. The old bore misses fire once in a while, like the time he tried to psychoanalyse the cleaning woman and she thought he was proposing marriage. But that was an error of technique, not of general theory. Chalmers was sound enough on theory, and he had already warned of dangers in the practical application in this case.

	Yes. If he said that one could transport oneself to a different place and time by formula, it could be done. The complete escape from — well, from insignificance, Shea confessed to himself. He would be the Columbus of a new kind of journey!

	Harold Shea got up and began to pace the floor, excited by the trend of his own thoughts. To explore — say the world of the Iliad. Danger: one might not be able to get back. Especially not, Shea told himself grimly, if one turned out to be one of those serf soldiers who died by thousands under the gleaming walls of Troy.

	Not the Iliad. The Slavic twilight? No; too full of man-eating witches and werewolves. Ireland! That was it — the Ireland of Cuchulinn and Queen Maev. Blood there, too, but what the hell, you can't have adventure without some danger. At least, the dangers were reasonable open-eye stuff you could handle. And the girls of that world — they were something pretty slick by all description.

-

	It is doubtful whether Shea's colleagues noticed any change in his somewhat irregular methods of working. They would hardly have suspected him of dropping Havelock Ellis for the Ulster and Fenian legendary cycles with which he was conditioning his mind for the attempted "trip." If any of them, entering his room suddenly, had come on a list with many erasures, which included a flashlight, a gun, and mercurochrome, they would merely have supposed that Shea intended to make a rather queer sort of camping expedition.

	And Shea was too secretive about his intentions to let anyone see the equipment he selected: A Colt .38 revolver with plenty of ammunition, a stainless-steel hunting knife — they ought to be able to appreciate metal like that, he told himself — a flashlight, a box of matches to give him a reputation as a wonder worker, a notebook, a Gaelic dictionary, and, finally, the Boy Scout Handbook, edition of 1926, as the easiest source of ready reference for one who expected to live in the open air and in primitive society.

	Shea went home after a weary day of asking questions of neurotics, and had a good dinner. He put on the almost-new riding clothes and strapped over his polo coat a shoulder pack to hold his kit. He put on the hat with the green feather, and sat down at his desk. There, on sheets of paper spread before him, were the logical equations, with their little horse-shoes, upside-down T's, and identity signs.

	His scalp prickled a trifle as he gazed at them. But what the hell! Stand by for adventure and romance! He bent over, giving his whole attention to the formulas, trying not to focus on one spot, but to apprehend the whole:

	"If P equals not-Q, Q implies not-F, which is equivalent to saying either P or Q or neither, but not both. But if not-P is not implied by not-Q, the counter-implicative form of the proposition —"

	There was nothing but six sheets of paper. Just that, lying in two neat rows of three sheets, with perhaps half an inch between them. There should he strips of table showing between them. But there was nothing — nothing.

	"The full argument thus consists in an epicheirematic syllogism in Barbara, the major premise of which is not the conclusion of an enthymeme, though the minor premise of which may or may not be the conclusion of a non-Aristotelian sorites —"

	The papers were still there, but overlaying the picture of those six white rectangles was a whirl of faint spots of colour. All the colours of the spectrum were represented, he noted with the back of his mind, but there was a strong tendency toward violet. Round and round they went — round — and round — "If either F or Q is true or (Q or R) is true then either Q is true or (P or R) is false —"

	Round and round — He could hear nothing at all. He had no sense of heat or cold, or of the pressure of the chair seat against him. There was nothing but millions of whirling spots of colour.

	Yes, he could feel temperature now. He was cold. There was sound, too, a distant whistling sound, like that of a wind in a chimney. The spots were fading into a general greyness. There was a sense of pressure, also, on the soles of his feet. He straightened his legs — yes, standing on something. But everything around him was grey — and bitter cold, with a wind whipping the skirts of his coat around him.

	He looked down. His feet were there all right — "hello, feet, pleased to meet you." But they were fixed in greyish-yellow mud which had squilched up in little ridges around them. The mud belonged to a track, only two feet wide, On both sides of it the grey-green of dying grass began. On the grass large flakes of snow were scattered, dandruffwise. More were coming, visible as dots of darker grey against the background of whirling mist, swooping down long parallel inclines, growing and striking the path with the tiniest ts. Now and then one spattered against Shea's face.

	He had done it. The formula worked!

Chapter Two

	"Welcome to Ireland!" Harold Shea murmured to himself. He thanked heaven that his syllogismobile had brought his clothes and equipment along with his person. It would never have done to have been dumped naked onto this freezing landscape. The snow was not atone responsible for the greyness. There was also a cold, clinging mist that cut off vision at a hundred yards or so. Ahead of him the track edged leftward around a little mammary of a hill, on whose flank a tree rocked under the melancholy wind. The tree's arms all reached one direction, as though the wind were habitual; its branches bore a few leaves as grey and discouraged as the landscape itself. The tree was the only object visible in that wilderness of mud, grass and fog. Shea stepped towards it. The serrated leaves bore the indentations of the Northern scrub oak.

	But that grows only in the Arctic Circle, he thought. He was bending closer for another look when he heard the clop-squosh of a horses hoofs on the muddy track behind him.

	He turned. The horse was very small, hardly more than a pony, and shaggy, with a luxuriant tail blowing round its withers. On its back sat a man who might have been tall had he been upright, for his feet nearly touched the ground. But he was hunched before the icy wind driving in behind. From saddle to eyes he was enveloped in a faded blue cloak. A formless slouch hat was pulled tight over his face, yet not So tight as to conceal the fact that he was full-bearded and grey.

	Shea took half a dozen quick steps to the roadside. He addressed the man with the phrase he had composed in advance for his first human contact in the world of Irish myth:

	"The top of the morning to you, my good man, and would it be far to the nearest hostel?"

	He had meant to say more, but paused uncertainly as the man on the horse lifted his head to reveal a proud, unsmiling face in which the left eye socket was unpleasantly vacant. Shea smiled weakly, then gathered his courage and plunged on: "it's a rare bitter December you do be having in Ireland."

	The stranger looked at him with much of the same clinical detachment he himself would have given to an interesting case of schizophrenia, and spoke in slow, deep tones: "I have no knowledge of hostels, nor of Ireland; but the month is not December. We are in May, and this is the Fimbulwinter."

	A little prickle of horror filled Harold Shea, though the last word was meaningless to him. Faint and far, his ear caught a sound that might be the howling of a dog — or a wolf. As he sought for words there was a flutter of movement. Two big black birds, like oversize crows, slid down the wind past him and came to rest on the the grass, looked at him for a second or two with bright, intelligent eyes, then took the air again.

	"Well, where am I?"

	"At the wings of the world, by Midgard's border."

	"Where in hell is that?"

	The deep voice took on an edge of annoyance. "For all things there is a time, a place, and a person. There is none of the three for ill-judged questions, and empty jokes." He showed Shea a blue-dad shoulder, clucked to his pony and began to move wearily ahead.

	"Hey!" cried Shea. He was feeling good and sore. The wind made his fingers and jaw muscles ache. He was lost in this arctic wasteland, and this old goat was about to trot off and leave him stranded. He leaned forward, planting himself squarely in front of the pony. "What kind of a runaround is this, anyway? When I ask someone a civil question —"

	The pony had halted, its muzzle almost touching Shea's coat. The man on the animal's back straightened suddenly so that Shea could see he was very tall indeed, a perfect giant. But before he had time to note anything more he felt himself caught and held with an almost physical force by that single eye. A stab of intense, burning cold seemed to run through him, inside his head, as though his brain had been pierced by an icicle. He felt rather than heard a voice which demanded, "Are you trying to stop me, niggeling?"

	For his life, Shea could not have moved anything but his lips. "N—no," he stammered. "That is, I just wondered if you could tell me how I could get somewhere where it's warm —"

	The single eye held him unblinkingly for a few seconds. Shea felt that it was examining his inmost thoughts. Then the man slumped a trifle so that the brim of his hat shut out the glare and the deep voice was muffled. "I shall be tonight at the house of the bonder Sverre, which is the Crossroads of the World. You may follow." The wind whipped a fold of his blue cloak, and as it did so there came, apparently from within the cloak itself, a little swirl of leaves. One clung for a moment to the front of Shea's coat. He caught it with numbed fingers, and saw it was an ash leaf, fresh and tender with the bright green of spring — in the midst of this howling wilderness, where only arctic scrub oak grew!

-

	Shea let the pony pass and fell in behind, head down, collar up, hands deep in pockets, squinting against the snowflakes. He was too frozen to think clearly, but he tried. The logical formulas had certainly thrown him into another world. But he hardly needed the word of Old Whiskers that it was not Ireland. Something must have gone haywire in his calculations. Could he go back and recheck them? No — he had not the slightest idea at present what might have been on those six sheets of paper. He would have to make the best of his situation.

	But what world had he tumbled into? A cold, bleak one, inhabited by small, shaggy ponies and grim old blue-eyed men with remarkable eyes. It might be the world of Scandinavian mythology. Shea knew very little about such a world, except that its No. 1 guy was someone named Odinn, or Woden, or Wotan, and there was another god named Thor who threw a sledge hammer at people he disliked.

	Shea's scientific training made him doubt whether he would actually find these gods operating as gods, with more-than-human powers; or, for that matter, whether he would see any fabulous monsters. Still, that stab of cold through his head and that handful of ash leaves needed explaining. Of course, the pain in his head might be an indication of incipient pneumonia, and Old Whiskers might make a habit of carrying ash leaves in his pockets. But still — 

	The big black birds were keeping up with them. They didn't seem afraid, nor did they seem to mind the ghastly weather.

	It was getting darker, though in this landscape of damp blotting paper Shea could not tell whether the sun had set. The wind pushed at him violently, forcing him to lean into it; the mud on the path was freezing, but not quite gelid. it had collected in yellow gobs on his boots. He could have sworn the boots weighed thirty pounds apiece, and they had taken in water around the seams, adding clammy socks to his discomfort. A clicking sound, like a long roll of castanets, made him wonder until he realized it was caused by his own teeth.

-

	He seemed to have been walking for days, though he knew it could hardly be a matter of hours. Reluctantly he took one hand from his pocket and gazed at his wrist watch. It read 9.36; certainly wrong. When he held the watch to a numbed ear he discovered it had stopped. Neither shaking nor winding could make it start.

	He thought of asking his companion the time, but realized that the rider would have no more accurate idea than himself. He thought of asking how much farther they had to go. But he would have to make himself heard over the wind, and the old boy's manner did not encourage questions.

	They plodded on. The snow was coming thickly through the murky twilight. Shea could barely make out the figure before him. The path had become the same neutral grey as everything else. The weather was turning colder. The snowflakes were dry and hard, stinging and bouncing where they struck. Now and then an extra puff of wind would snatch a cloud of them from the moor, whirling it into Shea's face. He would shut his eyes to the impact, and when he opened them find he had blundered off the path and have to scurry after his guide.

	Light. He pulled the pack around in front of him and fumbled in it till he felt the icy touch of the flashlight's metal. He pulled it out from under the other articles and pressed the switch button. Nothing happened, nor would shaking, slapping, or repeated snappings of the switch produce any result.

	In a few minutes it would be too dark for him to follow the man on the pony by sight alone. Whether the old boy liked it or not. Shea would have to ask the privilege of holding a corner of his cloak as a guide.

	It was just as he reached this determination that something in the gait of the pony conveyed a sense of arrival. A moment more and the little animal was trotting, with Shea stumbling and skidding along the fresh snow behind as he strove to keep pace. The pack weighed tons, and he found himself gasping for breath as though he were running up a forty-five-degree angle instead of on an almost level path.

	Then there was a darker patch in the dark-grey universe. Shea's companion halted the pony and slid off. A rough-hewn timber door loomed through the storm, and the old man banged against it with his fist. it opened, flinging a flood of yellow light out across the snow. The old man stepped into the gap, his cloak vividly blue in the fresh illumination.

	Shea, left behind, croaked a feeble "Hey!" just managing to get his foot in the gap of the closing door. It opened full out and a man in a baggy homespun tunic peered out at him, his face rimmed with drooping whiskers. "Well?"

	"May I c-c-come in?"

	"Umph," said the man. "Come on, come on. Don't stand there letting the cold in!"

Chapter Three

	Shea stood in a kind of entryhall, soaking in the delicious warmth. The vestibule was perhaps six feet deep. At its far end a curtain of skins had been parted to permit the passage of the old man who preceded him. The bonder Sverre — Shea supposed this would be his host — pulled them still wider. "Lord, use this as your own house, now and forever," he murmured with the perfunctory hurry of a man repeating a formula like "Pleased to meet you."

	The explorer of universes ducked under the skins and into a long hall panelled in dark wood. At one end a fire blazed, apparently in the centre of the floor, though bricked round to knee height. Around it were a number of benches and tables. Shea caught a glimpse of walls hung with weapons — a huge sword, nearly as tall as he was, half a dozen small spears or javelins, their delicate steel points catching ruddy high lights from the torches in brackets; a kite-shaped shield with metal overlay in an intricate pattern —

	No more than a glimpse. Sverre had taken him by the arm and conducted him through another door, shouting; "Aud! Hallgerda! This stranger's half frozen. Get the steam room ready. Now, stranger, you come with me."

	Down a passage to a smaller room, where the whiskered man ordered him: "Get off those wet clothes. Strange garments you have. I've never seen so many buttons and clasps in all my days. If you're one of the Sons of Muspellheim, I'll give you guesting for the night. But I warn you for tomorrow there be men not far from here who would liefer meet you with a sword than a handclasp." He eyed Shea narrowly a moment. "Be you of Muspellheim?"

	Shea fenced: "What makes you think that?"

	"Travelling in those light clothes this far north. Those that hunt the red bear" — he made a curious motion of his hand as though tracing the outline of an eyebolt in the air — "need warm hides as well as stout hearts." Again he gave Shea that curiously intent glance, as though trying to ravel some secret out of him.

	Shea asked: "This is May, isn't it? I understood you're pretty far north, but you ought to get over this cold snap soon."

	The man Sverre moved his shoulders in a gesture of bafflement. "Mought, and then mought not. Men say this would be the Fimbulwinter. If that's so, there'll be little enough of warm till the roaring trumpet blows and the Sons of the Wolf ride from the East, at the Time."

	Shea would have put a question of his own, but Sverre had turned away grumpily. He got rid of his clammy shorts instead, turning to note that Sverre had picked up his wrist watch.

	"That's a watch," he offered in a friendly voice.

	"A thing of power?" Sverre looked at him again, and then a smile of comprehension distended the wide beard as he slapped his knee. "Of course. Mought have known. You came in with the Wanderer. You're all right. One of those southern warlocks."

	From somewhere he produced a blanket and whisked it around Shea's nude form. "This way now," he ordered. Shea followed through a couple of doors to another small room, so full of wood smoke that it made him cough. He started to rub his eyes, then just in time caught at the edge of his blanket. There were two girls standing by the door, neither of them in the least like the Irish colleens he had expected to find. Both were blonde, apple-cheeked, and rather beamy. They reminded him disagreeably of Gertrude Mugler.

	Sverre introduced them; "This here's my daughter Aud. She's a shield girl; can lick her weight in polar bears." Shea, observing the brawny miss, silently agreed. "And this is Hallgerda. All right, you go on in. The water's ready to pour."

	In the centre of the small room was a sunken hearth full of fire. On top of the fire had been laid a lot of stones about the size of potatoes. Two wooden buckets full of water sat by the hearth.

	The girls went out, closing the door. Shea, with the odd sensation that he had experienced all this at some previous time — "it must be part of the automatic adjustment one's mind makes to the pattern of this world," he told himself — picked up one of the buckets. He threw it rapidly on the fire, then followed it with the other. With a hiss, the room filled with water vapour.

	Shea stood it as long as he could, which was about a minute, then groped blindly for the door and gasped out. instantly a bucketful of ice water hit him in the face. As he stood pawing the air and making strangled noises a second bucketful caught him in the chest. He yelped, managing to choke out, "Glup ... stop ... that's enough!"

	Somewhere in the watery world a couple of girls were giggling. it was not till his eyes cleared that he realized it was they who had drenched him, and that he was standing between them without his protecting blanket.

	His first impulse was to dash back into the steam room. But one of the pair was holding out a towel which it seemed only courtesy to accept. Sverre was approaching unconcernedly with a mug of something. Well, he thought, if they can take it, I can. He discovered that after the first horrible moment his embarrassment had vanished. He dried himself calmly while Sverre held out the mug. The girls' clinical indifference to the physical Shea was more than ever like Gertrude.

	"Hot mead," Sverre explained. "Something you don't get down south. Aud, get the stranger's blanket. We don't want him catching cold."

	Shea took a gulp of the mead, to discover that it tasted something like ale and something like honey. The sticky sweetness of the stuff caught him in the throat at first, but he was more afraid of losing face before these people than of being sick. Down it went, and after the first gulp it wasn't so bad. He began to feel almost human.

	"What's your name, stranger?" inquired Sverre.

	Shea thought a minute. These people probably didn't use family names, So he said simply, "Harold."

	"Hungh?"

	Shea repeated, more distinctly. "Oh," said Sverre. "Harald." He made it rhyme with "dolled".

-

	Dressed, except for his boots, Shea took the place on the bench that Sverre indicated. As he waited for food he glanced round the hall. Nearest him was a huge middle-aged man with red hair and beard, whose appearance made Shea's mind leap to Sverre's phrase about "the red bear". His dark-red cloak felt back to show a belt with carved gold work on it. Next to him sat another redhead, more on the sandy order, small-boned and foxy-faced, with quick, shifty eyes. Beyond Foxy-face was a blond young man of about Shea's size and build, with a little golden fuzz on his face.

	At the middle of the bench two pillars of black wood rose from floor to ceiling, heavily carved, and so near the table that they almost cut off one seat. It was now occupied by the grey-bearded, one-eyed man Shea had followed in from the road. His floppy hat was on the table before him, and he was half leaning around one of the pillars to talk to another big blond man — a stout chap whose face bore an expression of permanent good nature, overlaid with worry. Leaning against the table at his side was an empty scabbard that could have held a sword as large as the one Shea had noticed on the wall.

	The explorer's eye, roving along the table, caught and was held by that of the slim young man. The latter nodded, then rose and came round the table, grinning bashfully.

	"WouId ye like a seat companion?" he asked. "You know how it is, as Havámal says:

-

Care eats the heart        If you cannot speak
To another all your thought."

-

	He half-chanted the lines, accenting the alliteration in a way that made the rhymeless verse curiously attractive. He went on: "It would help me a lot with the Time coming, to talk to a plain human being. I don't mind saying I'm scared. My name's Thjalfi."

	"Mine's Harald," said Shea, pronouncing it as Sverre had done.

	"You came with the Wanderer, didn't ye? Are ye one of those outland warlocks?"

	It was the second time Shea had been accused of that. "I don't know what a warlock is, honest," said he, "and I didn't come with the Wanderer. I just got lost and followed him here, and ever since I've been trying to find out where I am."

	Thjalfi laughed, then took a long drink of mead. As Shea wondered what there was to laugh at, the young man said; "No offence, friend Harald. Only it does seem mighty funny for man to say he's lost at Crossroads of the World. Ha, ha, I never did hear the like."

	"The where did you say?"

	"Sure, the Crossroads of the World. You must come from seven miles beyond the moon not to know that. Hai! You picked a queer time to come, with all of Them here" — he jerked his finger towards the four bearded men. "Well, I'd keep quiet about not having the power, if I was you. Ye know what the Havámal says:

-

To the silent and sage        Does care seldom come
When he goes to a house as guest.

-

	Ye're likely to be in a jam when the trouble starts if ye don't have protection from one of Them, but as long as They think ye're a warlock, Uncle Fox will help you out."

	He jabbed a finger to indicate the small, sharp-featured man among the four, then went on quickly: "Or are ye a hero? If ye are, I can get Redbeard to take ye into his service when the Time comes."

	"What time? Tell me what this is all—" began Shea, but at that moment Aud and another girl appeared with wooden platters loaded with food.

	"Hai, sis!" called Thjalfi cheerfully, and tried to grab a chop from the platter carried by the second, a girl Shea had not previously seen. The girl kicked him neatly on the shin and set it before the late-comer.

	The meal consisted of various meats, with beside them a big slab of bread, looking as though it had been cut from a quilt. There was no sign of knife, fork, or any vegetable element. Of course, they would not have table silver, Shea assured himself. he broke off a piece of the bread and bit into it. It was better than it looked. The meat that he picked up rather gingerly was apparently a boiled pork chop, well-cooked and well-seasoned. But as he was taking the second bite, he noted that the shield girl, Aud, was still standing beside him.

	As he looked round Aud made a curtsy and said rapidly: "Lord, with this meal as with all things, your wishes are our law. Is there aught else that you desire?"

	Shea hesitated for a moment, realizing it was a formula required by politeness and that he should make some remark praising the food. But he had had a long drink of potent mead on an empty stomach. The normal food habits of an American urged him to action.

	"Would it be too much to ask whether you have any vegetables?" he said.

	For one brief second both the girl and Thjalfi stared at him. Then both burst into shrieks of laughter, Aud staggering back towards the wall, Thjalfi rolling his head forward on his arms. Shea sat staring, red with embarrassment, the half-eaten chop in his hand. He hardly noticed that the four men at the other side of the table were looking at him till the big red-headed man boomed out:

	"Good is the wit when men's children laugh before the Æsir! Now, Thjalfi, you shall tell us what brings this lightness of heart."

	Thjalfi, making no effort to control himself, managed to gasp out: "The ... the warlock Harald wants to eat a turnip!" His renewed burst of laughter was drowned in the roar from Redbeard, who leaned back, bellowing: "Oh, ho, ho, ho, ho! Turnip Harald, ha, ha ha!" His merriment was like a gale with the other three adding their part, even the blue-cloaked Wanderer.

	When they had quieted down a little, Shea turned to Thjalfi. "What did I do?" he asked. "After all—"

	"Ye named yourself Turnip Harald! I'm afeared ye spoiled your chance of standing under Redbeard's banner at the Time. Who'd want a hero that ate turnips? In Asgard we use them to fatten hogs."

	"But —"

	"Ye didn't know better. Well, now your only chance is Uncle Fox. Ye can thank me for saying ye're a warlock. Besides, he loves a good joke; the only humorist in the lot of them, I always say. But eating turnips — ha, ha, that's the funniest thing I've heard since the giant tried to marry the Hammer Thrower!"

	Shea, a trifle angry and now completely mystified, turned to ask explanations. Before he could frame the words there was a pounding at the door. Sverre admitted a tall man, pale, blond and beardless, with a proud, stately face and a huge golden horn slung over his back. "There's another of Them," whispered Thjalfi. "That's Heimdall. I wonder if all twelve of Them are meeting here."

	"Who the devil are They?"

	"Sh!"

-

	The four bearded men nodded welcome to the newcomer. He took his place beside the Wanderer with lithe grace and immediately began to say something to the older man, who nodded in rapt attention. Shea caught a few of the words: "— fire horses, but no use telling you with the Bearer of Bad Tidings present." He nodded contemptuously towards Uncle Fox.

	"It is often seen," said the latter, raising his voice a trifle but addressing the red-bearded man as though continuing a conversation begun before, "that liars tell few lies when those are present who can see the truth."

	"Or it may be that I have that to tell which I do not wish to have repeated to our enemies by the Evil Companion," said Heimdall, looking straight at Uncle Fox.

	"There are even those," continued the latter evenly, still paying Heimdall no attention, "who, having no character of their own, wish to destroy all character by assassinating the reputations of others."

	"Liar and thief!" cried Heimdall angrily, bringing his fist down on the table and almost snarling. Shea saw that his front teeth were, surprisingly, of gold.

	"Here," rumbled the large redhead, judicially. "Let there be an allaying of the anger of the Æsir, in the presence of mortals."

	"Let there also," snapped the small man, "be an allaying of insults in the mouth of —"

	"All insults are untrue," said Heimdall. "I state facts."

	"Facts! Few are the facts that come from that long wagging chin. Facts like the tale of having nine mothers, or the boast of that horn and the great noise it will make — Beware lest mice nest in it and it fail to give a squeak."

	"You shall hear my trumpet at the Time, Father of Lies. And you will not like the sound."

	"Some would say that called for the sword."

	"Try it. Here is the blade that will carve your stinking carcass."

	"Why you—" Foxy-face and Heimdall were on their feet and bellowing at each other. Their voices had a volume that made Shea wince. The other three bearded men rose and began shouting also. Above their heads the two black birds who had been the Wanderer's companions fled round and round with excited cries.

	Just as it looked as though the two original disputants were certain to fling themselves at each other's throat, the bigger redhead grabbed the smaller one by the shoulders and forced him down. "Sit down!" he thundered. The Wanderer, his sonorous voice full of outraged dignity, shouted; "This is disgraceful! We shall have no respect left. I command you to be quiet, both of you!"

	"But —" yelled Heimdall.

	The Wanderer silenced him with a gesture. "Nothing you can say will be heard. If either of you speaks to the other before bedtime, he shall have nothing less than my gravest displeasure."

	Heimdall subsided and went over to a far corner to sit and glare at Fox-face, who returned the glare. Thjalfi whispered to the awed Shea: "It's like this every time three or four of Them get together. They're supposed to set us a good example, but the first thing ye know they're at it like a gang of drunken berserks."

	"I'd still like to know who They are," said Shea.

	"Do you mean ye really don't know?" Thjalfi stared at him with eyes full of honest rustic perplexity. "Don't that beat all, now? I wouldn't have believed it if ye hadn't asked for those turnips. Well, the one that was scrapping with Heimdall is Loki. The big red-bearded one next to him is Thor. The old man, the Wanderer, is Odinn, and the fat one is Frey. Have ye got them straight now?"

	Shea looked hard at Thjalfi, but there was nothing in the latter's face but the most transparent seriousness. Either he had stepped through the formula into some downright dream, or he was being kidded, or the five were local Scandinavian chieftains who for some reason had named themselves after the gods of the old Norse pantheon. The remaining possibility — that these were actually gods — was too wildly improbable for consideration. Yet, those birds — the glance he had received from Odinn — and he knew that Odinn was always represented as one-eyed — The big redhead called Thor got up and went over to the pair whom Thjalfi had identified as Odinn and Frey. For a few minutes they muttered, heads together. At the conclusion of the conference Odinn got up, clapped his floppy hat on his head, whirled his blue cloak around him, look a last gulp of mead and strode out the door.

	As the door banged behind him, Loki and Heimdall half rose to their feet. Immediately Thor and Frey jumped up, with the former rumbling: "No more! Save your blows, Sons of Asgard, for the Time. Or if you must deal buffets, exchange them with me." He lifted a fist the size of a small ham, and both subsided. "It is time for bed, in any case. Come along, Loki. You, too, Thjalfi."

	Thjalf, rose reluctantly. "I'll speak a word for ye to Uncle Fox in the morning," he murmured in farewell. Working for these Æsir is no fun. They're an ornery lot, but I suppose we're better off with 'em than without 'em, what with the Time coming. Ye know what Ulf, the poet says:

-

Bare is the breast                 Without banner before it
When heroes bear weapons     To the wrack of the world.

-

	"Good night."

-

	Shea was not at all sure he wanted to work for Loki as a warlock, whatever that was. There was something sly about the man, uncomfortable The graceful and forthright Heimdall had impressed him more in spite of the latter's lack of a sense of humour, he mused.

	A small noise at the door was Sverre, putting his head in for a look around and then vanishing again. Of the buxom young women nothing had been seen since they took up the wooden platters. Though the house was obviously going to bed, Shea found himself not in the least sleepy. It could hardly be much after nine o'clock. But in a world without artificial light other than that of torches, people would rise and set with the sun. Shea wondered whether he, too, would come around to that dismal habit. Probably, unless he succeeded in getting back to his own world. That was a rather upsetting thought. But, hell, he had taken the risk with his eyes open. Even if this was not the world he had expected to land in, it was still one in which his twentieth-century appliances should give him certain advantages. It would be time enough to worry when —

	"Hai, turnip man," said Heimdall suddenly from his corner. "Fill a couple of mugs and bring them hither, will you?"

	Shea felt his temper rise at this dictatorial manner. But whatever or whoever Heimdall was, he looked fully capable of enforcing authority. And though the words were peremptory, the tone of voice was evidently meant for kindness. He obeyed.

	"Sit down," said Heimdall. "You have been called Harald. Is that correct?"

	"Yes, I was told you are Heimdall."

	"Nothing less than the truth. I am also known as the Watcher, the Son of Nine Mothers, the Child of Fury, and the Golden. I prefer the titles."

	"Well, look here, Heimdall, what's all this —"

	"Children of men use the titles or call me sir," said Heimdall severely and rather pompously.

	"Sorry, sir."

	Heimdall Looked down his long nose and condescended a smile that showed the gold teeth. "To me this familiarity is not unpleasant, for I have also been called the Friend of Men. But the Lord of Asgard disapproves."

	"You mean Odinn?"

	"None other."

	"The old guy — pardon me, I mean the elderly one-eyed gentleman?"

	"You are a well of knowledge."

	"I ran into him out on the moor yesterday and followed him here."

	"That is not hidden. I saw you."

	"You did? Where were you?"

	"Many miles eastaway. I also heard your remarks to him. Lucky you were not to have been struck dead."

	Shea almost said, "Aw, don't try to kid me." Just in time he remembered the piercing, icy glance Odinn had given him and held his tongue. It wouldn't do to take chances till he knew more about what chances he was taking, what system of natural laws governed this world into which he had fallen. Heimdall was watching him with a slightly amused smile.

	"I also heard you tell Thjalfi that you are no warlock, but you know not what it means. You must be from far. However" — he smiled again at Shea's expression of consternation — "few are sorry for that. I'll keep your secret A joke on the Master of Deception — ho, ho ho!"

	He drank. "And now, child of an ignorant mother," he went on, "it is yet to be seen that you have knowledge of strange things. I propose that we amuse ourselves with the game of questions. Each shalt ask of the other seven questions, and he who answers best shall be adjudged the winner. Ask, mortal!"

	Seven questions. Shea considered a moment how he could make them yield him the most information. "Where has Odinn gone?" he asked finally.

	"One," said Heimdall. "He has gone to the gates of Hell to summon from her grave a woman centuries dead."

	"Did you say Hell, honest?" asked Shea.

	"It is not to be doubted."

	"Well, well, you don't say so." Shea was covering his own incredulity and confusion. This man — god — individual was more difficult than any psychopathic he had ever questioned. He gathered his mental forces for the next try.

	"What is Odinn doing that for?"

	"Two," replied Heimdall. "The Time is coming. Balder dies, and the Æsir need advice. The Wanderer believes that the spae-wife buried at the gates of Hell can tell us what we need to know."

	The vaguely ominous statements about the Time were beginning to get on Shea's nerves, He asked, "What is meant by the statement, 'the Time is coming'?"

	"Three. Ragnarök, as all men know. All men but you alone, dewy-eyed innocent."

	"What's Ragnarök?"

	"Four. The end of the world, babe in a man's body."

	Shea's temper stirred. He didn't like this elaborate ridicule, and he didn't think it fair of Heimdall to count his last question, which had been merely a request to explain an unfamiliar word in the previous answer. But he had met irritatingly irrelevant replies at the Garaden Institute and managed to keep himself under control.

	"When will all this happen?"

	"Five. Not men, or gods, or Vanir, or even the dwarfs know, but it will be soon. Already the Fimbulwinter, the winter in summer that precedes Ragnarök, is upon us."

	"They will say there's going to be a battle. Who will win?" Shea was proud of himself for that question. It covered both the participants and the result.

	"Six. Gods and men were glad to have the answer to that, youngling, since we shall stand together against the giant folk. But for the present there is this to be said: our chances are far from good. There are four weapons of great power among us: Odinn's spear, Gungnir; the Hammer of Thor that is called Mjöllnir; Frey's sword, the magic blade Hundingsbana; and my own good sword which bears the name of Head." He slapped the hilt of the sword that hung by his side. "But some of the giants, we do not know how or who, have stolen both the great Hammer and Frey's sword. Unless they are recovered it may be that gods and men will drink of death together."

	Shea realized with panic that the world whose destruction Heimdall was so calmly discussing was the one in which he, Harold Shea, was physically living. He was at the mercy of a system of events he could not escape.

	"What can I do to keep from getting caught in the gears?" he demanded, and then, seeing Heimdall look puzzled, "I mean, if the world's going to bust up, how can I keep out of the smash?"

	Heimdall's eyebrows went up. "Ragnarök is upon us, that not gods know how to avoid — and you, son of man, think of safety! The answer is nothing. And now this is your seventh question and it is my turn to ask of you."

	"But —"

	"Child of Earth, you weary me." He stared straight into Shea's eyes, and once more there was that sensation of an icicle piercing his brain. But Heimdall's voice was smooth. "From which of the nine worlds do you come, strangest of strangers, with garments like to none I have seen?"

	Shea thought. The question was a little like, "Have you quit beating your wife?" He asked cautiously, "Which nine worlds?"

	Heimdall laughed lightly. "Ho — I thought I was to be the questioner here. But there is the abode of the gods that is Asgard, and that is one world; and the homes of the giants, that are Jötunheim, Musspellheim, Niflheim, and Hell or five worlds in all. There is Alfheim where Live the dwarfs; and Svartalfheim and Vanaheim which we do not know well, though it is said the Vanir shall stand with us at the Time. Lastly there is Midgard, which is overrun with such worms as you."

	Shea yawned. The mead and warmth were beginning to pull upon him. "To tell the truth, I don't come from any of them, but from outside your system of worlds entirely.

	"A strange answer is that, yet not so strange, but it could be true," said Heimdall, thoughtfully. "For I can see the nine worlds from where I sit and nowhere such a person as yourself. Say nothing of this to the other Æsir, and above all to the Wanderer. He would take it ill to hear there was a world in which he held no power. Now I will ask my second question. What men or gods rule this world of yours?"

	Shea found himself yawning again. He was too tired for explanations and flipped off his answer. "Well, some say one class and some say another, but the real rulers are called traffic cops. They pinch you —"

	"Are they then some form of crab-fish?"

	"No. They pinch you for moving too fast, wheres a crab pinches you for moving too slowly."

	"Still they are sea gods, I perceive, like my brother Ægir. What is their power?"

	Shea fought a losing battle against another yawn. "I'm sorry I seem to be sleepy," he said. "Aren't you going to bed soon, Golden?"

	"Me? Ho, ho! Seldom has such ignorance been seen at the Crossroads of the World. I am the Watcher of the Gods, and never sleep. Sleepless One is, indeed, another of my titles. But it is to be seen that it is otherwise with you, youngling, and since I have won the game of questions you may go to bed."

	An angry retort rose to Shea's lips at this calm assumption of victory, but he remembered that icy glare in time. Heimdall, however, seemed able to read his mind. "What! You would argue with me? Off to bed — and remember our little plot against the Bringer of Discord. Henceforth you are Turnip Harald, the bold and crafty warlock."

	Shea risked just one more question. "What is a warlock, please, sir?"

	"Ho, ho! Child from another world, your ignorance is higher than a mountain and deeper than a well. A warlock is a wizard, an enchanter, a weaver of spells, a raiser of spirits. Good-night, Turnip Harald."

	The bedroom proved to have a sliding door. Shea found it no bigger than a Pullman section and utterly without ventilation. The bed was straw-stuffed and jabbed him. He could not find comfort. After an hour or so of tossing, he had the experience, not uncommon on the heels of a day of excitements, of finding himself more wide-awake than in the beginning.

	For a time his thoughts floated aimlessly; then he told himself that, since this was an experiment, he might as well spend the sleepless hours trying to assemble results. What were they?

	Well, firstly that there had been an error either in the equations or his use of them, and he had been pitched into a world of Scandinavian mythology — or else Scandinavian history. He was almost prepared to accept the former view.

	These people talked with great conviction about their Ragnarök. He was enough of a psychologist to recognize their sincerity. And that icy stare he had felt from Odinn and then Heimdall was something, so far as he knew, outside ordinary human experience. It might be a form of hypnosis, but he doubted whether the technique, or even the idea of hypnotism, would be known to ancient viking chiefs. No, there was something definitely more than human about them.

	Yet they had human enough attributes as well. It ought not to be beyond the powers of an experimental psychologist to guide his conduct by analysing them a little and making use of the results. Odinn? Well, he was off to the gates of Hell, whither Shea had no desire to follow him. Not much to be made of him, anyway, save a sense of authority.

	What about Loki? A devastatingly sharp tongue that indicated a keen mind at work, Also a certain amount of malice. Uncle Fox, Thjalfi had called him, and said he was fond of jokes. Shea told himself he would not be surprised to find the jokes were often of a painful order. Working for him might be difficult, but Shea smiled to himself as he thought how he could surprise the god with so simple an object as a match.

	Frey he had hardly noticed. Thor apparently was no more than a big, good-natured bruiser, and Thjalfi, the kind of rustic one would find in any country town, quoting Eddic lays instead of the Bible.

	Heimdall, however, was a more complex character, certainly lacking in Loki's sense of humour. And he quite evidently felt he had a position of dignity to maintain with relation to the common herd — as witness his insistence on titles. But equally evidently, he was prepared to accept the responsibilities of that position, throw himself heart and soul and with quite a good mind into the right side of the scales — as Loki was not. Perhaps that was why he hated Loki. And Heimdall, underneath the shell of dignity, had a streak of genuine kindness. One felt one could count on him — and deciding he liked Heimdall the best of the lot, Shea turned over and went to sleep.

Chapter Four

	Shea awoke with a set of fur-bearing teeth and a headache that resembled the establishment of a drop-forging plant inside his brain — whether from the mead or the effect of those two piercing glances he had received from Heimdall and Odinn he could not tell. It was severe enough to stir him to a morning-after resolution to avoid all three in the future.

	When the panel of his bedroom slid back he could hear voices from the hall. Thor, Loki. and Thjalfi were at breakfast as he came in, tearing away with knives and fingers at steaks the size of unabridged dictionaries. The foxy-faced Loki greeted him cheerfully: "Hail, hero of the turnip fields! Will your lordship do us the honour of breakfasting with us?"

	He shoved a wooden platter with a hunk of meat on it towards Shea and passed along one of a collection of filled mugs. Shea's mouth was dry, but he almost gagged when a pull at the mug showed it contained beer and sour beer at that.

	Loki laughed. "Ridiculous it is," he said, "to see the children of men, who have no fixed customs, grow uneasy when customs about them change. Harald of the Turnips, I am told you are a notable warlock."

	Shea looked at his plate. "I know one or two tricks," he admitted.

	"It was only to be expected that a hero of such unusual powers would be modest. Now there is this to be said: a man fares ill at Ragnarök unless he have his place. Would you be one of my band at the Time?"

	Shea gulped. He was still unconvinced about this story of a battle and the end of the world, but he might as well ride with the current till he could master it. "Yes, sir, and thank you."

	"The worm consents to ride on the eagle's wings. Thank you, most gracious worm. Then I will tell you what you must do; you must go with us to Jötunheim, and that will be a hard journey."

	Shea remembered his conversation with Heimdall the night before. "Isn't that where some of the giants live?"

	"The frost giants to be exact. That lying Sleepless One claims to have heard Thor's hammer humming somewhere in their castle; and for all of us it will be well to find that weapon. But we shall need whatever we possess of strength and magic in the task — unless, Lord Turnip Eater, you think you can recover it without our help."

	Shea gulped again. Should he go with them? He had come looking for adventure, but enough was enough. "What is adventure?" he remembered reading somewhere, with the answer, "Somebody else having a hell of a tough time a thousand miles away." Only —

	Thjalfi had come round the table, and said in a low voice:

	"Look. My sister Röskva is staying here at the Crossroads, because the Giant Killer don't think Jötunheim would be any place for a woman. That leaves me all alone with these Æsir and an awful lot of giants. I'd be mighty obliged if ye could see your way to keep me company."

	"I'll do it," said Shea aloud. Then he realized that his impulsiveness had let him in for something. If Loki and Thor were not sure they could recover the hammer without help, it was likely to be an enterprise of some difficulty. Still, neither Æsir nor giants knew about matches — or the revolver. They would do for magic till something better came along.

	"I've already spoken to the Lord of the Goat Chariot," Thjalfi was saying. "He'd be glad to have ye come, but he says ye mustn't disgrace him by asking to eat turnips. Ye'd best do something about those clothes. They're more than light for this climate. Sverre-bonder will lend you some others."

	Sverre was glad to take the inadequate polo coat and riding breeches as security for the loan of some baggy Norse garments. Shea, newly dressed in accordance with his surroundings, went outside. A low, cheerless sun shone on the blinding white of new snow. As the biting cold nipped his nose Shea was thankful for the yards of coarse wool in which he was swathed.

-

	The goat chariot was waiting. It was as big as a Conestoga wagon, notwithstanding that there were only two wheels. A line of incised runic letters was etched in black around the gold rim; the body was boldly painted red and gold. But the goats constituted the most remarkable feature. One was black, the other white, and they were as big as horses.

	"This here's Tooth Gnasher," said Thjalfi, indicating the nigh goat, "and that there's Tooth Gritter," waving at the off goat, the black one. "Say, friend Harald, I'd be mighty obliged if ye'd help me tote the stuff out."

	Shea, ignorant of what the "stuff" was, followed Thjalfi into the bonder's house, where the latter pointed to a big oak chest. This, he explained, held the Æsir's belongings. Thjalfi hoisted one end by its bronze handle. Shea took hold of the other, expecting it to come up easily. The chest did not move. He looked at Thjalfi, but the latter merely stood, holding his end off the floor without apparent effort. So Shea took his handle in both hands and gave a mighty heave. He got his end up, but the thing seemed packed with ingots of lead. The pair went through the door, Thjalfi leading, Shea staggering and straining along in the rear. He almost yelled to Thjalfi to hurry and ease the horrible strain on his arms, but this would involve so much loss of face that he stuck it out. When they reached the chariot Shea dropped his end into the snow and almost collapsed across the chest. The icy air hurt his lungs as he drew great gasps of breath.

	"All right," said Thjalfi calmly, "you catch hold here, and we'll shove her aboard." Shea forced his unwilling body to obey. They manhandled one end of the chest onto the tail of the chariot and somehow got the whole thing aboard. Shea was uncomfortably aware that Thjalfi had done three-quarters of the work, but the rustic seemed not to notice.

	With the load in, Shea leaned against one of the shafts, waiting for his heart to slow down and for the aches in his arms and chest to subside. "Now it is to be seen," said a voice, "that Thjalfi has persuaded another mortal to share his labours. Convenient is this for Thjalfi."

	It was the foxy-faced Loki, with the usual note of mockery in his voice. Once more Shea's temper began to rise. Thjalfi was all right — but it did look as though he had talked Shea into coming along for the dirty work. If — Whoa! Shea suddenly remembered Loki's title — "Bringer of Discord," and Thjalfi's warning about his jokes. Uncle Fox would doubtless think it very funny to get the two mortals into a quarrel, and for the sake of his own credit he didn't dare let the god succeed.

	Just then came a tug at his cloak. He whirled round; Tooth Gritter had seized the lower edge of the garment in his teeth and was trying to drag it off him. "Hey!" cried Shea, and dragged back. The giant goat shook its head and held on while Loki stood with hands on hips, laughing a deep, rich belly-laugh. He made not the slightest move to help Shea. Thjalfi came running round and added his strength to Shea's. The cloak came loose with a rip; the two mortals tumbled backward. Tooth Gritter calmly munched the fragment he had torn from the cloak and swallowed it.

	Shea got up scowling and faced a Loki purple with amusement. "Say, you," he began belligerently, "what the hell's so damn funny —" At that instant Thjalfi seized him from behind and whirled him away as though he were a child. "Shut up, ye nitwit!" he flung into Shea's ear. "Don't ye know he could burn ye to a cinder just by looking at ye?"

	"But —"

	"But nothing! Them's gods! No matter what they do ye dassn't say boo, or they'll do something worse. That's how things be!"

	"Okay," grumbled Shea, reflecting that rustics the world over were a little too ready to accept "that's how things be," and that when the opportunity came he would get back some of his own from Loki.

	"Ye want to be careful around them goats," continued Thjalfi. "They're mean, and they eat most anything. I remember a funny thing as happened a fortnight hack. We found five men that had frozen to death on the moor. I says we ought to take them in so their folks could give 'em burial. Thor says all right, take 'em in. When we got to the house we was going to stay at, the bonder didn't see as how there was any point in bringing 'em inside, 'cause when they got thawed out, they'd get kind of strong. So we stacked 'em in the yard, like firewood. Next morning, would ye believe it, those goats had gotten at 'em and et 'em up. Everything but their buckles!" Thjalfi chuckled to himself.

	As Shea was digesting this example of Norse humour, there came a shout of "Come on, mortals!" from Thor, who had climbed into the chariot. He clucked to the goats, who leaned forward. The chariot wheels screeched and turned.

	"Hurry!" cried Thjalfi and ran for the chariot. He had reached it and jumped aboard with a single huge bound before Shea even started. The latter ran behind the now rapidly moving vehicle and tried to hoist himself up, His fingers, again numbed with cold, slipped, and he went sprawling on his face in the snow. He heard Loki's infuriating laugh. As he pulled himself to his feet he remembered bitterly that he had made this "journey" to escape the feeling of insignificance and maladjustment that his former life had given him.

	There was nothing to do but run after the chariot again. Thjalfi pulled him over the tail and slapped the snow from his clothes. "Next time," he advised, "ye better get a good grip before ye try to jump. Ye know what it says in Havámal:

-

It is better to live        Than to lie a corpse;
The quick man catches the cart."

-

	Thor, at the front of the chariot, said something to the goats. They broke from a trot to a gallop. Shea, clutching the side of the vehicle, became aware that it had no springs. He found he could take the jolting best by flexing his legs and yielding to the jerks.

	Loki leaned towards him, grinning. "Hai, Turnip Harald! Let us be merry!" Shea smiled uncertainly. Manner and voice were friendly, but might conceal some new malicious trick. Uncle Fox contained airily: "Be merry while you can. These hill giants are uncertain of humour where we go. He, he, I remember a warlock named Birger. He put a spell on one of the hill giants so he married a goat instead of a girl. The giant cut Birger open, tied one end of his entrails to a tree, and chased him around it. He, he!"

	The anecdote was not appetizing and the chariot was bounding on at the same furious pace, throwing its passengers into the air every time it hit a bump. Up — down — bang — up — down — bang. Shea began to regret his breakfast.

	Thjalfi said; "Ye look poorly, friend Harald; sort of goose-green. Shall I get something to eat?"

	Shea had been fighting his stomach in desperate dread of losing further prestige. But the word "eat" ended the battle. He leaned far over the side of the chariot.

	Loki laughed. Thor turned at the sound, and drowned Loki's laughter in a roar of his own. "Haw, haw, haw! If you foul up my chariot, Turnip Harald, I'll make you clean it." There was a kind of good-natured contempt in the tone, more galling than Uncle Fox's amusement.

	Shea's stomach finally ceased its convulsions and he sat down on the chest wishing he were dead, Perhaps it was the discomfort of the seat, but he soon stood up again, forcing himself to grin. "I'll be all right now. I'm just not used to such a pace."

	Thor turned his bead again and rumbled. "You think this fast, springling? You have in no wise any experience of speed. Watch." He whistled to the goats, who stretched their heads forward and really opened out. The chariot seemed to spend most of the time in the air; at intervals, it would hit a ridge in the road with a thunderous bang and then take off again. Shea clung for dear life to the side, estimating their speed at something between sixty and seventy miles an hour. This is not much in a modern automobile on a concrete road, but something quite different in a two-wheeled springless cart on a rutted track.

	"Wow! Wow! Wow!" yelled Thor, carried away by his awn enjoyment. "Hang on; here's a curve!" Instead of slackening speed the goats fairly leaped, banking inward on the turn. The chariot lurched in the opposite direction. Shea clung with eyes closed and one arm over the side. "Yoooeee!" bellowed Thor.

	It went on for ten minutes more before Thjalfi suggested lunch. Shea found himself actually hungry again. But his appetite quailed at the sight of some slabs that looked Like scorched leather.

	"Ulp — what's that?"

	"Smoked salmon," said Thjalfi. "Ye put one end in your mouth, like this. Then ye bite. Then ye swallow. Ye have sense enough to swallow, I suppose?"

	Shea tried it. He was amazed that any fish could be so tough. But as he gnawed he became aware of a delicious flavour. When I get back, he thought, I must look up some of this stuff. Rather, if I get back.

	The temperature rose during the afternoon, and toward evening the wheels were throwing out fans of slush. Thor roared "Whoa!" and the goats stopped. They were in a hollow between low hills, grey save where the snow had melted to show dark patches of grass. In the hollow itself a few discouraged-looking spruces showed black in the twilight.

	"Here we camp," said Thor. "Goat steak would be our feasting had we but fire."

	"What does he mean?" Shea whispered to Thjalfi.

	"It's one of the Thunderer's magic tricks. He slaughters Tooth Gnasher or Tooth Gritter and we can eat all but the hide and bones. He magics them back to life."

	Loki was saying to Thor "Uncertain is it, Enemy of the Worm, whether my fire spell will be effective here. In this hill-giant land there are spells against spells. Your lightning flash?"

	"It can shiver and slay but not kindle in this damp," growled Thor. "You have a new warlock there. Why not make him work?"

	Shea had been feeling for his matches. They were there and dry. This was his chance. "That'll be easy," he said lightly. "I can make your fire as easy as snapping my fingers. Honest."

	Thor glared at him with suspicion "Few are the weaklings equal to any works," he said heavily. "For my part I always hold that strength and courage are the first requirements of a man. But I will not gainsay that occasionally my brothers feel otherwise, and it may be that you can do as you say."

	"There is also cleverness, Wielder of Mjöllnir," said Loki. "Even your hammer blows would be worthless if you did not know where to strike; and it may be that this outlander can show us some new thing. Now I propose a contest, we two and the warlock. The first of us to make the fire light shall have a blow at either of the others."

	"Hey!" said Shea. "If Thor takes a swat at me, you'll have to get a new warlock."

	"That will not be difficult." Loki grinned and rubbed his hands together. Though Shea decided the sly god would find something funny about his mother's funeral, for once he was not caught. He grinned back, and thought he detected a flicker of approval in Uncle Fox's eyes.

	Shea and Thjalfi tramped through the slush to the clump of spruces. As he pulled our his supposedly rust-proof knife, Shea was dismayed to observe that the blade had developed a number of dull-red freckles. He worked manfully hacking down a number of trees and branches. They were piled on a spot from which the snow had disappeared, although the ground was still sopping.

	"Who's going to try first?" asked Shea.

	"Don't be more foolish than ye have to," murmured Thjalfi. "Redbeard, of course."

	Thor walked up to the pile of brush and extended his hands. There was a blue glow of corona discharge around them, and a piercing crack as bright electric sparks leaped from his fingertips to the wood. The brush stirred a little and a few puffs of water vapour rose from it. Thor frowned in concentration. Again the sparks crackled, but no fire resulted.

	"Too damp is the wood," growled Thor. "Now you shall make the attempt, Sly One."

	Loki extended his hands and muttered something too low for Shea to hear. A rosy-violet glow shone from his hands and danced among the brush. In the twilight the strange illumination lit up Loki's sandy red goatee, high cheekbones, and slanting brows with startling effect. His lips moved almost silently. The spruce steamed gently, but did not tight.

	Loki stepped back. The magenta glow died out. "A night's work," said he. "Let us see what our warlock can do."

-

	Shea had been assembling a few small twigs, rubbing them to dryness on his clothes and arranging them like an Indian tepee. They were still dampish, but he supposed spruce would contain enough resin to light.

	"Now," he said with a trace of swagger. "Let everybody watch. This is strong magic."

	He felt around in the little container that held his matches until he found some of the nonsafety kitchen type. His three companions held their breaths as he took out a match and struck it against the box.

	Nothing happened.

	He tried again. Still no result. He threw the match away and essayed another, again without success. He tried another, and another, and another. He tried two at once. He put away the kitchen matches and got out a box of safety matches. The result was no better. There was no visible reason. The matches simply would not light.

	He stood up. "I'm sorry," he said, "but something has gone wrong. If you'll just wait a minute, I'll look it up in my book of magic formulas."

	There was just enough light left to read by. Shea got out his Boy Scout Manual. Surely it would tell him what to do — if not with failing matches, at least it would instruct him in the art of rubbing sticks.

	He opened it at random and peered, blinked his eyes, shook his head, and peered again. The light was good enough. But the black marks on the page, which presumably were printed sentences, were utterly meaningless. A few letters looked vaguely familiar, but he could make nothing of the words. He leafed rapidly through the book; it was the same senseless jumble of hen tracks everywhere. Even the few diagrams meant nothing without the text.

	Harold Shea stood with his mouth open and not the faintest idea of what to do next. "Well," rumbled Thor, "where is our warlock fire?"

	In the background Loki tittered. "He perhaps prefers to eat his turnips uncooked."

	"I ... I'm sorry, sir," babbled Shea. "I'm afraid it won't work."

	Thor lifted his massive fist. "It is time," he said, "to put an end to this lying and feeble child of man who raises our hopes and then condemns us to a dinner of cold salmon."

	"No, Slayer of Giants," said Loki. "Hold your hand. He furnishes us something to laugh at, which is always good in this melancholy country. I may be able to use him where we are going."

	Thor slowly lowered his arm. "Yours be the responsibility. I am not unfriendly to the children of men; but for liars I have no sympathy. What I say I can do, and that will I do."

	Thjalfi spoke. "If ye please, sir, there's a dark something up yonder." He pointed toward the head of the valley. "Maybe we can find shelter."

	Thor growled an assent; they got back into the chariot and drove up towards the dark mass. Shea was silent, with the blackest of thoughts. He would leave his position as researcher at the Garaden Institute to go after adventure with a capital A, would he? And as an escape from a position where he felt himself inferior and inclosed. Well, he told himself bitterly, he had landed in another still more inclosed and inferior. Yet why was it his preparations had so utterly failed? There was no reason for the matches' not lighting or the book's turning into gibberish — or for that matter the failure of the flashlight on the night before.

	Thjalfi was whispering to him. "By the beard of Odinn, I'm ashamed of you, friend Harald. Why did ye promise a fire if you couldn't make it?"

	"I thought I could, honest," said Shea morosely.

	"Well, maybe so. Ye certainly rubbed the Thunderer the wrong way. Ye'd best be grateful to Uncle Fox. He saved your life for you. He ain't as bad as some people think, I always say. Usually helps you out in a real pinch."

	The dark something grew into the form of an oddly shaped house. The top was rounded, the near end completely open. When they went in Shea found to his surprise that the floor was of some linoleumlike material, as were the curving walls and low-arched roof. There seemed only a single, broad low room, without furniture or lights. At the far end they could dimly make out fire hallways, circular in cross section, leading they knew not where. Nobody cared to explore.

	Thjalfi and Shea dragged down the heavy chest and fished out blankets. For supper the four glumly chewed pieces of smoked salmon. Thor's eyebrows worked in a manner that showed he was trying to control justifiable anger.

	Finally Loki said: "It is in my mind that our fireless warlock has not heard the story of your fishing, son of Jörd."

	"Oh," said Thor, "that story is not unknown. But it is good that men should hear it and learn from it. Let me think—"

	"Odinn preserve us!" murmured Thjalfi in Shea's ear, "I've only heard this a million times."

	Thor rumbled: "I was guesting with the giant Hymir. We rowed far out in the blue sea. I baited my hook with a whole ox-head, for the fish I fish are worthy a man's strength. At the first strike I knew I had the greatest fish of all: to wit, the Midgard Serpent, for his strength was so great. Three whales could not have pulled so hard. For nine hours I played the serpent, thrashing to and fro, before I pulled him in. When his head came over the gunwale, he sprayed venom in futile wrath; it ate holes in my clothes. His eyes were as great as shields, and his teeth that long." Thor held up his hands in the gloom to show the length of the teeth. "I pulled and the serpent pulled again. I was braced with my belt of strength; my feet nearly went through the bottom of the boat.

	"I had all but landed the monster, when — I speak no untruth — that fool Hymir got scared and cut the line. The biggest thing any fisherman ever caught, and it escaped!" He finished on a mournful note; "I gave Hymir a thumping he will not soon forget. But it did not give me the trophy I wanted to hang on the walls of Thrudvang!"

	Thjalfi leaned toward Shea, singing in his ear:

-

"A man shall not boast        Of the fish that fled
Or the bear he failed to flay;
Bigger they be            Than those borne back
To hang their heads in the hall.

-

	At least that's what Atli's Drapar says."

	Loki chuckled; he had caught the words. "True, youngling. Had any but our friend and great protector told such a tale, I would doubt it."

	"Doubt me?" rumbled Thor. "How would you like one of my buffets?" He drew hack his arm. Loki ducked. Thor uttered a huge good-natured laugh. "Two things gods and mortals alike doubt — tales of fishing and the virtue of women."

	He lay back among the blankets, took two deep breaths and seemed to be snoring instantly. Loki and Thjalfi also lapsed into silence.

	Shea, unable to sleep, let his mind go over the day's doings. He had shown up pretty badly. It annoyed him, for he was beginning to like these people, even the unapproachable and tempestuous Thor. The big fellow was all right: someone you could depend on right up to the hilt, especially in any crisis that required straight-forward courage. He would see right and wrong divided by a line of absolute sharpness, chalk on one side, coal dust on the other. He became annoyed when others proved to lack his own simple strength.

-

	About Loki, Shea was not quite so sure. Uncle Fox had saved his life all right, but Shea suspected that there had been a touch of self-interest about the act. Loki expected to make some use of him, and not entirely as a butt of jokes, either. That keen mind had doubtless noted the unfamiliar gear Shea had brought from the twentieth century and was speculating on its use.

	But why had those gadgets failed to work? Why had he been unable to read simple English print?

	Was it English? Shea tried to visualize his name in written form. It was easy enough, and showed him that the transference had not made him illiterate. But wait a minute, what was he visualizing? He concentrated on the row of letters in his mind's eye. What he saw was:

-

-

	These letters spelled Harold Bryan Shea to him. At the same time he realized they weren't the letters of the Latin alphabet. He tried some more visualizations. "Man" came out as:

-

-

	Something was wrong. "Man," he vaguely remembered, ought not to have four letters.

	Then, gradually, he realized what had happened. Chalmers had been right and more than right. His mind had been filled with the fundamental assumptions of this new world. When he transferred from his safe, Midwestern institute to this howling wilderness, he bad automatically changed languages. If it were otherwise, if the shift were partial, he would be a dement — insane. But the shift was complete. He was speaking and understanding old Norse, touching old Norse gods and eating old Norse food. No wonder he had had no difficulty making himself understood.

	But as an inevitable corollary, his knowledge of English had vanished When he thought of the written form of "man" he could form no concept but that of the four runic characters:

-

-

	He couldn't even imagine what the word would look like with the runes put into other characters. And he had failed to read his Boy Scout Handbook.

	Naturally his gadgets had failed to work. He was in a world not governed by the laws of twentieth-century physics or chemistry. It had a mental pattern which left no room for matches or flashlights, or non-rusting steel. These things were simply inconceivable to anyone around him. Therefore they did not exist save as curiously shaped objects of no value.

	Well, anyway, he thought to himself drowsily, at least I won't have to worry about the figure I cut in front of these guys again. I've fallen so low that nothing I could do would make me a bigger fool. Oh, what the hell —

Chapter Five

	Shea awoke before dawn, shivering. The temperature was still above freezing, but a wind had come up, and the grey landscape was curtained with driving rain. He yawned and sat up with his blanket round him like an Indian. The others were still asleep and he stared out for a moment, trying to recover the thread of last night's thoughts.

	This world he was in — perhaps permanently — was governed by laws of its own. What were those laws? There was one piece of equipment of which the transference had not robbed him; his modem mind, habituated to studying and analysing the general rules guiding individual events. He ought to be able to reason out the rules governing this existence and to use them — something which the rustic Thjalfi would never think of doing. So far the only rules he had noticed were that the gods had unusual powers. But there must be general laws underlying even these —

	Thor's snores died away into a gasping rattle. The red-bearded god rubbed his eyes, sat up, and spat.

	"Up, all Æsir's men!" he said. "Ah, Harald of the Turnips, you are already awake. Cold salmon will be our breakfast again since your fire magic failed." Then, as he saw Shea stiffen: "Nay, take it not unkindly. We Æsir are not unkind to mortals, and I've seen more unpromising objects than you turn out all right. Make a man of you yet, youngling. Just watch me and imitate what I do." He yawned and the yawn spread into a bristling grin.

	The others bestirred themselves. Thjalfi got out some smoked salmon. However good the stuff was, Shea found the third successive meal of it a little too much.

	They were just beginning to gnaw when there was a heavy tramp outside. Through the rain loomed a grey shape whose outline made Shea's scalp tingle. It was mannish, but at least ten feet tall, with massive columnar legs. It was a giant.

	The giant stooped and looked into the travellers' refuge.

	Shea, his heart beating madly, backed up against the curving wall, his hand feeling for his hunting knife. The face that looked in was huge, with bloodshot grey eyes and a scraggly iron-grey beard, and its expression was not encouraging.

	"Ungh," snarled the giant, showing yellow snags of teeth. His voice was a couple of octaves beneath the lowest human bass. " 'Scuse me, gents, but I been looking for my glove. How 'bout having a little breakfast together, huh?"

	Shea, Thjalfi and Loki all looked at Thor. The Red God stood with feet wide apart, surveying the giant for some minutes. Then he said, "Good is guesting on a journey. We offer some smoked salmon. But what have you?"

	"The name's Skrymir, buddy. I got some bread and dried dragon meat. Say, ain't you Thor Odinnsson, the hammer thrower?"

	"That is not incorrect."

	"Boy, oh, boy, ain't that something?" The giant made a horrible face that was probably intended for a friendly grin. He reached around for a bag that hung at his back and sitting down in front of the shelter, opened it. Shea got a better view of him, though not one that inspired a more favourable impression. The monster's long grey hair was done up in a topknot with bone skewers stuck through it. He was dressed entirely in furs, of which the cloak must have come from the grandfather of all the bears, though it was none too large for him.

	Skrymir rook from his bag a slab of Norse bread the size of a mattress, and several hunks of leathery grey meat. These he slapped down in front of the travellers. "All right, youse guys help yourselves," he rumbled. "Let's see some of that salmon, huh?"

	Thjalfi mutely handed over a piece of the salmon on which the giant set noisily to work. He drooled, now and then wiping his face with the back of his huge paw, and getting himself well smeared with salmon grease.

	Shea found he had to break up his portion of the bread with his knife-handle before he could manage it, so hard was the material. The dragon meat was a little easier, but still required some hard chewing, and his jaw muscles were sore from the bearing they had taken in the last twenty-four hours. The dragon meat had a pungent, garlicky flavour that he didn't care for.

	As Shea gnawed he saw a louse the size of a cockroach crawl out from the upper edge of one of Skrymir's black fur leggings, amble around a bit in the jungle of hair below the giant's knee, and stroll back into its sanctuary. Shea almost gagged. His appetite tapered off, though presently it returned. After what he had been through lately, it would take more than a single louse to spoil his interest in food for any length of time. What the hell?

	Loki, grinning slyly, asked: "Are there turnips in your bag, Hairy One?"

	Skrymir frowned. "Turnips? Naw. Whatcha want with 'em?"

	"Our warlock" — Loki jerked his thumb at Shea — "eats them."

	"What-a-at? No kiddin'!" roared the giant. "I heard of guys that eat bugs and drink cow's milk, but I ain't never heard of nobody what eats turnips."

	Shea said: "That's how I get some of my magic powers," with a somewhat sickly smile, and felt he had come out of it fairly well.

	Skrymir belched. It was not an ordinary run-of-the-mine belch, but something akin to a natural cataclysm. Shea tried to hold his breath until the air cleared. The giant settled himself and inquired: "Say, how come youse is travelling in Jötunheim?"

	"The Wing Thor travels where he will," observed Loki loftily, but with a side glance.

	"Aw right, aw right, butcha don't have to get snotty about it. I just was thinking there's some relations of Hrungnir and Geirröd that was laying for Thor. They'd just love to have a chance to get even witcha for bumping off those giants."

	Thor rumbled: "Few will be more pleased than I to meet —"

	But Loki interrupted: "Thank you for the warning, friend Skrymir. Good is the guesting when men are friendly. We will do as much for you one of these days. Will you have more salmon?"

	"Naw, I had all I want."

	Loki continued silkily, "Would it be impertinence to ask whither your giantship is bound?"

	"Aw, I'm going up to Utgard. Utgardaloki's throwing a big feed for all the giants."

	"Great and glorious will be that feasting."

	"You're damn right it'll be great. All the hill giants and frost giants and fire giants together at once say, that's something!"

	"It would give us pleasure to see it. If we went as guests of so formidable a giant as yourself, none of Hrungnir's or Geirröd's friends would dare make trouble, would they?"

	Skrymir showed his snags in a pleased grin. "Them punks? Haw, they wouldn't do nothing." He picked his teeth thoughtfully with thumb and forefinger. "Yeah, I guess you can come. The big boss, Utgardaloki, is a good guy and a friend of mine. So you won't have no trouble. If youse'll clear outta my glove, we can start right now."

	"What? All four spoke at once.

	"Yeah. My glove, that's what you slept in."

	The implications of this statement were so alarming that the four travellers picked up their belongings and scrambled out of the shelter with ludicrous haste — the mighty Thor included.

-

	The rain had ceased. Ragged serpents of mist, pearly against the darker grey of the clouds, crawled over the hills. Outside, the travellers looked back at their shelter. There was no question that it was an enormous glove.

	Skrymir grasped the upper edge of the opening with his left hand and thrust the right into the erstwhile dwelling. From where he stood, Shea couldn't see whether the big glove had shrink to fit or whether it had faded out of sight and been replaced by a smaller one. At the same time he became suddenly conscious of the fact that he was wet to the skin.

	Before he had a chance to think over the meaning of these facts, Thor was bellowing at him to help get the chariot loaded.

	When he was sitting hunched upon the chest and swaying to the movement of the cart, Thjalfi murmured to him: "I knew Loki would get around the Hairy One. When it's something that calls for smartness, ye can depend on Uncle Fox, I always say."

	Shea nodded silently and sneezed. He'd be lucky if he didn't come down with a first-class cold, riding in these wet garments. The landscape was wilder and bleaker around them than even on the previous day's journey. Ahead Skrymir tramped along, the bag on his back swaying with his strides, his sour sweat smell wafting back over the chariot.

	Wet garments. Why? The rain had stopped when they emerged from that monstrous glove. There was something peculiar about the whole business of that glove. The others, including the two gods, had unhesitatingly accepted its huge size as an indication that Skrymir was even larger and more powerful than he seemed. He was undoubtedly a giant — but hardly that much of a giant. Shea supposed that although the world he was in did not respond to the natural laws of that from which he had come, there was no reason to conceive that the laws of illusion had changed. He had studied psychology enough to know something of the standard methods used by stage magicians. But others, unfamiliar both with such methods and the technique of modem thought, would not think of criticizing observation with pure logic. For that matter, they would not think of questioning the evidence of observation — "You know," he whispered suddenly to Thjalfi, "I just wonder whether Loki is as clever as he thinks, and whether Skrymir isn't smarter than he pretends."

	The servant of gods gave him a startled glance. "A mighty strange word is that. Why?"

	"Well, didn't you say the giants would be fighting against the gods when this big smash comes?"

	"Truly I did:

-

High blows Heimdall.               The horn is aloft;
The ash shall shake          And the rime-giants ride
On the roads of Hell —

-

	Leastways that's what Voluspö says, the words of the prophetess."

	"Then isn't Skrymir a shade too friendly with someone he's going to fight?"

	Thjalfi gave a barking laugh. "Ye don't know much about Öku-Thor to say that. This Skrymir may be big, but Red-beard has his strength belt on. He could twist that there giant right up, snip-snap."

	Shea sighed, But he tried once more. "Well, look here, did you notice that when Skrymir put his glove on, your clothes got wet all of a sudden?"

	"Why, yes now that I think of it."

	"My idea is that there wasn't any giant glove there at all. It was an illusion, a magic, to scare us. We really slept in the open without knowing it, and got soaked. But whoever magicked us did a good job, so we didn't feel the wet till the spell was off and the big glove disappeared."

	"Maybe so. But how does it signify?"

	"It signified that Skrymir didn't blunder into us by accident. It was a put-up job."

	The rustic scratched his head in puzzlement. "Seems to me ye're being a little mite fancy, friend Harald." He looked around. "I wish we had Heimdall along. He can see a hundred leagues in the dark and hear the wool growing on a sheep's back. But 'twouldn't do to have him and Uncle Fox together. Thor's the only one of the Æsir that can stand Uncle Fox."

	Shea shivered. "Say, friend Harald," offered Thjalfi, "how would ye like to run a few steps to warm up?"

	Shea soon learned that Thjalfi's idea of warming up did not consist merely of dogtrotting behind the chariot, "We'll race to yonder boulder and back to the chariot," he said. "Be ye ready? Get set; go! Before Shea fairly got into his stride, his woollen flapping around him, Thjalfi was halfway to the boulder, gravel flying under his shoes, and clothes fluttering stiffly behind him like a flag in a gale. Shea had not covered half the distance when Thjalfi passed him, grinning, on the way back. He had always considered himself a good runner, but against this human antelope it was no contest. Wasn't there anything in which he could hold his own against these people?

-

	Thjalfi helped pull him over the tail of the chariot. "Ye do a little better than most runners, friend Harald," he said with the cheerfulness of superiority. "But I thought I'd give ye a little surprise, seeing as how maybe ye hadn't heard about my running. But" — he lowered his voice — "don't let Uncle Fox get ye into any contests. He'll make a wager and collect it out of your hide. Ye got to watch him that way."

	"What's Loki's game, anyway?" asked Shea. "I heard Heimdall suggesting he might be on the other side at the big fight."

	Thjalfi shrugged. "That there Child of Fury gets a little mite hasty about Loki. Guess he'd turn upon the right side all right, but he's a queer one. Always up to something, sometimes good, sometimes bad, and he won't let anyone boss him. There's a lay about him, the Lokasenna, ye know:

-

I say to the gods                        And the Sons of gods
The things that whet my thoughts;
By the wells of the world        There is none with the might
To make me do his will."

-

	That agreed fairly well with the opinion Shea had formed of the enigmatic Uncle Fox. He would have liked to discuss the matter with Thjalfi. But he found that while he could form such concepts as delayed adolescence, superego, and sadism readily enough, he could think of no words to express them. If he wanted to be a practising psychologist in this world, he would have to invent a whole terminology for the science.

	He sneezed some more. He was catching cold. His nose clogged, and his eyes ran. The temperature was going down, and an icy breeze had risen that did nothing to add to his happiness.

	They lunched without stopping, as they had on the previous day. As the puddles of the thaw began to develop crystals and the chariot wheels began to crunch, Shea blew on his mittens and slapped himself. Thjalfi looked sympathetic. "Be ye really cold, friend Harald?" he said. "This is barely freezing. A few years back we had a winter so cold that when we made a fire in the open, flames froze solid. I broke off some pieces and for the rest of the winter, whenever we wanted a fire, I used one of them pieces to light it with. Would 'a' come in might handy this morning. My uncle Einarr traded off some as amber."

	It was told with so straight a countenance, that Shea was not quite certain he was being kidded. In this world it might happen.

	The terrible afternoon finally waned. Skrymir was walking with head up now, looking around him. The giant waved towards a black spot on the side of a hill. "Hey, youse, there's a cave," he said. "Whatcha say we camp in there, huh?"

	Thor looked around. "It is not too dark for more of progress."

	Loki spoke up. "Not untrue, Powerful One, Yet I fear our warlock must soon freeze to an ice bone. We should have to pack him in boughs lest pieces chip off, ha-ha!"

	"Oh, dote bide be," said Shea. "I can stad it." Perhaps he could; at least if they went on he wouldn't have to manhandle that chest halfway up the hill.

	He was overruled, but, after all, did nor have to carry the chest. When the chariot had been parked at the edge of a snowdrift, Skrymir took that bulky object under one arm and led the way up the stony slope to the cave mouth.

	"Could you get us fire?" Thor asked Skrymir.

	"Sure thing, buddy." Skrymir strode down to a clump of small trees, pulled up a couple by the roots, and breaking them across his knee laid them for burning.

-

	Shea put his head into the cave. At first he was conscious of nothing but the rocky gloom. Then he sniffed. He hadn't been able to smell anything — not even Skrymir — for some hours, but now an odour pricked through the veil of his cold. A familiar odour — chlorine gas! What — "Hey, you," roared Skrymir behind him. Shea jumped a foot. "Get the hell outta my way."

	Shea got. Skrymir put his head down and whistled. At least he did what would have been called a whistle in a human being. From his lips it sounded more like an air-raid warning.

	A little man about three feet tall, with a beard that made him look like a miniature Santa Claus, appeared at the mouth of the cave. He had a pointed hood, and the tail of his beard was tucked into his belt.

	"Hey, you," said Skrymir. "Let's have some fire. Make it snappy." He pointed to the pile of logs and brush in front of the cave mouth.

	"Yes, sir," said the dwarf. He toddled over to the pile and produced a coppery-looking bar out of his jacket. Shea watched the process with interest, but just then Loki tucked an icicle down his back, and when Shea had extracted it the fire was already burning with a hiss of damp wood.

	The dwarf spoke up in a little chirping voice. "You are not planning to camp here, are you?"

	"Yeah," replied Skrymir. "Now beat it."

	"Oh, but you must not —"

	"Shut up!" bellowed the giant. "We camp where we damn please."

	"Yessir. Thank you, sir. Anything else, sir?"

	"Naw. Go on, beat it, before I step on you."

	The dwarf vanished into the cave. They got their belongings out and disposed themselves around the fire, which took a long time to grow. The setting sun broke through the clouds for a minute and smeared them with streaks of lurid vermilion. To Shea's imagination, the clouds took on the form of apocalyptic monsters. Far in the distance he heard the cry of a wolf.

	Thjalfi looked up suddenly, frowning. "What's that noise?"

	"What noise?" said Thor. Then he jumped up — he had been sitting with his back to the cave mouth — and spun around. "Hai, Clever One, our cave is already not untenanted!" He backed away slowly. From the depths of the cave there came a hiss like that of a steam-pipe leak, followed by a harsh, metallic cry.

	"A dragon!" cried Thjalfi. A puff of yellow gas from the cave set them all coughing. A scrape of scales, a rattle of loose stones, and in the dark a pair of yellow eyes the size of dinner plates caught the reflection of the fire.

	Æsir, giant, and Thjalfi shouted incoherently, grabbing for whatever might serve as a weapon.

	"Here, I cad take care of hib!" cried Shea, forgetting his previous reasoning. He pulled out the revolver. As the great snakelike head came into view in the firelight, he aimed at one of the eyes and pulled the trigger.

	The hammer clicked harmlessly. He tried again and again, click, click. The jaws came open with a reek of chlorine.

	Harold Shea stumbled back. There was a flash of movement past his head. The butt end of a young tree, wielded by Skrymir, swished down on the beast's head.

	The eyes rolled. The head half turned towards the giant. Thor leaped in with a roaring yell, and let fly a right hook that would have demolished Joe Louis. There was a crunch of snapping bones; the fist sank right into the reptile's face. With a scream like that of a disembowelled horse the head vanished into the cave.

	Thjalfi helped Shea up. "Now maybe ye can see," remarked the servant of gods, "why Skrymir would as lief not take chances with the Lord of the Goats." He chuckled. "That there dragon's going to have him a toothache next spring — if there is any spring before the Time."

	The dwarf popped out again. "Hai, Skrymir!"

	"Huh?"

	"I tried to warn you that a fire would bring the dragon out of hibernation. But you wouldn't listen. Think you're smart, don't you? Yah! Yah! Yah!" The vest-pocket Santa Claus capered in the cave mouth for an instant, thumbing his nose with both hands. He vanished as Skrymir picked up a stone to throw.

	The giant lumbered over to the cave and felt around inside.

	"Never catch the little totrug now. They have burrows all through these hills," he observed gloomily.

-

	The evening meal was eaten in a silence made more pointed for Shea by the fact that he felt it was mostly directed at himself. He ought to have known better, he told himself bitterly.

	In fact, he ought to have known better than to embark on such an expedition at all. Adventure! Romance! Bosh! As for the dream-girl whose fancied image he had once in a rash moment described to Walter Bayard, those he had seen in this miserable dump were like lady wrestlers. If he could have used the formulas to return instantly, he would.

	But he could not. That was the point. The formulas didn't exist any more, as far as he was concerned. Nothing existed but the bleak, snowbound hillside, the nauseating giant, the two Æsir and their servant regarding him with aversion. There was nothing he could do —

	Whoa, Shea, steady, he remarked to himself. You're talking yourself into a state of melancholy, which is, as Chalmers once remarked, of no philosophical or practical value. Too bad old Doc wasn't along, to furnish a mature intellect and civilized company. The intelligent thing to do, was not to bemoan the past but to live in the present. He lacked the physical equipment to imitate Thor's forthright approach to problems. But he could at least come somewhere near Loki's sardonic and intelligent humour.

	And speaking of intelligence, had he not already decided to make use of it in discovering the laws of this world? Laws which these people were not fitted, by their mental habit, to deduce?

	He turned suddenly and asked: "Didn't that dwarf say the fire fetched the dragon our of hibernation?"

	Skrymir yawned, and spoke. "Yeah. What about it, snotty?"

	"The fire's still here. What if he, or another one comes back during the night?"

	"Prob'ly eat you, and serve you right." He cackled a laugh.

	"The niggeling speaks sooth," said Loki. "It were best to move our camp."

	The accent of contempt in the voice made Shea wince. But he went on: "We don't have to do that, do we, sir? It's freezing now and getting colder. If we take some of that Snow and stuff it into the cave, it seems to me the dragon would hardly come out across it."

	Loki slapped a knee. "Soundly and well said, turnip-man! Now you and Thjalfi shall do it. I perceive you are not altogether without your uses, since there has been a certain gain in wit since you joined our party. Who would have thought of stopping a dragon with snow?"

	Thor grunted.

Chapter Six

	When Shea awoke he was still sniffling, but at least his head was of normal weight. He wondered whether the chlorine he had inhaled the previous evening might not have helped the cold. Or whether the improvement were a general one, based on his determination to accept his surroundings and make the most of them.

	After breakfast they set out as before, Skrymir tramping on ahead. The sky was the colour of old lead. The wind was keen, rattling the branches of the scrubby trees and whirling an occasional snowflake before it. The goats slipped on patches of frozen slush, plodding uphill most of the time. The hills were all about them now, rising steadily and with more vegetation, mostly pine and spruce.

	It must have been around noon—Shea could only guess at the time — when Skrymir turned and waved at the biggest mountain they had yet seen. The wind carried away the giant's words, but Thor seemed to have understood. The goats quickened their pace towards the mountain, whose top hung in cloud.

	After a good hour of climbing, Shea began to get glimpses of a shape looming from the bare crest, intermittently blotted out by the eddies of mist. When they were close enough to see it plainly, it became clearly a house, not unlike that of the bonder Sverre. But it was cruder, made of logs with the bark on, and vastly bigger — as big as a metropolitan railroad terminal.

	Thjalfi said into his ear: "That will be Utgard Castle. Ye'll need whatever mite of courage ye have here, friend Harald." The young man's teeth were chattering from something other than cold.

	Skrymir lurched up to the door and pounded on it with his fist. He stood there for a long minute, the wind flapping his furs. A rectangular hole opened in the door. The door swung open. The chariot riders climbed down, stretching their stiff muscles as they followed their guide. The door banged shut behind them. They were in a dark vestibule like that in Sverre's house but larger and foul with the odour of unwashed giant. A huge arm pushed the leather curtain aside, revealing through the triangular opening a view of roaring yellow flame and thronging, shouting giants.

	Thjalfi murmured: "Keep your eyes open, Harald. As Thjodolf of Hvin says:

-

All the gateways                 Ere one goes out
Thoughtfully should a man scan;
Uncertain it is          Where sits the unfriendly
Upon the bench before thee."

-

	Within, the place was a disorderly parody of Sverre's. Of the same general form, with the same benches, its tables were all uneven, filthy, and littered with fragments of food. The fire in the centre hung a pall of smoke under the rafters. The dirty straw on the floor was thick about the ankles.

	The benches and the passageway behind them were filled with giants, drinking, eating, shouting at the tops of their voices. Before him a group of six, with iron-grey topknots and patchy beards like Skrymir's, were wrangling. One drew back his arm in anger. His elbow struck a mug of mead borne by a harassed-looking man who was evidently a thrall. The mead splashed onto another giant, who instantly snatched up a bowl of stew from the table and slammed it on the man's head.

	Down went the man with a squeal. Skrymir calmly kicked him from the path of his guests. The six giants burst into bubbling laughter, rolling in their seats and clapping each other on the back, their argument forgotten.

	"Hai, Skridbaldnir!" Skrymir was gripping another giant on the bench by the arm. "How's every little thing wit' you? Commere, I wantcha to meet a friend of mine. This here guy's Asa-Thor!"

	Skridbaldnir turned. Shea noticed that he was slenderer than Skrymir, with ash-blond hair, the pink eyes of an albino, and a long, red ulcerated nose.

	"He's a frost giant," whispered Thjalfi, "and that gang over there are fire giants." He waved a trembling hand towards the other side of the table, where a group of individuals like taller and straighter gorillas were howling at each other. They were shorter than the other giants, not much more than eight feet tall. They had prognathous jaws and coarse black hair where their bodies were exposed. They scratched ceaselessly.

	Halfway down the hall, at one side, sat the biggest hill giant of all, in a huge chair with interwoven serpents carved on the legs and arms. His costume was distinguished from those of the other giants in that the bone skewers through his topknot had rough gold knobs on their ends. One of his lower snag teeth projected for several inches beyond his upper lip. He looked at Skrymir and said: "Hai, bud. I see you got some kids witcha. It ain't a good idea to bring kids to these feeds; they learns bad language."

	"They ain't kids," said Skrymir. They're a couple of men and a couple of Æsir. I told 'em they could come wit' me. That okay, boss?"

	Utgardaloki picked his nose and wiped his fingers on his greasy leather jacket before replying; "I guess so. But ain't that one with the red whiskers Asa-Thor?"

	"You are not mistaken," said Thor.

	"Well, well, you don't say so. I always thought Thor was a big husky guy."

	Thor stuck out his chest, scowling. "It is ill to jest with the Æsir, giant."

	"Ho, ho, ain't he the cutest little fella?" Utgardaloki paused to capture a small creeping thing that had crawled out of his left eyebrow and crack it between his teeth.

	"A fair arrangement," murmured Loki in Shea's ear. "They live on him; he lives on them."

	Utgardaloki continued ominously: "But whatcha doing here, you? This is a respectable party, see, and I don't want no trouble."

	Thor said; "I have come for my hammer, Mjöllnir."

	"Huh? What makes ya think we got it?"

	"Ask not of the tree where it got its growth or of the gods their wisdom. Will you give it up, or do I have to fight you for it?"

	"Aw, don't be like that, Öku-Thor. Sure, I'd give you your piddling nutcracker if I knew where it was."

	"Nutcracker! Why you —"

	"Easy!" Shea could hear Loki's whisper. "Son of Odinn, with the strong use strength; with the liar, lies." He turned to Utgardaloki and bowed mockingly: "Chief of giants, we thank you for your courtesy and will not trouble you long. Trusting your word, lord, are we to understand that Mjöllnir is not here?"

	"'Taint here as far as I know," replied Utgardaloki, spitting on the floor and rubbing his bare foot over the spot, with just a hint of uneasiness.

	"Might it not have been brought hither without your knowledge?"

	Utgardaloki shrugged. "How in hell should I know? I said as far as I knew. This is a hell of a way to come at your host."

	"Evidently there is no objection should the desire come upon us to search the place."

	"Huh? You're damn right there's objections! This is my joint and I don't let no foreigners go sniffing around."

	Loki smiled ingratiatingly. "Greatest of the Jötun, your objection is but natural with one who knows his own value. But the gods do not idly speak; we believe Mjöllnir is here, and have come in peace to ask it, rather than in arms with Odinn and his spear at our head, Heimdall and his great sword and Ullr's deadly bow. Now you shall let us search for the hammer, or we will go away and return with them to make you such a feasting as you will not soon forget. But if we fail to find it we will depart in all peace. This is my word."

	"And mine!" cried Thor, his brows knitting. Beside him Shea noticed Thjalfi's face go the colour of skimmed milk and was slightly surprised to find himself unafraid. But that may be because I don't understand the situation, he told himself.

	Utgardaloki scratched thoughtfully, his lips working. "Tell you what," he said at last. "You Æsir are sporting gents, ain't you?"

	"It is not to be denied," said Loki guardedly "that we enjoy sports."

	"I'll make you a sporting proposition. You think you are great athletes. Well, we got some pretty tough babies here, too. We'll have some games, and if you beat us at even one of 'em; see, I'll let you go ahead and search. If you lose, out you get."

	"What manner of games?"

	"Hell, sonny, anything youse want."

	Thor's face had gone thoughtful. "I am not unknown as a wrestler," he remarked.

	"Awright," said Utgardaloki. "We'll find someone to rassle you down. Can you do anything else?"

	Loki spoke up. "I will meet your best champion at eating and our man Thjalfi here will run a race with you. Asa-Thor also will undertake any trial of strength you care to hold."

	"Swell. Me, I think these games are kid stuff, see? But it ought to be fun for some of the gang to see you take your licking. HAI! Bring Elli up here; here's a punk that wants to rassle!"

	With a good deal of shouting and confusion a space was cleared near the Fire in the centre of the hall. Thor stood with fists on hips, waiting the giant's champion There came forward, not a giant, but a tall old woman. She was at least a hundred, a hunched bag of bones covered by thin, almost transparent skin, as wrinkled as the surface of a file.

	Thor shouted: "What manner of jest is this, Utgardaloki? It is not to be said that Asa-Thor wrestles with women."
"Oh, don't worry none, kid. She likes it don'tcha, Elli?"

	The crone bared toothless gums. "Yep," she quavered. "And many's the good man I put down, heh, heh."

	"But—" began Thor.

	"Y'aint scared to work up a reputation, are you?"

	"Ha! Thor afraid? Not of aught the giant kindred can do." Thor puffed out his chest.

	"I gotta explain the rules." Utgardaloki put a hand on the shoulder of each contestant and muttered at them.

	Shea felt his arm pinched and looked into the bright eyes of Loki. "Great and evil is the magic in this place," whispered Uncle Fox, "and I misdoubt me we are to be tricked, for never have I heard of such a wrestling. But it may be that the spells they use are spells against gods alone and not for the eyes of men. Now I have here a spell against spells, and while these contests go forward you shall take it." He handed Shea a piece of very thin parchment, covered with spidery runic writing.

	"Repeat it forward, then backward, then forward again, looking as you do at the object you suspect of being an illusion. It may be you will see on the wall the hammer we seek.

	"Wouldn't the giants hide it away, sir?"

	Not with their boasting and vainglorious habit. It —"

	"Awright," said Utgardaloki in a huge voice, "go!"

	Thor, roaring like a lion, seized Elli as though he intended to dash her brains out on the floor. But Elli might have been nailed where she was. Her rickety frame did not budge. Thor fell silent, wrenching at the crone's arms and body. He turned purple in the face from the effort; the giants around murmured appreciatively.

	Shea glanced at the slip Loki had given him. The words were readable, though they seemed to consist of meaningless strings of syllables — "Nyi — Nidi — Nordri — Sudri, Austri — Vestri — Altjof — Dvalinn." He obediently repeated it according to the directions, looking at a giant's club that hung on the wall. It remained a giant's club. He turned back to the wrestling where Thor was puffing with effort, his forehead beaded with sweat.

	"Witch!" Thor shouted at last, and seized her arm to twist it. Elli caught his neck with her free hand. There was a second's scuffle and Thor skidded away, falling to one knee.

	"That's enough!" said Utgardaloki, stepping between them. "That counts as a fall; Elli wins. I guess it's a good job you didn't try to rassle with any of the big guys here, Thor, old kid?" The other giants roared an approval that drowned Thor's growl.

	Utgardaloki continued: "Awright, you, stand back! Get back, I say, or I'll cut the blood-eagle on a couple of you! Next event's an eating contest. Bring Loki up here. We got some eating for him to do."

	A fire giant shuffled through the press. His black hair had a reddish tinge, and his movements were quick and animal-like. Is it lunch time yet?" he rasped. "Them three elk let for breakfast just kinda got my appetite going."

	Utgardaloki explained and introduced him to his opponent. Please to meetcha," said Logi. "I always like to see a guy what appreciates good food. Say, you ought come down to Muspellheim sometime. We got a cook there what knows how to roast a whale right. He uses charcoal fire and bastes it with bear grease —"

	"That'll do, Logi," said Utgardaloki. You get that guy talking about the meals he's et and he'll talk till the Time comes."

	Shea was pushed back by giants as they crowded in. An eddy of the crowd carried him still farther away from the scene of action as the giants made way for a little procession of harried-looking slaves. These bore two huge wooden platters, on each of which rested an entire roasted elk haunch. Shea stood on tiptoe and stretched Between a pair of massive shoulders he glimpsed Utgardaloki taking his place at the middle of a long table, at each end of which sat one of the contestants.

	A shoulder moved across Shea's field of vision, and he glanced up at the owner. It was a comparatively short giant, who bulged out in the middle to make up for his lack of stature. A disorderly mop of black-and-white hair covered his head. But the thing that struck Shea was that, as the giant turned profile to watch the eaters, the eye that looked from under the piebald thatch was bright blue.

	That was wrong. Fire giants, as he had noted, had black eyes, hill giants grey or black eyes, frost giants pink. Of course, this giant might have a trace of some other blood — but there was a familiar angle to that long, high-bridged nose and something phony-looking about the mop of hair. Heimdall!

	Shea whispered behind his hand: "How many mothers did you have, giant with the uncombed thatch?"

	He heard a low chuckle and the answer came back: Thrice three, man from an unknown world! But there is no need to shout; I can hear your lightest whisper, even your thoughts half formed."

	"I think we're being tricked," continued Shea. He didn't say it even in a whisper this time, merely thought it, moving his lips.

	The answer was pat: "That is what was to be expected, and for no other reason did I come hither. Yet I have not solved the nature of the spells."

	Shea said; "I have been taught a spell" — and remembered Heimdall's enmity to Loki and all his works, just in time to keep from mentioning Uncle Fox — "which may be of use in such a case."

	"Then use it," Heimdall answered, "while you watch the contest."

	"Awright, ready, you two?" Utgardaloki shouted. "Go!"

	The giants gave a shout. Shea, his eyes fixed on Loki, was repeating: "Nyi — Nidri — Nordri — Sudri." The sly god bounced in his oversize chair as he applied his teeth to the elk haunch. The meat was disappearing a hunks the size of a mans fist at the rate of two hunks per second. Shea had never seen anything like it, and wondered where Loki was putting it all. He heard Thjalfi's voice, thin in the basso-profundo clamour of the giants: "Besit yourself, Son of Laufey!!"

	Then the bone, the size of a baseball bat, was clean. Loki dropped it clattering to the platter and sat back with a sigh. A whoop went up from the assembled giants. Shea saw Loki start forward again, the eyes popping from his head. Utgardaloki walked to the opposite end of the table. He bellowed; Logi wins!"

	Shea turned to look at the other contestant. But his head bumped a giant's elbow so violently that he saw stars. His eyes beaded with tears. For one fleeting second he saw no Logi there at all, only a great leaping flame at the opposite end of the table. A flicker — the teardrop was gone, and with it the picture.

	Logi sat contentedly at the other end of the table, and Loki was crying: "He finished no sooner than myself!"

	"Yeah, sonny boy, but he et the bone and the platter too. I said Logi wins!" boomed Utgardaloki.

	"Heimdall!" Shea said it so loud that the god thrust a hand towards him. Fortunately the uproar around drowned his voice. "It is a trick an illusion. Logi is a flame."

	"Now, good luck go with your eyes, no-warlock and warlock. Warn Asa-Thor, and use your spell on whatever you can see, for it is more than ever important that the hammer be found. Surely, these tricks and sleights must mean the Time is even nearer than we think, and the giants are desirous not to see that weapon in the hands of Redbeard. Go!"

-

	Utgardaloki, posted on the table where the eating contest had been held was directing the clearing of a section of the hall. "The next event is a footrace," he was shouting. "You, shrimp!" — Utgardaloki pointed at Thjalfi. You're going to run against my son Hugi. Where is that young half-wit? Hugi!"

	"Here I am, pop." A gangling, adolescent giant wormed his way to the front. He had little forehead and less chin, and a crop of pimples the size of poker chips. "You want me to run against him? He, he, he!" Hugi drooled down his chin as he laughed.

	Shea ducked and dodged, squeezing through towards Thor, who was frowning with concentration as he watched the preparations for the race. Thjalfi and the drooling Hugi placed themselves at one end of the hall. "Go!" cried Utgardaloki, and they raced for the far end of the hall, a good three hundred yards away. Thjalfi went like the wind, but Hugi went like a bullet. By the time Thjalfi had reached the far end his opponent was halfway back.

	"Hugi wins first heat!" roared Utgardaloki above a tornado of sound. "It's two outta three."

	The crowd loosened a little as the contestants caught their breath. Shea found himself beside Thor and Loki.

	"Hai, Turnip Harald," rumbled the Redbeard, where have you been?"

	"It is more like anything else that he has been concealed under a table like a mouse," remarked Loki, but Shea was too full of his news to resent anything.

	"They're trying to put over tricks on you on — us," he burst out. "All these contests are illusions."

	He could see Thor's lips curl. "Your warlock can see deeper into a millstone than most," growled he angrily to Loki.

	"No, but I mean it, really." Hugi had just passed them to take his place for the second heat, the hall's huge central fire on the other side. "Look," said Shea. "That runner of theirs. He casts no shadow!"

	Thor glanced and as comprehension spread across his features, turned purple. But just then Utgardaloki cried "Go!" again, and the second race was on. It was a repetition of the first. Utgardaloki announced over a delighted uproar that Hugi was the winner.

	"I am to pick up their damned cat next," growled Thor. "If that be another trick of theirs, I'll —"

	"Not so loudly," whispered Loki. "Soft and slow is the sly fox taken. Now, Thor, you shall try this cat-lifting as though nothing were amiss. But Harald here, who is only half subject to their spells because he is a mortal and without fear, shall search for Mjöllnir. Youngling, you are our hope and stay. Use the spell I gave you."

	A chorus of yells announced that Utgardaloki's cat had arrived. It was a huge beast, grey, and the size of a puma. But it did not look too big for the burly Thor to lift. It glared suspiciously at Thor and spat a little.

	Utgardaloki rumbled: "Quiet, you. Ain'tcha got no manners?" The cat subsided and allowed Thor to scratch it behind the ears, though with no appearance of pleasure.

	How had he seen through the illusion of the eating contest? Shea asked himself. A teardrop in the eye. Would he have to bang his head again to get another one? He closed his eyes and then opened them again, looking at Thor as he put an arm around the big cat's belly and heaved. No teardrop. The cats belly came up, but its four big paws remained firmly planted.

	How to induce a teardrop? A mug of mead stood on the table. Shea dipped a finger into the liquid and shook a drop into his eye. The alcohol burned and stung, and he could hear Thor's grunt and the whooping of the giants. He shook his head and opened the eye again. Through a film of tears, as he repeated "Sudri — Nordri — Nidi — Nyi —" It was not a cat Thor was lifting, but the middle part of a snake as big around as a barrel. There was no sign of head or tail; the visible section was of uniform thickness, going in one door of the hall and out the other.

	Loki!" he said. "That's not a cat. It's a giant snake that Thor's trying to lift!"

	"With a strange shimmering blackish cast over its scales?"

	"Yes; and no head or tail in sight."

	"Now, right good are your eyes, eater of turnips! That will be nothing less than the Midgard Serpent that curls round the earth! Surely we are surrounded by evil things. Hurry with the finding of the hammer, for this is now our only hope."

-

	Shea turned from the contest, making a desperate effort to concentrate. He looked at the nearest object, an aurochs skull on a pillar, tried another drop of mead in his eye and repeated the spell, forward, backward, and forward. No result. The skull was a skull. Thor was still grunting and heaving. Shea tried once more on a knife hanging at a giant's belt. No result.

	He looked at a quiver of arrows on the opposite wall and tried again. "The sweet mead was sticking his eyelashes together and he felt sure he would have a headache after this. The quiver blurred as he pronounced the words. He found himself looking at a short-handled sledge hammer hanging by a rawhide loop.

	Thor had given up the effort to lift the cat and came over to them, panting. Utgardaloki grinned down at him with the indulgence one might show a child. All around the giants were breaking up into little groups and calling for more drink.

	"Want any more, sonny boy?" the giant chieftain sneered. "Guess you ain't so damn good as you thought you was, huh?"

	Shea plucked at Thor's sleeve as the latter flushed and started to retort. "Can you call your hammer to you?" he whispered.

	The giant's ear caught the words. "Beat it, thrall," he said belligerently. "We got business to settle and I won't have no snotty little mortals butting in. Now, Asa-Thor, do you want any more contests?"

	"I —" began Thor again.

	Shea clung to his arm. "Can you?" he demanded.

	"Aye, if it be in view."

	"I said get outta here, punk!" bellowed Utgardaloki, the rough good nature vanishing from his face. He raised an arm like a tree trunk.

	"Point at that quiver of arrows and call!" shouted Shea. He dodged behind Thor as the giant's arm descended. The blow missed. He scuttled among the crowding monsters, hitting his head against the pommel of a giant's sword. Utgardaloki was roaring behind him. He ducked under a table and past some foul-smelling fire giants. He heard a clang of metal as Thor pulled on the iron gloves he carried at his belt. Then over all other sounds rose the voice of the red-bearded god, making even Utgardaloki's voice sound like a whisper:

	"Mjöllnir the mighty, slayer of miscreants, come to your master, Thor Odinnsson!"

	For a few breathless seconds the hall hung in suspended animation. Shea could see a giant just in front of him with mouth wide open, Adam's apple rising and falling. Then there was a rending snap. With a deep humming, the hammer that had seemed a quiver of arrows flew straight through the air into Thor's hands.

	There was a deafening yell from the swarms of giants They swayed back, then forward, squeezing Shea so tightly he could hardly breathe. High over the tumult rose the voice of Thor:

	"I am Thor! I am the Thunderer! Ho, ho, hohoho, yoyoho!" The hammer was whirling round his head in a blur, sparks dancing round it. Level flashes of lightning cracked across the hall followed by deafening peals of thunder. There was a shriek from the giants and a rush towards the doors.

	Shea shot one glimpse as the hammer flew at Utgardaloki and spattered his brains into pink oatmeal, rebounding back into Thor's gloves. Then he was caught completely in the panic rush and almost squeezed to death. Fortunately for him, the giants on either side wedged him so tightly he couldn't fall to be trampled.

	The pressure suddenly gave way in front. Shea caught the giant ahead of him around the waist and hung on. Behind came Thor's battle howl, mingled with constant thunder and the sound of the hammer shattering giant skulls — a noise that in a calmer moment Shea might have compared to that made by dropping a watermelon ten storeys. The Wielder of Mjöllnir was thoroughly enjoying himself; his shouts were like the noise of a happy express train.

	Shea found himself outside and running across damp moss in the middle of hundreds of galloping giants and thralls. He dared not stop lest he be stepped on. An outcrop of rock made him swerve. As he did so he caught sight of Utgard. There was already a yawning gap at one end of the roof. The central beam split; a spear of blue-green lightning shot skyward, and the place began to burn brightly around the edges of the rent.

	A clump of trees cut off the view. Shea ran downhill with giants still all around him. One of the group just ahead missed his footing and went rolling. Before Shea could stop, he had tripped across the fellow's legs, his face ploughing up cold dirt and pine needles. A giant's voice shouted: Hey, gang! Look at this!"

	"Now they've got me," he thought. He rolled over, his head swimming from the jar. But it was not he they were interested in. The giant over whose legs he had fallen was Heimdall, his wig knocked askew to reveal a patch of golden hair. The straw with which he had stuffed his jacket was dribbling out. He was struggling to get up; around him a group of fire giants were gripping his arms and legs, kicking and cuffing at him. There was a babble of rough voices:

	"He's one of the Æsir, all right!" "Sock him!" "Let's get out of here!" "Which one is he?" "Get the horses!"

	If he could get away, Shea thought, he could at least take news of Heimdall's plight to Thor. He started to crawl behind the projecting root of a tree, but the movement was fatal. One of the fire giants hallooed: "There's another one!"

	Shea was caught, jerked upright, and inspected by half a dozen of the filthy gorilla-like beings. They took particular delight in palling his hair and ears.

	"Aw," said one of them, "he's no As. Bump him off and let's get t' hell out of here."

	One of them loosened a knife at his belt. Shea felt a deadly constriction of fear around the heart. But the largest of the lot — leadership seemed to go with size in giantland — roared:

	"Lay off! He was with that yellow-headed stumper. Maybe he's one of the Vanir and we can get something for him. Anyway, it's up to Lord Sun. Where the hell are those horses?"

	At that moment more fire giants appeared, leading a group of horses. They were glossy black and bigger than the largest Percherons Shea had ever seen. Three hoofs were on each foot, as with the ancestral Miocene horse; their eyes glowed red like live coals and their breath made Shea cough. He remembered the phrase he had heard Heimdall whispering to Odinn in Sverre's house — "fire horses."

	One of the giants produced leather cords from a pouch. Shea and Heimdall were bound with brutal efficiency and tossed on the back of one of the horses, one hanging down on either side. The giants clucked to their mounts, which started off at a trot through the gathering dusk among the trees.

	Far behind them the thunders of Thor still rolled. From time to rime his distant lightnings cast sudden shadows along their path. The redbeard was certainly having fun.

Chapter Seven

	The agonizing hours that followed left little detailed impression on Harold Shea's mind — They would not, he told himself even while experiencing them. The impression was certainly painful while being undergone. There was nothing to see but misty darkness; nothing to feel but breakneck speed and the torment of his bonds. He could twist his head a little, but of their path could obtain no impression but now and then the ghost of a boulder or a clump of trees momentarily lit by the fiery eyes of the horses. Every time he thought of the speed they were making along the rough and winding route his stomach crawled and the muscles of his right leg tensed as he tried to apply an imaginary automobile brake.

	When the sky finally turned to its wearisome blotting-paper grey the air was a little warmer, though still raw. A light drizzle was sifting down. They were in a countryside of a type totally unfamiliar to Shea. A boundless plain of tumbled black rock rose here and there to cones of varying size. Some of the cones smoked, and little pennons of steam wafted from cracks in the basalt. The vegetation consisted mostly of clumps of small palmlike tree ferns in the depressions.

	They had slowed down to a fast trot, the horses picking their way over the ropy bands of old lava flows. Now and again one or more fire giants would detach themselves from the party and set off on a tangent to the main course.

	Finally, a score of the giants clustered around the horse that bore the prisoners, making towards a particularly large cone from whose flanks a number of smoke plumes rose through the drizzle. To Shea the fire giants still looked pretty much alike, but he had no difficulty in picking out the big authoritative one who had directed his capture.

	They halted in front of a gash in the rock. The giants dismounted, and one by one led their steeds through the opening. The animals' hoofs rang echoing on the rock floor of the passage, which sprang above their heads in a lofty vault till it suddenly ended with a right-angled turn. The cavalcade halted; Shea heard a banging of metal on metal, the creak of a rusty hinge, and a giant voice chat cried: "Whatcha want?"

	"It's the gang, back from Jötunheim. We got one of the Æsir and a Van. Tell Lord Surt." 

	"Howdja make out at Utgard?" 

	"Lousy. Thor showed up. He spotted the hammer somehow, the scum, and called it to him and busted things wide open. It was that smart-aleck Loki, I think." 

	"What was the matter with the Sons of the Wolf? They know what to do about old Red Whiskers."
 
	"Didn't show. I suppose we gotta wait for the Time for them to come around."

	The horses tramped on. As they passed the gatekeeper, Shea noticed that he held a sword along which flickered a yellow flame with thick, curling smoke rising from it, as though burning oil were running down the blade. Ahead and slanting downward, the place they had entered seemed an underground hall of vaguely huge proportions, full of great pillars. Flares of yellow light threw changing shadows as they moved. There was a stench of sulphur and a dull, machinelike banging. As the horses halted behind some pillars that grew together to make another passage, a thin shriek ulutated in the distance: "Eee-e-e."

	"Bring the prisoners along," said a voice. "Lord Surt wants to judge 'em."

	Shea felt himself removed and tucked under a giant's arm like a bundle. It was a method of progress that woke all the agonies in his body. The giant was carrying him face down, so that he could see nothing but the stone floor with its flickering shadows. The place stank.

	The door opened and there was a babble of giant voices. Shea was flung upright. He would have fallen if the giant who had been carrying him had not propped him up. He was in a torchlit hall, very hot, with fire giants standing all around grinning, pointing, and talking, some of them drinking.

	But he had no more than a glance for them. Right in front, facing him, flanked by two guards who carried the curious burning swords, sat the biggest giant of all — a giant dwarf. That is, he was a full giant in size, at least eleven feet tall, but with the squat bandy legs, the short arms and huge neckless head of a dwarf. His hair hung lank around the nastiest grin Shea had ever seen. When he spoke, the voice had not the rumble of the other giants, but a reedy, mocking falsetto:

	"Welcome, Lord Heimdall, to Muspellheim! We are delighted to have you here." He snickered. "I fear gods and men will be somewhat late in assembling for the battle without their horn blower. Hee, hee, hee. But, at least, we can give you the comforts of one of our best dungeons. If you must have music, we will provide a willow whistle. Hee, hee, hee. Surely so skilled a musician as yourself could make it heard throughout the nine worlds." He ended with another titter at his own humour.

	Heimdall kept his air of dignity. "Bold are your words, Surt," he replied, "but it is yet to be seen whether your deeds match them when you stand on Vigrid Plain. It may be that I have small power against you of the Muspellheim blood. Yet I have a brother named Frey, and it is said that if you two come face to face, he will be your master."

	Surt sucked two fingers to indicate his contempt. "Hee, hee, hee. It is also said, most stupid of godlings, that Frey is powerless without his sword. Would you like to know where the enchanted blade. Hundingsbana, is? Look behind you, Lord Heimdall!"

	Shea followed the direction of Heimdall's eyes. Sure enough, on the wall there hung a great two-handed sword, its blade gleaming brightly in that place of glooms, its hilt all worked with gold up to the jewelled pommel.

	"While it hangs up there, most stupid of Æsir, I am safe. Hee, hee, hee. Have you been wondering why that famous eyesight of yours did not light on it before? Now you know, most easily deceived. In Muspellheim, we have found the spells that make Heimdall powerless." 

	Heimdall was unimpressed. "Thor has his hammer back," he remarked easily. "Not a few of your fire giants' heads will bear witness if you can find them."

	Surt scowled and thrust his jaw forward hut his piping voice was as serene and mocking as before. "Now, that," he said really gives mean idea. I thank you, Lord Heimdall. Who would have thought it possible to learn anything from one of the Æsir? Hee, hee, hee. Skoa!" 

	A lop-eared fire giant shuffled forward "Whatcha want, boss?" 

	"Ride to the gates of Asgard. Tell them I have their horn tooter here. I will gladly send the nuisance back to his relatives; but in exchange I want that sword of his, the one they call Head. Hee, hee, hee. I am collecting gods' swords, and we shall see, Lord Heimdall, how you fare against the frost giants without yours." 

	He grinned all around his face and the fire giants in the background slapped their knees and whooped. "Pretty hot stuff, boss!" "Ain't he smart," "Two of the four great weapons!" "Boy, will we show 'em!" 

	Surt gazed at Shea and Heimdall for a moment, enjoying to the utmost the roar of appreciation and Heimdall's sudden pallor. Then he made a gesture of dismissal. "Take the animals away and put 'em in a dungeon before I die laughing." 

	Shea felt himself seized once more and carried off, face downward in the same ignominious position as before.

-

	Down — down — down they went, stumbling through the lurid semidark. At last they came to a passage lined with cells between whose bars the hollow eyes of previous arrivals stared at them. The stench had become overpowering.

	The commanding giant thundered: "Stegg!"

	There was a stir in an alcove at the far end of the passage, and out came a scaly being about five feet tall, with an oversize head decorated by a snub nose and a pair of long pointed ears. Instead of hair and beard it had wormlike excrescences on its head. They moved. The being squeaked:

	"Yes, Lord." 

	The giant said: "Got a couple more prisoners for you. Say, what stinks?" 

	"Please, lord, mortal him die. Five days gone." 

	"You lug! And you left him in there?" 

	"No lord here. Snögg say 'no', must have lord's orders to do —"

	"You damn nitwit! Take him out and give him to the furnace detail! Hai, wait, take care of these prisoners first. Hai, bolt the door, somebody. We don't take no chances with the Æsir." 

	Stegg set about efficiently stripping Shea and Heimdall. Shea wasn't especially afraid. So many extraordinary things had happened to him lately that the whole proceeding possessed an air of unreality. Besides, even the difficulties of such a place might not be beyond the resources of a well-applied brain.

	Stegg said: "Lord, must put in dead mortal's cell. No more. All full." 

	"Awright, get in there, youse." The giant gave Shea a cuff that almost knocked him flat and set him staggering towards the cell which Stegg had opened. Shea avoided the mass of corruption at one side and looked for a place to sit down. there was none. The only furnishings of any kind consisted of a bucket whose purpose was obvious.

	Heimdall followed him in, still wearing his high, imperturbable air. Stegg gathered up the corpse, went out, and slammed the door. The giant took hold of the bars and heaved on them. There was no visible lock or bolt, but the door stayed tight.

	"Oh, ho!" roared the giant. "Don't the Sleepless One look cute? When we get through with the other Æsir we'll come back and show you some fun. Have yourselves a time." With this farewell, the giants all tramped out.

	Fortunately the air was warm enough so Shea didn't mind the loss of his garments from a thermal point of view. Around them the dungeon was silent, save for a drip of water somewhere and the occasional rustle of a prisoner in his cell.

	Across from Shea there was a clank of chains. An emaciated figure with a wildly disordered beard shuffled up to the bars and screamed. "Yngvi is a louse!" and shuffled back again.

	"What means he?" Heimdall called out.

	From the right came a muffled answer: "None knows. He says it every hour. He is mad, as you will be." 

	"Cheerful place," remarked Shea.

	"Is it not?" agreed Heimdall readily. "Worse have I seen, but happily without being confined therein. I will say that for a mortal, your are not without spirit, Turnip Harald. Your demeanor likes me well." 

	"Thanks." Shea had not entirely forgotten his irritation over Heimdall's patronizing manner, but the Sleepless One held his interest more than the choleric and rather slow-witted Thor or the sneering Loki. "If you don't mind my asking, Golden One, why can't you just use your powers to get out?"

	"To all things there is a limit," replied Heimdall, "of size, of power, and of duration. Wide is the lifetime of a god; wider than of a thousand of your feeble species one after the other. Yet even gods grow old and die. Likewise, as to these fire giants and their chief, Surt, that worst of beings. I have not much strength. If my brother Frey were here now, or if we were among the frost giants, I could overcome the magic of that door."

	"How do you mean?"

	"It has no lock. Yet it will not open save when an authorized person pulls it and with intent to open. Look, now" — Heimdall pushed against the bars without effect — "if you will be quiet for awhile, I will try to see my way out of this place." 

	The Sleepless One leaned back against the wall, his eyes moving restlessly about. His body quivered with energy in spite of his relaxed position.

	"Not too well can I see," he announced after a few minutes. "There is so much magic here — fire magic of a kind both evil and difficult — that it hurts my head. Yet this much I see clearly: around us all is rock, with no entrance but the way by which we came. Beyond that there lies a passage with trolls to watch it. Ugh, disgusting creatures." The golden-haired god gave a shudder of repugnance.

	"Can you see beyond?" asked Shea.

	"A little. Beyond the trolls, a ledge sits over a pile of molten slag at the entrance of the hall where the flaming swords are forged, and then — and then" — his forehead contracted, his lips moved a trifle — "a giant sits by the pool of slag. No more can I see."

	Heimdall relapsed into gloomy silence. Shea felt considerable respect and some liking for him, but it is hard to be friendly with a god, even in a prison cell. Thjalfi's cheerful human warmth was missing.

	Stegg re-entered the cell hall. One of the prisoners called out: "Good Stegg, a little water, please; I die of thirst." 

	Stegg turned his head a rifle. "Dinner time soon, slave." The prisoner gave a yell of anger and shouted abuse at the troll, who continued down to his alcove in the most perfect indifference. Here he hoisted himself into a broken-down stool, dropped his chin on his chest, and apparently went to sleep.

	"Nice guy," said Shea.

	The prisoner across the way came to the front of his cell and shrieked, "Yngvi is a louse!" again.

	"The troll is not asleep," said Heimdall. "I can hear his thoughts, for he is of a race that can hardly think at all without moving the lips. But I cannot make them out. Harald, you see a thing that is uncommon; namely, one of the Æsir confessing he is beaten. But there is this to be said: if we are held here it will be the worst of days for gods and men."

	"Why would that be?"

	"So near is the balance of strength, gods against giants, that the issue of what will happen at the Time hangs by a thread. If we come late to the field we shall surely lose; the giants will hold the issues against our mustering. And I am here— here in this cell — with my gift of eyesight that can see them in time to warn. I am here, and the Gjallarhorn, the roaring trumpet that would call gods and heroes to the field, is at Sverre's house."

	Shea asked: "Why don't the Æsir attack the giants before the giants are ready, if they know there's going to be a war anyway?"

	Heimdall stared at him. "You know not the Law of the Nine Worlds, Harald. We Æsir cannot attack the giants all together before the Time. Men and gods live by law; else they would be but giants."

	He began to pace back and forth with rapid steps, his forehead set in a frown. Shea noted that even at this moment the Sleepless One was careful to place one foot before the other to best display the litheness of his walk.

	"Surely they'll miss you," said Shea. "Can't they set other guards to watch the giants get together, or" — he finished lamely at the glint in Heimdall's eye — "something?" 

	"A mortal's thoughts! Aye!" Heimdall gave a short bark of bitter laughter. "Set other guards, here and there! Listen, Turnip Harald; Harald the fool. Of all us Æsir, Frey is the best, the only one who can stand before Surt with weapons in hand. Yet the worlds are so made, and we cannot change it, that one race Frey fears. Against the frost giants he has no power. Only I, I and my sword Head, can deal with them; and if I am not there to lead my band against the frost giants, we shall live to something less than a ripe old age thereafter."

	"I'm sorry — sir," said Shea.

	"Aye. No matter. Come, let us play the game of questions. Few and ill are the thoughts that rise from brooding." 

-

	For hours they plied each other with queries about their respective worlds. In that ominous place, time could be measured only by meals and the periodic shrieks of "Yngvi is a louse!" About the eighth of these cries, Stegg came out of his somnolent state, went out, and returned with a pile of bowls. These he set in front of the cells. Each bowl had a spoon; one was evidently expected to do one's eating through the bars. As the troll put the bowls in front of Shea's cell, he remarked loftily: "King see subjects eat."

	The mess he put in them consisted of some kind of porridge with small lumps of fish in it, sour to the taste. Shea did not blame his fellow prisoners when they broke into loud complaints about the quality and quantity of the food. Stegg paid not the slightest attention, relapsing into his chair till they had finished, when he gathered up the bowls and carried them out.

	The next time the door opened, it was not Stegg but another troll. In the flickering torchlight this one was, if possible, less handsome than his predecessor. His face was built around a nose of such astonishing proportions that it projected a good eighteen inches, and he moved with a quick, catlike stride. The prisoners, who had been fairly noisy while Stegg was in charge, now fell silent.

	The new jailer stepped quickly to Shea's cell. "You new arrivals?" he snapped. "I am Snögg. You be good, nothing hurt you. You be bad, zzzp." He made a motion with his finger to indicate the cutting of a throat, and turning his back on them, paced down the row of cells, peering suspiciously into each.

	Shea had never in his life slept on a stone floor. So he was surprised, an indefinite time later, to awaken and discover that he had done it for the first time, with the result of being stiff.

	He got up, stretching. "How long have I been asleep?" he asked Heimdall.

	"I do not know that. Our fellow prisoner, who dislikes someone called Yngvi, ceased his shouting some time since." 

	The long-nosed jailer was still pacing. Still muzzy with sleep, Shea could not remember his name, and called out:

	"Hey, you with the nose! How long before break —"

	The troll had turned on him, shrieking: "What you call me? You stinking worm! I — zzzp!" He ran down to the alcove, face distorted with fury, and returned with a bucket of water which he sloshed into Shea's surprised face. "You son of unwed parents!" raged he. "I roast you with slow fire! I am Snögg. I am master! You use right name."

	Heimdall was laughing silently at the back of the cell.

	Shea murmured: "That's one way of getting a bath at all events. I guess our friend Snögg is sensitive about his nose.

	"That is not un-evident," said Heimdall. "Hai! How many troubles the children of men would save themselves, could they but have the skill of the gods for reading the thought that lies behind the lips. Half of all they suffer, I would wager."

	"Speaking of wagers, Sleepless One," said Shea, "I see how we can run a race to pass the time."

	"This cage is somewhat less than spacious," objected Heimdall. "What are you doing? It is to be trusted that you do not mean an eating race with those cockroaches."

	"No. I'm going to race them. Here's yours. You can tell him by his broken feeler."

	"The steed is not of the breed," observed Heimdall, taking the insect. "Still, I will name him Gold Top, after my horse. What will you call yours, and how shall we race them?"

	Shea said: "I shall call mine Man o' War after a famous horse in our world." He smoothed down the dust on the floor, and drew a circle in it with his finger. "Now," he explained, let us release our racers in The centre of the circle, and the one whose roach crossed the rim first shall win."

	"A good sport. What shall the wager be? A crown?"

	"Seeing that neither of us has any money at all," said Shea, why don't we shoot the works and make it fifty crowns?"

	"Five hundred if you wish."

	Man o' War won the first race. Snögg, hearing the activity in the cell, hustled over. "What you do?" he demanded. Shea explained. "Oh," sniffed the troll. "All right, you do. Not too noisy, though. I stop if you do." He stalked away, but was soon back again to watch the sport. Gold Top won the second race — Man o' War the third and fourth. Shea, glancing up, suppressed an impulse to tweak the sesquipedalian nose that the troll had thrust through the bars.

	By and by Snögg went out and was replaced by Stegg, who did not even notice the cockroach racing. As he hoisted himself into his chair, Shea asked whether he could get them some sort of small box or basket.

	"Why you want?" asked Stegg.

	Shea explained he wanted it to keep the cockroaches in.

	Stegg raised his eyebrows. "I too big for this things," he said loftily and refused to answer another word.

	So they had to let the racers go, rather than hold them in their hands all day. But Shea saved a little of his breakfast and later, by using it as bait, they captured two more cockroaches.

	This time, after a few victories for Shea, Heimdall's roach began to win consistently. By the time the man across the passage had yelled "Yngvi is a louse!" four times Shea found himself Heimdall's debtor to the extent of something like thirty million crowns. It made him suspicious. He watched the golden god narrowly during the next race, then burst out:
Say, that's not fair! You're fixing my cockroach with your glittering eye and slowing him up!"

	"What, mortal! Dare you accuse one of the Æsir?"

	"You're damn right, I dare! If you're going to use your special powers, I won't play."

	A smile slowly spread across Heimdall's face. "Young Harald, you do not lack for boldness, and I have said before that you show glimmerings of wit. In truth, I have slowed up your steed; it is not meet that one of the Æsir should be beaten at aught by a mortal. But come, let that one go, and we will begin again with new mounts, for I fear that animal of yours will never again be the same."

	It was not difficult to catch more roaches. "Once more I shall name mine Gold Top, after my horse," said Heimdall.

	"It is a name of good luck. Did you have no favourite horse?" 

	"No, but I had a car, a four-wheeled chariot, it was called —" began Shea, and then stopped. What was the name of that car? He tried to reproduce the syllables — nyrose, no — neeloase, no, not that either — neroses, nerosis — something clicked into place in his brain, a series of somethings, like the fragments of a jigsaw puzzle.

	"Heimdall!" he cried suddenly, "I believe I know how we can get out of here!" 

	"That will be the best of news," said the Sleepless One, doubtfully, "if the deed be equal to the thought. But I have looked, now, deeply into this place, and I do not see how it may be done without outside aid. Nor shall we have help from any giant with the Time so near."

	"Whose side will the trolls be on?"

	"It is thought that the trolls will be neuter. Yet strange it would be if we could beguile one of these surly ones to help us."

	"Nevertheless, something you said a little while back gives me an idea. You remember? Something about the skill of the gods at reading the thought that lies behind the lips?"

	"Aye."

	"I am — I was — of a profession whose business it is to learn people's thoughts by questioning them, and by studying what they think today, predict what they will think tomorrow in other circumstances. Even to provoke them to thinking certain things."

	"It could be. It is an unusual art, mortal, and a great skill, but it could be. What then?"

	"Well, then, this Stegg, I don't think we can get far with him, I've seen his type before. He's a — a — a something I can't remember, but he lives in a world of his own imaginings, where he's a king and we're all his slaves. I remember, now— a paranoiac. You can't establish contact with a mind like that."

	Most justly and truly reasoned, Harald. From what I am able to catch of his thought this is no more than the truth."

	"But Snögg is something else. We can do something with him."

	"Much though I regret to say it, you do not drown me in an ocean of hope. Snögg is even more hostile than his unattractive brother."

	Shea grinned. At last he was in a position to make use of his specialized knowledge. "That's what one would think. But I have studied many like him. The only thing that's wrong with Snögg is that he has a ... a feeling of inferiority — a complex we call it — about that nose of his. If somebody could convince him he's handsome —"

	"Snögg handsome! Ho, ho! That is a jest for Loki's tongue."

	"Sssh! Please, Lord Heimdall. As I say, the thing he wants most is probably good looks. If we could ... if we could pretend to work some sort of spell on his nose, tell him it has shrunk and get the other prisoners to corroborate —"

	A plan of wit! It is now to be seen that you have been associating with Uncle Fox. Yet do not sell your bearskin till you have caught the animal. If you can get Snögg sufficiently friendly to propose your plan, then will it be seen whether confinement has really sharpened your wits or only addled them. But, youngling, what is to prevent Snögg feeling his nose and discovering the beguilement for himself?"

	"Oh, we don't have to guarantee to take it all off. He'd be grateful enough for a couple of inches."

Chapter Eight

	When Snögg came on duty at nightfall, he found the dungeon as usual, except that Shea's and Heimdall's cell was noisy with shouts of encouragement to their entries in the great cockroach derby. He went over to the cell to make sure that nothing outside the rules of the prison was going on.

	Shea met his suspicious glower with a grin. "Hi, there, friend Snögg! Yesterday I owed Heindall thirty million crowns, but today my luck has turned and it's down to twenty-three million."

	"What do you mean?" snapped the troll.

	Shea explained, and went on: "Why don't you get in the game? We'll catch a roach for you. It must be pretty dull, with nothing w do all night but listen to the prisoners snore."

	"Hm-m-m," said Snögg, then turned abruptly suspicious again. "You make trick to let other prisoner escape, I — zzzzp!" He motioned across his throat again. "Lord Surt, he say." 

	"No, nothing like that. You can make your inspection any time. Sssh! There's one now.

	"One what?" asked Snögg, a little of the hostility leaving his voice. Shea was creeping towards the wall of his cell. He pounced like a cat and came up with another cockroach in his hand. "What'll his name be?" he asked Snögg.

	Snögg thought, his little troll brain trying to grasp the paradox of a friendly prisoner, his eyes moving suspiciously. "I call him Fjörm, after river. That run fast," he said at last.

	"That where you are from?" 

	"Aye." 

	Heimdall spoke up. "It is said, friend Snögg, that Fjörm has the finest fish in all the nine worlds, and I believe it, for I have seen them."

	The troll looked almost pleased. "True word. Me fish there, early morning. Ho, ho! Me wade — snap! Up come trout. Bite him, flop, flop in face. Me remember big one, chase into shallow."

	Shea said: You and Öku-Thor ought to get together. Fjörm may have the best fish, but he has the biggest fish story in the nine worlds."

	Snögg actually emitted a snicker. "Me know that story. Thor no fisher. He use hook and line. Only trolls know how to fish fair. We use hands, like this." He bent over the floor, his face fixed in intense concentration then made a sudden sweeping motion, quick as a rattlesnake's lunge. "Ah!" He cried. "Fish! love him! Come, we race."

	The three cockroaches were tossed into the centre of the circle and scuttled away. Snögg's Fjörm was the first to cross the line to the troll's unconcealed delight.

	They ran race after race, with halts when one of the roaches escaped and another had to be caught. Snögg's entry showed a tendency to win altogether at variance with the law of probability. The troll did not notice and would hardly have grasped the fact that Heimdall was using his piercing glance on his own and Shea's roaches and slowing them up, though Snögg was not allowed to win often enough to rouse his sleeping suspicions. By the time Stegg relieved him in the morning he was over twenty million crowns ahead. Shea stretched out on the floor to sleep with the consciousness of a job well done.

	When he awoke, just before Snögg came on duty the next night, he found Heimdall impatient and uneasy, complaining of the delay while Surt's messenger was riding to demand the sword Head as ransom. Yet it speedily became obvious that the Snögg campaign could not be hurried.

	"Don't you ever get homesick for your river Fjörm?" asked Shea, when the troll had joined them.

	"Aye," replied Snögg. "Often. Like 'um fish."

	"Think you'll be going back?"

	"Will not be soon."

	"Why not?"

	Snögg squirmed a little. "Lord Surt him hard master."

	"Oh, he'd let you go. Is that the only reason?"

	"N-no. Me like troll girl Elvagevu. Haro! Here, what I do, talk privacy life with prisoner? Stop it. We race."

	Shea recognized this as a good place to stop his questioning, but when Snögg was relieved, he remarked to Heimdall: That's a rich bit of luck. I can't imagine being in love with a female troll, but he evidently is —"

	"Man from another world, you observe well. His thoughts were near enough his lips for me to read. This troll-wife, Elvagevu, has refused him because of the size of his nose."

	"Ah! Then we really have something. Now, tonight —"

-

	When the cockroach races began that night, Heimdall reversed the usual process sufficiently to allow Snögg to lose several races in succession. The long winning streak he later developed was accordingly appreciated, and it was while Snögg was chucking over his victories, snapping his finger joints and bouncing in delight that Shea insinuated softly: "Friend Snögg, you have been good to us. Now, if there's something we could do for you, we'd be glad to do it. For instance, we might be able to remove the obstacle that prevents your return to Elvagevu."

	Snögg jumped and glared suspiciously. "Not possible," he said thickly.

	Heimdall looked at the ceiling. "Great wonders have been accomplished by prisoners," he said, "when there is held out to them the hope of release."

	"Lord Surt him very bad man when angry," Snögg countered, his eyes moving restlessly.

	"Aye," nodded Heimdall, "Yet not Lord Surt's arm is long enough to reach into the troll country — after one who has gone there to stay with his own troll-wife."

	Snögg cocked his head on one side, so that he looked like some large-beaked bird. "Hard part is," he countered, "to get beyond Lord Surt's arm. Too much danger."

	"But," said Shea, falling into the spirit of the discussion, "if one's face were altogether changed by the removal of a feature, it might be much easier and simpler. One would not be recognized."

	Snögg caressed his enormous nose. "Too big — You make fun of me!" he snapped with sudden suspicion.

	"Not at all," said Shea. "Back in my own country a girl once turned me down because my eyes were too close together. Women always have peculiar taste."

	"That's true," Snögg lowered his voice till it was barely audible. You fix nose, I be your man: I do all for you."

	"I don't want to guarantee too much in advance," said Shea. "But I think I can do something for you. I landed here without all my magic apparatus, though."

	"All you need I get," said Snögg, eager to go the whole way now that he had committed himself.

	"I'll have to think about what I need," said Shea.

	The next day when Stegg had collected the breakfast bowls, Shea and Heimdall lifted their voices and asked the other prisoners whether they would cooperate in the proposed method of escape. They answered readily enough. "Sure, if "twon't get us into no trouble." "Aye, but will ye try to do something for me, too?" "Mought, if ye can manage it quiet." "Yngvi is a louse!"

	Shea turned his thoughts to the concoction of a spell that would sound sufficiently convincing, doing his best to recall Chalmers' description of the laws of magic to which he had given so little attention when the psychologist stated them. There was the law of contagion — no, there seemed no application for that. But the law of similarity? That would be it. The troll, himself familiar with spells and wizardry, would recognize an effort to apply that principle as in accordance with the general laws of magic. It remained, then, to surround some application of the law of similarity with sufficient hocus-pocus to make Snögg believe something extra-special in the way of spells was going on. By their exclamation over the diminishing size of Snögg's nose the other prisoners would do the rest.

	"Whom should one invoke in working a spell of this kind?" Shea asked Heimdall.

	"Small is my knowledge of this petty mortal magic," replied Heimdall. "The Evil Companion would be able to give you all manner of spells and gewgaws. But I would say that the names of the ancestors of wizardry would be not without power in such cases."

	"And who are they?"

	"There is the ancestor of all witches, by name Witolf; the ancestor of all warlocks, who was called Willharm. Svarthead was the first of the spell singers and of the giant kindred Ymir. For good luck and the beguiling of Snögg you might add two who yet live — Andvari, king of the dwarfs, and the ruler of all trolls, who is the Old Woman of Ironwood. She is a fearsome creature, but I think not unpleasant to one of her subjects."

	When Snögg showed up again Shea had worked out his method for the phony spell. "I shall need a piece of beeswax," he said, "and a charcoal brazier already lit and burning; a piece of driftwood sawn into pieces no bigger than your thumb; a pound of green grass, and a stand on which you can balance a board just over the brazier."

	Snögg said: "Time comes very near. Giants muster — when you want things?"

	Shea heard in the background Heimdall's gasp of dismay at the first sentence. But he said: "As soon as you can possibly get them."

	"Maybe tomorrow night. We race?"

	"No — yes," said Heimdall. His lean, sharp face looked strained in the dim light. Shea could guess the impatience that was gnawing him, with his exalted sense of personal duty and responsibility. And perhaps with reason, Shea assured himself. The late of the world, of gods and men, in Heimdall's own words, hung on that trumpet blast. Shea's own fate, too, hung on it — an idea he could never contemplate without a sense of shock and unreality, no matter how frequently he repeated the process of reasoning it all out.

	Yet not even the shock of this repeated thought could stir him from the fatalism into which he had fallen. The world he had come from, uninteresting though it was, had at least been something one could grasp, think over as a whole. Here he felt himself a chip on a tossing ocean of strange and terrible events. His early failures on the trip to Jötunheim had left him with a sense of helplessness which had not entirely disappeared even with his success in detecting the illusions in the giants' games and the discovery of Thor's hammer. Loki then, and Heimdall later had praised his fearlessness — ha, he said to himself, if they only knew! It was not true courage that animated him, but a feeling that he was involved in a kind of strange and desperate game, in which the only thing that mattered was to play it as skillfully as possible. He supposed soldiers had something of that feeling in battle. Otherwise, they would all run away and there wouldn't be any battle —

	His thoughts strayed again to the episode in the hall of Utgard. Was it Loki's spell or the teardrop in his eye that accounted for his success there? Or merely the trained observation of a modern mind? Some of the last, certainly; the others had been too excited to note such discordant details as the fact that Hugi cast no shadow. At the same time, his modern mind balked over the idea that the spell had been effective. Yet there was something, a residue of phenomenon, not accounted for by physical fact.

	That meant that, given the proper spell to work, he could perform as good a bit of magic as the next man. Heimdall, Snögg, and Surt all had special powers built in during construction as it were — but their methods would do him, Shea, no good at all. He was neither god, troll — thank Heaven! — nor giant.

	Well, if he couldn't be a genuine warlock, he could at least put on a good show. He thought of the little poses and affectations he had put on during his former life. Now life itself depended on how well he could assume a pose. How would a wizard act? His normal behaviour should seem odd enough to Snögg for all practical purposes.

-

	The inevitable night dragged out, and Stegg arrived to take over his ditties. Snögg hurried out. Shea managed to choke down what was sardonically described as his breakfast and tried to sleep. The first yell of "Yngvi is a louse!" brought him up all standing. And his fleabites seemed to itch more than usual. He had just gotten himself composed when it was time for dinner again and Snögg.

	The troll listened, twitching with impatience, till Stegg's footfall died away. Then he scurried out like a magnified rat and returned with his arms full of the articles Shea had ordered. He dumped them in the middle of the passage and with a few words opened the door of Shea's and Heimdall's cell.

	"Put our all but one of the torches," said Shea. While Snögg was doing this the amateur magician went to work. Holding the beeswax over the brazier, he softened it enough to work and pressed it into conical shape, making two deep indentations on one side till it was a crude imitation of Snögg's proboscis.

	"Now," he whispered to the popeyed troll, "get the water bucket. When I tell you, pour it into the brazier."

	Shea knelt before the brazier and blew into it. The coals brightened. He picked up a fistful of the driftwood chips and began feeding them onto the glowing charcoal, They caught, little varicoloured flames dancing across them. Shea, on his haunches and swaying to and fro, began his spell:

-

"Witolf and Willharm,
	Stand, my friends!
Andvari, Ymir,
	Help me to my ends!
The Hag of the Ironwood
	Shall be my aid;
By the spirit of Svarthead,
	Let this spell be made!"

-

	The beeswax, on the board above the brazier, was softening. Slowly the cone lost its shape and slumped. Transparent drops trickled over the edge of the board, hung redly in the grow, and dropped with a hiss and spurt of yellow flame into the brazier.

	Shea chanted:

-

"Let wizards and warlocks
	Combine and conspire
To make Snögg's nose melt
	Like the wax on this fire!"

-

	The beeswax had become a mere fist-shaped lump. The trickle into the brazier was continuous: little flames rose yellowly and were reflected from the eyes of the breathlessly watching prisoners.

	Shea stuffed handfuls of grass into the brazier. Thick rolls of smoke filled the dungeon. He moved his arms through the murk, wriggling the fingers and shouting:

	"Hag of the Ironwood, I invoke you in the name of your subject!"

	The waxen lump was tiny now. Shea leaned forward into the smoky half-light, his eyes smarting, and rapidly moulded it into something resembling the shape of an ordinary nose. "Pour, now!" he cried. Swoosh! went the water into the brazier, and everything was blotted from vision by a cloud of vapour.

	He struggled away and to an erect position. Sweat was making little furrows in the dirt along his skin, with the sensation of insects crawling. "All right," he said. "You can put the light back on now." The next few seconds would tell whether his deception was going to work. if the other prisoners did not fail him — Snögg was going along the passage, lighting the extinguished torches from the one that remained. As the light increased and he turned to place one in its bracket on the opposite side of the wall, Shea joined involuntarily in the cry of astonishment that rose from every prisoner in the cells.

	Snögg's nose was no bigger than that of a normal human being.

	Harold Shea was a warlock.

	"Head feel funny," remarked Snögg in a matter-of-fact tone.

Chapter Nine

	The troll put the last torch in place and turned to Shea, caressing the new nose with a scaly hand. "Very good magic, Harald Warlock!" he said, chuckling and dancing a couple of steps. "Hail Elvagevu, you like me now!"

	Shea stood rooted, trying to absorb events that seemed to have rushed past him. The only sound he could utter was "Guk!"

	He felt Heimdall's hand on his shoulder. "Well and truly was that spell cast," said the Sleepless One. "Much profit may we have from it. Yet I should warn you, warlock, that it is ill to lie to the gods. Why did you tell me, at the Crossroads of the World, that you had no skill in magic?"

	"Oh," said Shea, unable to think of anything else, "I guess I'm just naturally modest. I didn't wish to presume before you, sir."

	Snögg had gone off into a ludicrous hopping dance around the hall. "Beautiful me!" he squealed. "Beautiful me!"

	Shea thought that Snögg, with or without nose, was about the ugliest thing he had ever seen. But there seemed little point in mentioning the fact. Instead, he asked, "How about getting us out of here now, friend Snögg?"

	Snögg moderated his delight enough to say: "Will be do. Go your cage now. I come with clothes and weapon."

	Shea and Heimdall exchanged glances. It seemed hard to go back into that tiny cell, but they had to trust the troll now, so they went.

	"Now it remains to be seen," said Heimdall, "whether that scaly fish-eater has betrayed us. If he has —" He let his voice trail off.

	"We might consider what we could do to him if he has," grinned Shea. His astonishing achievement had boosted his morale to the skies.

	"Little enough could I accomplish in this place of fire magic," said Heimdall, gloomily, "but such a warlock as yourself could make his legs sprout into serpents."

	"Maybe," said Shea. He couldn't get used to the idea that he, of all people, could work magic. It was contrary to the laws of physics, chemistry, and biology. But then, where he was the laws of physics, chemistry and, biology had been repealed. He was under the laws of magic. His spell had conformed exactly to those laws, as explained by Dr. Chalmers. This was a world in which those laws were basic. The trick was that he happened to know one of those laws, while the general run of mortals — and trolls and gods, too — didn't know them. Naturally, the spells would seem mysterious to them, just as the changing colour of two combined chemicals was mysterious to anyone who didn't know chemistry. If he had only provided himself with a more elaborate knowledge of those laws instead of the useless flashlights, matches, and guns —

	A tuneless whistle cut across his thoughts, It was Snögg, still beaming, carrying a great bundle of clothes and something long.

	"Here clothes, Lords," he grinned, the tendrils on his head writhing in a manner that no doubt indicated well-being, but which made Shea's skin crawl, "Here swords, too. I carry till we outside, yes?" He held up a length of light chain. "You put round wrists, I lead you. Anybody stop, I say going to Lord Surt."

	"Hurry, Harald," said Heimdall as Shea struggled into the unfamiliar garments. "There is yet hope, though it grows dim, that we may reach the other Æsir before they give my sword away."

	Shea was dressed. He and Heimdall took the middle and end of the chain, while Snögg tucked the other end in his belt and strode importantly before them, a huge sword in either hand. They were as big as Hundingsbana, but with plain hilts and rust-spotted blades. The troll carried them without visible effort.

	Snögg opened the door at the end of the dungeon. "Now you keep quiet," he said. "I say I take you to Surt. Look down, you much abused."

	One of the prisoners called softly. "Good luck go with you, friends, and do not forget us." Then they were outside, shambling along the gloom of the tunnel. Shea hunched his shoulders forward and assumed as discouraged an expression as he could manage.

-

	They passed a recess in the tunnel wall, where sat four trolls. Their tridents leaned beside them, and they were playing the game of odds-and-evens with their fingers. One of the four got up and called out something in troll language. Snögg responded in the same tongue, adding: "Lord Surt want."

	The troll looked dubious. "One guard not enough. Maybe they get away."

	Snögg rattled the chain. "Not this. Spell on this chain. Goinn almsorg thjalma."

	The troll seemed satisfied with the explanation and returned to his sport. The three stumbled on through the dimness past a big room hewn out of the rock, full of murky light and motion. Shea jumped as someone — a man from the voice — screamed, a long, high scream that ended with gasps of "Don't ... don't ... don't." There was only a glimpse of what was going on, but enough to turn the stomach.

	The passage ended in a ledge below which boiled a lake of molten lava. Beside the ledge sat a giant with one of the flaming swords. As he looked up, his eyes were pits beneath the eyebrow ridges.

	Snögg said; "Prisoners go to Lord Surt. Orders."

	The giant peered at them. "Say," he said, "ain't you the troll Snögg? What happened to your nose?"

	"I pray Old Woman of Ironwood. She shrink him!" Snögg grinned.

	"Okay, I guess it's all right." As they passed, the giant thrust a foot in front of Shea, who promptly stumbled over it, in sickening fear of going down into the lava. The giant thundered, "Haw, haw, haw!"

	"You be careful," snapped Snögg. "You push prisoners in. Surt push you in, by Ymir."

	"Haw, haw, haw! Gawan Scalyface, before I push you in."

	Shea picked himself up, giving the giant a look that should have melted lead at twenty paces. If he could remember that face and sometime — but, no, he was romancing. Careful, Shea, don't let things go to your head.

	They turned from the ledge into another tunnel. This sloped up then levelled again where side tunnels branched in from several directions. Snögg picked his way unerringly through the maze. A tremendous banging grew on them, and they were passing the entrance of some kind of armoury. The limits of the place were invisible in the flickering red glare, through which scuttled naked black things, like licorice dolls. Heimdall whispered: "These would be dark dwarfs from Svartalfheim, where no man nor As has ever been."

	They went on, up, right, left, A sultry glow came down the tunnel ahead, as though a locomotive were approaching around the curve. There was a tramp of giant feet. Around the corner came a file of the monsters, each with a flaming sword, marching and looking straight ahead, like somnambulists. The three flattened themselves against the wall as the file tramped past, their stench filling the passage. The rear-most giant fell out and turned back.

	"Prisoners to Lord Surt," said Snögg. The giant nodded, cleared his throat, and spat. Shea got it in the neck. He retched slightly and swabbed with the tail of his cloak as the giant grinned and hurried after the rest.

	They were in the upper part of the stronghold now, moving through forests of pillars. Snögg abandoned his bold stride, put a finger to his lips and began to slide softly from pillar to pillar. The tread of a giant resounded somewhere near. All three squeezed themselves into a triangle of shadow behind a pillar. The footsteps waxed, stopping just on the opposite side, and all three held breath. They heard the giant hawk, then spit, and the little splat! on the floor. The footsteps moved off.

	"Give me chain," whispered Snögg. He rolled it into a tight ball, and led the way, tiptoeing into another maze of passages. "This is way," he whispered, after a few minutes. "We wait till passage clear. Then I go make giant chase. Then you go, run fast. Then — ssst! Lie down on floor, quick!"

	They fell flat at the word, next to the wall. Shea felt the floor vibrate beneath him to the tread of invisible giants. They were coming nearer, towards them, right over them, and the sound of their feet was almost drowned for Shea in the beating of his own heart. He shut his eyes. One of the giants rumbled heavily: "So I says to him, 'Whassa matter, ain'tcha got no guts?' And he says —" The rest of the remark was carried away.

	The three rose and tiptoed. Snögg motioned them to stop, peering around a corner. Shea recognized the passage by which they had entered the place — how long before? Snögg took one more peek, turned and handed Shea one sword, giving the other to Heimdall. "When giant chase me," he whispered, "run; run fast. Dark outside. You hide."

	"How will you find us?" asked Shea.

	Snögg's grin was visible in the gloom. "Never mind. I find you all right. You bet," He was gone.

-

	Shea and Heimdall waited. They heard a rumbling challenge from the sentry and Snögg's piping reply. A chain clanked, the sound suddenly drowned in a frightful roar. "Why, you snotty little —" Feet pounded into the night, and shoutings.

	Shea and Heimdall raced for the entrance and out past the door, which swung ajar. It was blacker than the inside of a cow, except where dull-red glows lit the undersides of smoke plumes from vents in the cones.

	They headed straight out and away, Shea, at least, with no knowledge of where they were going. It would be time enough to think of direction later, anyway. They had to walk rather than run, even when their eyes had become accustomed to the gloom, and even so, narrowly missed a couple of bad falls on the fantastically contorted rock.

	The huge cone of Surt's stronghold faded into the general blackness behind. Then there was a hiss in the dark and they were aware of Snögg's fishy body smell. The troll moved light and sure, like a cat. He was chuckling. "Hit giant in nose with chain. Should see face. He, he, he!"

	"Whither do you lead us, troll?" asked Heimdall.

	"Where you want to go?"

	Heimdall thought. "The best would be Sverre's house, the Crossroads of the World. Or failing that, the gates of Hell, where one may hope to find even yet the Wanderer at his task. He must know, soon as ever, what we have seen. That were a fortnight's journey afoot. But if I could get to some high cold place, where this fire magic is not, I could call my horse, Gold Top."

	"Look out!" said Snögg suddenly. "Giants come!"

	A flickering yellow light was showing across the lava beds. Snögg vanished into a patch of shadow, while Shea and Heimdall crouched under the edge of a dyke in the lava flow. They heard the crunch of giant feet on the basalt. The shadows swayed this way and that with the swinging of the fiery swords. A giant voice rumbled. "Hey, you, this is a rough section. There's enough pockets to hide fifty prisoners."

	Another voice: "Okay, okay. I suppose we gotta poke around here all night. Me, I don't think they came this way, anyhow."

	"You ain't supposed to think," retorted the first voice, nearer. "Hey. Raki!"

	"Here," growled a third, more distant, giant.

	"Don't get too far away," shouted the first.

	"But the other guys are clear outta sight!" complained the distant Raki.

	"That don't matter none. We gotta keep close together. Ouch!" The last was a yell, mixed with a thump and a scramble. "If I catch those scum, they'll pay for this."

-

	The light from the nearest giant's sword grew stronger, creeping towards Shea and Heimdall inch by inch. The fugitives pressed themselves right through it. Inch by inch —

	The giant was clearly visible around the end of the lava dyke, holding his sword high and moving slowly, peering into every hollow. Nearer came the light. Nearer. It washed over the toes of Shea's boots, then lit up Heimdall's yellow mane.

	"Hey!" roared the giant in his foghorn bass. "Raki! Randver! I got 'em! Come, quick!" He rushed at a run. At the same time there was a thumping behind them and the nearest of the other two leaped up out of nowhere, swinging his sword in circles.

	"Take that one, warlock!" barked Heimdall, pointing with his sword at the first of the two. He vaulted lightly to the top of the dyke and made for the second giant.

	Shea hefted his huge blade with both hands. You simply couldn't fence with a crowbar like this. It was hopeless. But he wasn't afraid — hot dog, he wasn't afraid! What the hell, anyway? The giant gave a roar and a leap, whirling the fiery sword over his head in a figure eight to cut the little man down in one stroke.

	Shea swung the ponderous weapon up in an effort to parry that downstroke. He never knew how, but in that instant the sword went as light as an amusement park cane. The blades met. With a tearing scream of metal Shea's sword sheared right through the flaming blade, The tip sailed over his head, landing with a crackle of flame in some brush behind. Almost without Shea's trying, his big blade swept around in a perfect stop-thrust in carte, and through the monster's throat. With a bubbling shriek the giant crashed to earth.

	Shea spun around. Beyond the lip of the dyke Heimdall was hotly engaged with his big adversary, their blades flickering, but the third giant was coming up to take a part. Shea scrambled upon the dyke and ran towards him, surprised to discover he was shouting at the top of his voice.

	The giant changed course and in no time he was towering right over him. Shea easily caught the first slash with a simple party carte. The giant hesitated, irresolute; Shea saw his chance, whipped both blades around in a bind in octave, and lunged. The giant's flaming sword was pushed back against its owner, and Shea's point took him in the stomach with such a rush that Shea almost fell onto the collapsing monster's body.

	"Ho, ho!" cried Heimdall. He was standing over his fallen opponent, terrible bloody slashes in the giant's body showing dim red in the light of the burning swords on the ground. "Through the guts! Never have I seen a man who used a sword as he would a spear, thrust and not strike. By Thor's hammer, Warlock Harald, I had not expected to find you so good a man of your hands! I have seen those do worse who were called berserks and champions." He laughed, and tossed his own sword up to catch it by the hilt. "Surely you shall be of my band at the Time. Though in the end it is nothing remarkable, seeing what blade you have there."

	The big sword had become heavy again and weighted Shea's arm down. There was a trickle of blood up over the hilt onto his hand. "Looks like a plain sword to me," he said.

	"By no means. That is the enchanted sword, Frey's invincible Hundingsbana, that shall one day be Surt's death. Hai! Gods and men will shout for this day; for the last of the war weapons of the Æsir is recovered! But we must hurry. Snögg!"

	"Here," said the troll, emerging from a clump of treeferns. "Forgot to say. I put troll spell on sword so light from blade don't show giants where we go. It wear off in a day or two."

	"Can you tell us where there is a mountain tall and cold near here?" asked Heimdall.

	"Is one — oh, many miles north. Called Steinnbjörg. Walk three days."

	"That is something less than good news," said Heimdall. "Already we have reached the seventh night since Thor's play with the giants of Jötunheim. By the length of his journey the Wanderer should tomorrow be at the gates of Hell. We must seek him there; much depends on it."

	Shea had been thinking furiously. If he knew enough to be a warlock, why not use the knowledge?

	"Can I get hold of a few brooms?" he demanded.

	"Brooms? Strange are your desires, warlock of another world," said Heimdall.

	"What you want him for?" asked Snögg.

	"I may be able to work a magic trick."

	Snögg thought. "In thrall's house, two mile east, maybe brooms. Thrall he get sick, die."

	"Lead on," said Shea.

	They were off again through the darkness. Now and then they glimpsed a pinpoint of light in the distance, as some one of the other giant search parties moved about, but none approached them.

Chapter Ten

	The thrall's hut proved a crazy pile of basalt blocks chinked with moss. The door sagged ajar. Inside it was too black to see anything.

	"Snögg," asked Shea, "can you take a little of the spell off this sword so we can have some light?"

	He held it out. Snögg ran his hands up and down the blade, muttering. A faint golden gleam came from it, revealing a pair of brooms in one corner of the single-room hut. One was fairly new, the other an ancient wreck with most of the willow twigs that had composed it broken or missing.

	"Now, he said, "I need the feathers of a bird. Preferably a swift, as that's about the fastest filer. There ought to be some around."

	"On roof, I think," said Snögg. "You wait; I get." He slid out, and they heard him grunting and scrambling up the hut. Presently he was back with a puff of feathers in his scaly hand.

	Shea had been working out the proper spell in his head, applying both the Law of Contagion and the Law of Similarity. Now he laid the brooms on the floor and brushed them gently with the feathers, chanting:

-

"Bird of the south, swift bird of the south,
	Lend us your wings for a night.
Stir these brooms to movement, O bird of the south
	As swift as your own and as light."

-

	He tossed one of the feathers into the air and blew at it, so that it bobbed about without falling.

	"Verdfölnir, greatest of hawks, I invoke you!" he cried. Catching the feather, he stooped, picking at the strings that held the broom till they were loosened, inserted the feathers in the broom, and made all tight again. Kneeling, he made what he hoped were mystic passes over the brooms, declaiming:

-

"Up, up, arise!
	Bear us away;
We must be in the mountains
	Before the new day."

-

	"Now," he said, "I think we can get to your Steinnbjörg soon enough."

	Snögg pointed to the brooms, which in that pale light seemed to be stirring with a motion of their own. "You fly through air?" he inquired.

	"With the greatest of ease. If you want to come, I guess that new broom will carry two of us."

	"Oh, no!" said Snögg, backing away. "No thank, by Ymir! I stay on ground, you bet. I go to Elvagevu on foot. Not break beautiful me. You not worry. I know way."

	Snögg made a vague gesture of farewell and slipped out the door. Heimdall and Shea followed him, the latter with the brooms. The sky was beginning to show its first touch of dawn. "Now, let's see how these broomsticks of ours work," said Shea.

	"What is the art of their use?" asked Heimdall.

	Shea hadn't the least idea. But he answered boldly. "Just watch me and imitate me," he said, and squatting over his broom, with the stick between his legs and Hundingsbana stuck through his belt, said:

-

"By oak, ash, and broom
Before the night's gloom,
We soar to Steinobjörgen
To stay the world's doom."

-

	The broom leaped up under him with a jerk that almost left its rider behind.

	Shea gripped the stick till his knuckles were white. Up — up — up he went, till everything was blotted out in the damp opaqueness of cloud. The broom rushed on at a steeper and steeper angle, till Shea found to his horror that it was rearing over backward. He wound his legs around the stick and clung, while the broom hung for a second suspended at the top of its loop with Shea dangling beneath. It dived, then fell over sidewise, spun this way and that, with its passenger flopping like a bell clapper.

	The dark earth popped out from beneath the clouds and rushed up at him. Just as he was sure he was about to crash, he managed to swing himself around the stick. The broom darted straight ahead at frightening speed, then started to nose up again. Shea inched forward to shift his weight. The broom slowed up, teetered to a forty-five degree angle and fell off into a spin. The black rock of Muspellheim whirled madly beneath. Shea leaned back, tugging upon the stick. The broom came out of it and promptly fell into another spin on the opposite side. Shea pulled it out of that, too, being careful not to give so much pressure this time. By now he was so dizzy he couldn't tell whether he was spinning or not.

	For a few seconds the broom scudded along with a pitching motion like a porpoise with the itch. This was worse than Thor's chariot. Shea's stomach, always sensitive to such movements, failed him abruptly and he strewed Muspellheim with the remains of his last meal. Having accomplished this, he set himself grimly to the task of mastering his steed. He discovered that it had the characteristics of an airplane both longitudinally and laterally unstable. The moment it began to nose up, down, or sidewise the movement had to be corrected instantly and to just the right degree. But it could be managed.

	A thin, drawn-out cry of "Haaar-aaald!" came to him. He had been so busy that he had had no time to look for Heimdall. A quarter mile to his right, the Sleepless One clung desperately to his broom, which was doing an endless series of loops, like an amusement park proprietor's dream of heaven.

	Shea inched his own broom around a wide circuit. A hundred yards from Heimdall, the latter's mount suddenly stopped looping and veered straight at him. Heimdall seemed helpless to avoid the collision, but Shea managed to pull up at the last minute, and Heimdall, yellow hair streaming, shot past underneath. Shea brought his own broom around, to discover that Heimdall was in a flat spin.

	As his face came towards Shea, the latter noted it looked paler than he had ever seen it. Then As called: "How to control this thing, oh very fiend among warlocks?"

	"Lean to your left!" shouted Shea. "When she dives, lean back far enough to level her out!" Heimdall obeyed, but overdid the lean-back and went into another series of loops. Shea yelled to shift his weight forward when the broom reached the bottom of the loop.

	Heimdall overdid it again and took a wild downward plunge, but was grasping the principle of the thing and pulled out again. "Never shall we reach Odinn in time!" he shouted, pointing down. "Look, how already the hosts of Surt move towards Ragnarök!"

	Shea glanced down at the tumbled plain. Sure enough, down there long files of giants were crawling over it, the flaming swords standing out like fiery particles against the black earth.

	"Which way is this mountain?" he called back.

	Heimdall pointed towards the left. "There is a high berg in that direction, I think; though still too strong is the fire magic for me to see clearly."

	"Let's get above the clouds then. Ready?" Shea shifted back a little and they soared. Dark greyness gripped them, and he hoped he was keeping the correct angle. Then the grey paled to pearl, and they were out above an infinite sea of cloud, touched yellow by a rising sun.

	Heimdall pointed. "Unquestionably the Steinnbjörg lies yonder. Let us speed!"

	Shea looked. He could make out nothing but one more roll of cloud, perhaps a little more solid than the others. They streaked towards it.

-

	"There must be an arresting!" cried Heimdall. "How do you stop this thing?" They had tried three times to land on the peak; each time the brooms had skimmed over the rocks at breathless speed.

	"I'll have to use a spell," replied Shea. He swung back, chanting:

-

"By oak, ash, and yew
And heavenly dew,
We've come to Steinnbjörgen;
Land softly and true!

-

	The broomstick slowed down, and Shea fishtailed it into an easy landing. Heimdall followed, but ploughed deep into a snowdrift. He struggled out with hair and eyebrows all white, but with a literally flashing smile on his face. "Warlocks there have been, Harald, but never like you. I find your methods somewhat drastic."

	"If you don't want that broom any more," Shea retorted, "I'll take it and leave this old one. I can use it."

	"Take it, if it pleases your fancy. But now you, too, shall see a thing." He put both hands to his mouth and shouted, "Yo hoooo! Gulltop! Yo hooooo, Gulltop! Your master, Heimdall Odinnsson, calls!"

	For a while nothing happened. Then Shea became aware of a shimmering, polychromatic radiance in the air about him. A rainbow was forming and he in the centre of it. But unlike most rainbows, this one was end-on. It extended slowly down to the very snow at their feet; the colours thickened and grew solid till they blotted out the snow and clouds and crags behind them. Down the rainbow came trotting a gigantic white horse with a mane of bright metallic yellow. The animal stepped off the rainbow and nuzzled Heimdall's chest.

	"Come," said Heimdall. "I grant you permission to ride with me, though you will have to sit behind. Mind you do not prick him with Hundingsbana."

	Shea climbed aboard with his baggage of sword and broom. The horse whirled around and bounded onto the rainbow. It galloped fast, with a long reaching stride, but almost no sound, as though it were running across an endless feather bed. The wind whistled past Shea's ears with a speed he could only guess.

	After an hour or two Heimdall turned his head, "Sverre's house lies below the clouds; I can see it."

	The rainbow inclined downward, disappearing through the grey. For a moment they were wrapped in mist again, then out, and the rainbow, less vivid but still substantial enough to bear them, curved direct to the bonder's gate.

	Gold Top stamped to a halt in the yard, slushy with melting snow. Heimdall leaped off and towards the door, where a couple of stalwart blonds stood on guard.

	"Hey," called Shea after him. "Can't I get something to eat?"

	"Time is wanting," shouted the Sleepless One over his shoulder, disappearing through the door, to return in a moment with horn and sword. He spoke a word or two to the men at the door, who ran around the house, and presently were visible leading out horses of their own.

	"Heroes from Valhall," explained Heimdall, buckling on his baldric, "set to guard the Gjallarhorn while the negotiations for my release were going on." He snatched up the horn and vaulted to the saddle. The rainbow had changed direction, but lay straight away before them as Gold Top sprang into his stride again.

	Shea asked: "Couldn't you just blow your horn now without waiting to see Odinn?"

	"Not so, Warlock Harald. The Wanderer is lord of gods and men. None act without his permission. But I fear me it will come late — late. He turned his head. "Hark! Do you hear — Nay, you cannot. But my ears catch a sound which tells me the dog Garm is loose, that great monster."

	"Why does it take Odinn so long to get to Hell?" said Shea, puzzled.

	"He goes in disguise, as you saw him on the moor, riding a common pony. The spae-wife Grua is of the giant brood. Be sure she would refuse to advise him, or give him ill advice, did she recognize him as one of the Æsir."

	Gold Top was up out of the clouds, riding the rainbow that seemed to stretch endlessly before. Shea could think only how many steaks one could get from the huge animal. He had never eaten horseflesh, but in his present mood was willing to try.

	The sun was already low when they pierced the cloud-banks again. This time they dropped straight into swirls of snow. Beneath and then around them Shea could make out a ragged, gloomy landscape of sharp black pinnacles, too steep to gather drifts.

-

	The rainbow ended abruptly, and they were on a rough road that wound among the rock towers. Gold Top's hoofs clop-clopped sharply on frozen mud. The road wound tortuously, always downward into a great gorge, which reared up pillars and buttresses on either side. Snowflakes sank vertically through the still air around them, feathering the forlorn little patches of moss that constituted the only vegetation. Cold tore at them like a knife. Enormous icicles, like the trunks of elephants, were suspended all around. There was no sound but the tread of the horse and his quick breathing, which condensed in little vapour plumes around his nostrils.

	Darker and darker it grew, colder and colder. Shea whispered — he did not know why, except that it seemed appropriate — "Is this Hell of yours a cold place?"

	"The coldest in the nine worlds," said Heimdall. "Now you shall pass me up the great sword, that I may light our way with it."

	Shea did so. Ahead, all he could see over Heimdall's shoulder now was blackness, as though the walls of the gorge had shut them in above. Shea put out one hand as they scraped one wall of the chasm, then jerked it back. The cold of the rock bit through his mitten into his fingers like fire.

	Gold Top's ears pricked forward in the light from the sword. They rounded a corner, and came suddenly on a spark of life in that gloomy place, lit by an eerie blue-green phosphorescence. Shea could make out in that half-light the tall, slouch-hatted figure of the Wanderer, and his pony beside him. There was a third figure, cloaked and hooded in black, its face invisible.

	Odinn looked towards them as they approached. "Hai, Muginn brought me tidings of your captivity and your escape. The second was the better news," said the sonorous voice.

	Heimdall and Shea dismounted. The Wanderer looked sharply at Shea. "Are you not that lost one I met near the crossroads?" he asked.

	"It is none other," put in Heimdall, "and a warlock of power he is, as well as the briskest man with sword that ever I saw. He is to be of my band. We have Hundingsbana and Head. Have you won that for which you came?"

	"Enough, or near enough. Myself and Vidarr are to stand before the Sons of the Wolf, those dreadful monsters. Thor shall fight the Worm; Frey, Surt. Ullr and his men are to match the hill giants and you the frost giants, as already I knew."

	"Allfather, you are needed. The dog Garm is loose and Surt is bearing the flaming sword from the south with the frost giants at his back. The Time is here."

	"Aieeee!" screeched the black-shrouded figure. "I know ye now, Odinn! Woe the day that my tongue —"

	"Silence, hag!" The deep voice seemed to fill that desolate place with thunder. "Blow, son of mine, then. Rouse our bands, for it is Time."

	"Aieeee!" screeched the figure again. "Begone, accursed ones, to whatever place from whence ye came!" A hand shot out, and Shea noticed with a prickling of the scalp that it was fleshless. The hand seized a sprinkle of snow and threw it at Odinn. He laughed.

	"Begone!" shrieked the spae-wife, throwing another handful of snow, this time at Heimdall. His only reply was to set the great horn to his lips and take a deep breath.

	"Begone, I say!" she screamed again. Shea had a bloodcurdling glimpse of a skull under the hood as she scooped up the third handful of snow. "To whatever misbegotten place ye came from!" The first notes of the roaring trumpet sang and swelled and filled all space in a tremendous peal of martial, triumphant music. The rocks shook, and the icicles cracked, and Harold Shea saw the third handful of snow, a harmless little damp clot, flying at him from Grua's bony fingers ...

-

	"Well," said the detective, "I'm sorry you can't help me out no more than that, Dr. Chalmers. We gotta notify his folks in St. Louis. We get these missing-person cases now and then, but we usually find 'em. You'll get his things together, will you?"

	"Certainly, certainly," said Reed Chalmers. "I thought I'd go over the papers now."

	"Okay. Thanks. Miss Mugler, I'll send you a report with my bill."

	"But," said Gertrude Mugler, "I don't want a report! I want Mr. Shea!"

	The detective grinned. "You paid for a report, whether you want it or not. You can throw it away. So long. 'By, Dr. Chalmers. 'By, Mr. Bayard. Be seein' you." The door of the room closed.

	Walter Bayard, lounging in Harold Shea's one good armchair asked: "Why didn't you tell him what you think really happened?"

	Chalmers replied: "Because it would be — shall I say — somewhat difficult to prove. I do not propose to make myself a subject of public ridicule."

	Gertrude said: "That wasn't honest of you, Doctor. Even if you won't tell me, you might at least —"

	Bayard wiggled an eyebrow at the worried girl. "Heh, heh. Who was indignantly denying that Harold might have run away from her maternal envelopment, when the detective asked her just now?"

	Gertrude snapped: "In the first place it wasn't so, and in the second it was none of his damn business, and in the third I think you two might at least cooperate instead of obstructing, especially since I'm paying for Mr. Johnson's services!"

	"My dear Gertrude," said Chalmers, if I thought it had the slightest chance of doing any good, I should certainly acquaint your Mr. Johnson with my hypothesis. But I assure you that he would decline to credit it, and even if he did, the theory would present no — uh — point of application for his investigatory methods."

	"Something in that, Gert," said Bayard. "You can prove the thing in one direction, but not the reverse. If Shea can't get back from where we think he's gone, it's a cinch that Johnson couldn't. So why send Johnson after him?" He sighed. "It'll be a little queer without Harold, for all his —"

	Wham! The outward rush of displaced air bowled Chalmers over, whipped a picture from the wall with a crash of glass, and sent the pile of Shea's papers flying. There may have been minor damage as well.

	If there was, neither Gertrude nor Chalmers nor Bayard noticed it. In the middle of the room stood the subject of their talk, swathed in countless yards of blanket-like woollen garments. His face was tanned and slightly chapped. In his left hand he held a clumsy broom of willow twigs.

	"Hiya," said Shea, grinning at their expressions. "You three had dinner yet? Yeah? Well, you can come along and watch me eat." He tossed the broom in a corner. "Souvenir to go with my story. Useful while it lasted, but I'm afraid it won't work here."

	"B — but," stammered Chalmers, "you aren't going out to a restaurant in those garments?"

	"Hell, yes? I'm hungry."

	"What will people think?"

	"What do I care?"

	"God bless my soul," exclaimed Chalmers, and followed Shea out.

-

THE MATHMATICS OF MAGIC

Chapter Eleven

	"Steak," said Harold Shea.

	"Porterhouse, sirloin — ?" asked the waitress.

	"Both, so long as they're big and rare."

	"Harold," said Gertrude Mugler, "whatever this is all about, please be careful of your diet. A large protein intake for a man who doesn't do physical labour —"

	"Physical labour!" barked Shea. The last meal I had was twenty-four hours ago, and it was a little dish of oatmeal mush. Sour, too. Since then I've fought a duel with a couple of giants, done acrobatics on a magic broomstick, had a ride on a god's enchanted brewery-horse — Well, anyway, I've been roasted and frozen and shaken and nearly scared to death, and by Thor's hammer I want food!"

	"Harold, are you — are you feeling well?"

	"Fine, toots. Or I will be when I surround some grub." He turned to the waitress again: "Steak!"

	"Listen, Harold," persisted Gertrude. "Don't! You pop out of nowhere in that crazy costume; you talk wildly about things you couldn't expect anyone to believe —"

	"You don't have to believe I popped out of nowhere, either," said Shea.

	"Then can't you tell me what's wrong?"

	"Nothing's wrong, and I'm not going to talk about it until I've consulted Dr. Chalmers."

	"Well," said Gertrude, "if that's your attitude — come on, Walter, let's go to a movie."

	"But," bleated Walter Bayard, I want to listen —"

	"Oh, be a gentleman for once in your life!"

	"Oh, all right, Gert." He leered back at Shea as he went. "Anyway, you didn't bring back any dream-girls."

	Shea grinned after them. "There goes the guy who used to kid me about how Gert had gotten the psychological jump on me," he said to Chalmers. "I hope she rides herd on him."

	Reed Chalmers smiled faintly. "You forget — uh — Walter's infallible defence mechanism."

	"What's that?"

	"When the pressure becomes too great, he can simply go to sleep on her."

	Shea gave a suppressed snort. "You know not what you — ah, food! He attacked his plate, working his mouth around a piece of steak big enough to choke a horse; with effort like a snake engulfing a toad. An expression of pure bliss spread over his face as he chewed. Chalmers noted that his colleague ignored the fact that half the restaurant was staring at the tableaux of a long-faced young man in baggy Norse woollens.

	"A — uh — somewhat less rapid rate of ingestion —" Chalmers began.

	Shea shook a finger, gulped down his mouthful, and spoke: "Don't worry about me." Between mouthfuls he told his story.

-

	Reed Chalmers' mild eyes bugged as he watched and listened to his young friend. "Good gracious! That's the third of those steaks, somewhat inadequately called small. You'll — uh — render yourself ill."

	"This is the last one. Hey, waitress! May I please have an apple pie? Not just a segment; I want a whole pie." He turned back to Chalmers. "So the spook said, 'Go on back to where you came from,' and here I am!"

	Chalmers mused: "While I have known you, Harold, to commit venial sins of rhetorical exaggeration incompatible with true scientific accuracy, I have never known you to engage in deliberate fabrication. So I believe you. The general alteration in your appearance and bearing furnishes persuasive corroboration."

	"Have I changed?" asked Shea.

	"You show the effects of physical hardship, as well as exposure to the sun and wind."

	"That all?"

	Chalmers pondered: "You would like me to say, would you not, that your air of self-conscious brashness has been replaced by one of legitimate self-confidence?"

	"Well — uh ..."

	Chalmers continued: "Those conscious of shortcomings are always eager to be informed of radical improvement. Actually such improvements, when they occur at all in an adult, take place slowly. No miraculous change is to be expected in a couple of weeks." He twinkled at Shea's discomfort and added: "I will admit that you seem to show some alteration of personality, and I think in the right direction."

	Shea laughed. "At least I learned to appreciate the value of theory. If you'd been along we'd really have gotten somewhere in applying the screwy laws of the world of Scandinavian myth."

	"I —" Chalmers stopped.

	"What?"

	"Nothing."

	"Of course," said Shea, "you'd never have stood the physical end of it."

	Chalmers sighed. "I suppose not."

	Shea went on: "It checked your theory of paraphysics all right. In that universe the laws of similarity and contagion held good — at least, the magic spells I figured out with their help worked."

	Chalmers brushed his grey mop out of his eyes. "Amazing! I asserted that the transfer of the physical body, to another spacetime frame by symbolic logic — what did you call it? A syllogismobile! was possible. But it is a shock to have so — uh — far-fetched a deduction confirmed by experimental proof."

	Shea said: "Sure, we've got something all right. But what are we going to do with it?"

	Chalmers frowned. "It is rather obscure. Presents a whole new world-picture, unlike anything but some of the Oriental religions. An infinity of universes, moving along parallel but distinct space-time vectors. But, as you put it, what can be done with it? If I publish the results of your experiment they'll simply say poor old Chalmers has ... uh ... a tile loose, and in any case an experimental psychologist has no business venturing into physics. Think of Oliver Lodge!" He shuddered. "The only satisfactory proof would be to send some of the doubters to another universe. Unfortunately, we could hardly count on their encountering Grua with a handful of enchanted snow. They would be unable to return, and the doubters left behind would be doubters still. You perceive the difficulty."

	"Huh-uh. Wonder how the fight came out? It might be worth while going back to see."

	"It would be inadvisable. The Ragnarök was only beginning when you left. You might return to find the giants had won and were in charge. If you wish adventure, there are plenty of other and less —" The voice trailed off.

	"Other what?"

	"Well, perhaps nothing of importance. I was about to say — systematic attainable universes. Since you left I have been engaged in the development of the structural theory of a multiple-universe cosmology, and —"

	Shea interrupted. "Listen, Dr. Chalmers. We both know too much psychology to kid each other. Something's eating you besides paraphysical mathematics."

	"Harold" — Chalmers gave a sigh — "I've always maintained that you'd make a better ... uh ... salesman or politician than psychologist. You're weak on theory, but in offhand, rule-of-thumb diagnosis of behaviour patterns, you are incomparable."

	"Don't evade, Doctor."

	"Very well. Were you perhaps thinking of making another journey soon?"

	"Why, I just got back and haven't had time to think. Say! You aren't suggesting you'd like to go along, are you?"

	Reed Chalmers rolled a fragment of bread into a precise grey pill. "As a matter of fact that's what I was suggesting, Harold. Here I am, fifty-six years old, without family or intimate friends — except you young men of the Garaden Institute. I have made — or believe I have — the greatest cosmological discovery since Copernicus, yet its nature is such that it cannot be proved, and no one will credit it without the most exhaustive proof." He shrugged slightly. "My work is done, but to a result that will afford me no appreciation in this world. May I not ... uh ... be permitted the foible of seeking a fuller life elsewhere?"

-

	Back in Shea's room and seated in the best armchair, Chalmers stretched his legs and meditatively sipped a highball. "I'm afraid your suggestion of Cuchulainn's Ireland does not meet with my approval. An adventurous life, no doubt — but culturally a barbarism, with an elaborate system of taboos, violations of which are punished by the removal of heads,"

	"But the girls —" protested Shea. "Those piano-legged Scowegian blondes — they all reminded me of Gertrude —"

	"For a person of my age amorous adventure has few attractions. And as my partner in this enterprise I must ask you to remember that while you have ... uh ... certain physical skills that would be useful anywhere, I am limited to fields where intellectual attainments would be of more value than in ancient Ireland. The only non-warriors who got anywhere in those days were minstrels — and I can neither compose lays nor play the harp."

	Shea grinned maliciously. "All right, you leave the girls to me, then. But I guess you're right; we'll have to drop Queen Maev and Ossian." He peered around the bookshelves. "How about this?"

	Chalmers examined the volume he handed down. "Spenser's Faerie Queene. Mm-m-m — "vision unrolled after vision to the sound of varying music," as Dr. Johnson said. Certainly a brilliant and interesting world, and one in which I personally might have some place. But I am afraid we should find it uncomfortable if we landed in the latter half of the story, where Queen Gloriana's knights are having a harder time, as though Spenser were growing discouraged, or the narrative for some reason were escaping from his hands, taking on a life of its own. I'm not sure we could exercise the degree of selectivity needed to get into the story at the right point. After all, in your last experience, you attempted Ireland and arrived in Scandinavian myth."

	"But," protested Shea, "if you're going adventuring you can't avoid —" and then stopped, his mouth open.

	"You were about to say 'danger', were you not?" said Chalmers, with a smile. "I confess —"

	Shea got to his feet. "Doctor ... Doc —" he burst out. "Listen: why shouldn't we jump right into that last part of the Faerie Queene and help Gloriana's knights straighten things out? You said you had worked out some new angles. We ought to be better than anyone else in the place. Look what I was able to do in the Ragnarök with the little I know!"

	"You are immodest, Harold," replied Chalmers, but he was leaning forward. "Still, it is an ... uh ... attractive plan; to look in another world for the achievement denied in this. Suppose you fill my glass again while we consider details."

	"Well, the first detail I'd like to know something about is what new wrinkles in theory you have in mind."

	Chalmers settled himself and took on his lecture-room manner. "As I see it, our universes have a relation analogous to that of a pencil of parallel vectors," said he. "The vectors themselves represent time, of course. That gives us a six-dimensional cosmos — three in space, one in time, and two which define the relationships of one universe of the cosmos to another.

	"You know enough mathematics to be aware that the 'fourth dimension', so called, is only a dimension in the sense of a measurable quality, like colour or density. The same applies for the interuniversal dimensions. I maintain —"

	"Whoa!" said Shea. "Is there an infinite number of universes?"

	"Ahem — I wish you would learn to avoid interruptions, Harold. I used to believe so. But now I consider the number finite, though very large.

	"Let me continue. I maintain that what we call 'magic' is merely ... the physics of some of these other universes. This physics is capable of operating along the interuniversal dimensions —"

	"I see," Shea interrupted again. "Just as light can operate through interplanetary space, but sound requires some such conducting medium as air or water."

	"The analogy is not perfect. Let me continue. You know how the theme of conjuring things up and making them disappear constantly recurs in fairy tales. These phenomena become plausible if we assume the enchanter is snatching things from another universe or banishing them to one."

	Shea said: "I see an objection. If the laws of magic don't operate in the conducting medium of our universe, how's it possible to learn about them? I mean, how did they get into fairy stories?"

	"The question is somewhat obvious. You remember my remarking that dements suffered hallucinations because their personalities were split between this universe and another? The same applies to the composers of fairy stories, though to a lesser degree. Naturally, it would apply to any writer of fantasy, such as Dunsany or Hubbard. When he describes some strange world, he is offering a somewhat garbled version of a real one, having its own set of dimensions quite independent of ours."

	Shea sipped his highball in silence. Then he asked: "Why can't we conjure things into and out of this universe?"

	"We can. You successfully conjured yourself out of this one. But it is probable that certain of these parallel universes are easier of access than others. Ours —"

	"Would be one of the hard kind?"

	"Ahem. Don't interrupt, please. Yes. Now as to the time dimension, I'm inclined to think we can travel among universes only at right angles to the pencil of space-time vectors, if you follow my use of a ... a somewhat misleading analogy.

	"However, it appears likely that our vectors are curved. A lapse of time, along the inner side of the curve would correspond to a greater lapse of time along the outer. You know the theme in certain fairy tales — the hero comes to fairyland, spends three days, and returns to find he has been gone three minutes or three years.

	"The same feature would account for the possibility of landing in someone's imagined idea of the future. This is clearly a case where a mind has been running along one of the outer curved vectors at a speed which has outstripped the passage of time along our own inner side of the curve. The result — Harold, are you following me?"

	Shea's highball glass had rolled onto the rug with a gentle plunk, and the suspicion of a snore came from his chair. Fatigue had caught up with him at last.

-

	Next week-end, Harold Shea went up to Cleveland. He was approaching this second time-journey with some misgivings. Chalmers was an astute old bird — no doubt about that, A good theorist. But it was the pursuit of the theory rather than its result that interested the old boy. How would he work out as a companion in a life of arduous adventure — a man of fifty-six, who had always led a sedentary life, and for that matter, who always seemed to prefer discussion to experience —

	Well, too late to pull out now, Shea told himself, as he entered the shop of the Montrose Costume Co. He asked to see medieval stuff. A clerk, who seemed to think that the word "medieval" had something to do with pirates, finally produced an assortment of doublets and hose, feathered hats, and floppy boots of thin yellow leather. Shea selected a costume that had once been worn by the leading man in De Koven's Robin Hood. It had no pockets, but a tailor could be found to remedy that. For Chalmers, he bought a similar but plainer outfit, with a monkish robe and attached hood. Chalmers was to go as a palmer, or pilgrim, a character which both felt would give him some standing.

	The costume company's assortment of arms and armour proved not only phony but impractical. The chain mail was knitted woollens dipped in aluminium paint. The plate was sheets of tin-can thinness. The swords had neither edge, balance, nor temper. The antique shops had nothing better; their antique weapons were mostly civil War cavalry sabres. Shea decided to use his own fencing épée. It had a rather stiff blade, and if he unscrewed the point d'arrêt, ground the end down to a sharp point, and contrived some kind of sheath, the weapon would do till he got something better.

	The most serious question, as he explained to Chalmers on his return, was concern with the formulas of the magic they intended to use on their arrival. "How do you expect to read English in the land of Faerie when I couldn't in Scandinavia?" he demanded.

	"I've allowed for that," Chalmers replied. "You forget that mathematics is a ... a universal language, independent of words."

	"All right. But will your mathematical symbols mean the same things?"

	"Glance at this sheet, Harold. Knowing the principles of symbolic logic to begin with, I can look over this pictured equation with an apple at the left and a great many apples at the right, and thus realize it means that an apple belongs to the class of apples. From that I shall infer that the horseshoe-shaped symbol in the centre means 'is a member of the class of'."

	"You think that'll work, honest? But, say, how do we know that you and I will land in the same part of the Faerie world?"

	Chalmers shrugged. "For that matter, how do we know we shan't land in Greek mythology? There are still laws of this method of transference to be worked out. We can only hold on to each other, read the formulas in chorus, and hope for the best."

	Shea grinned. "And if it doesn't work, what the hell? Well, I guess we're ready." He inhaled deeply. "If P equals not-Q, Q implies not-P. which is equivalent to saying either P or Q but not both. But if not-P is not implied by not-Q — Come in, Mrs. Ladd."

	Shea's landlady opened the door, and opened her mouth to say something, But the something failed to come forth. She stared agape at a pair of respectable psychologists, standing side by side in medieval costumes, with rucksacks on their shoulders. They were holding hands and with their free hands holding sheets of paper. Chalmers purpled with embarrassment.

	Shea bowed easily. "We're doing an experiment, Mrs. Ladd. We may be away for some time. If Mr. Bayard asks for us, let him in and tell him he can look at the papers in the top right-hand drawer. And you might mail this letter. Thanks." He explained to Chalmers: "It's to Gert; to tell her not to waste her money by setting Johnson after us."

	"But, Mr. Shea — " said the landlady.

	"Please, Mrs. Ladd. You can sit down and watch if you like. Let's go, Doctor — a conclusion can he drawn concerning the relation between two classes even if the evidence refers only to a part of some third class to which both are related. Whatever is predicated affirmatively or negatively of a class may be predicated in like manner of everything asserted to be contained in that class —"

	Mrs. Ladd watched, ample bosom heaving. Her eyes bulged from her head: she'd have material for backfence conversation for months to come.

	Pfmp! There was a movement of air, muttering the papers on the table and whirling ashes from the ash trays. Mrs. Ladd, pulling herself together, moved a trembling hand through the space where her strangely dressed lodgers had stood.

	It met no resistance.

Chapter Twelve

	Chalmers spoke first. "Astounding! I should have thought the passage more difficult."

	"Uh-huh." Shea looked around, sniffing the air with his head up. "Looks like a plain forest to me. Not as cold as the last one, thank God."

	"I ... I suppose so. Though I'm sure I don't know what type of tree that is."

	"I'd say some kind of eucalyptus," replied Shea "That would mean a warm, dry climate. But look where the sun is. That means late afternoon, so we better get started."

	"Dear me, I suppose so. Which direction would you suggest?"

	"Dunno, but I can find out." Shea dropped his rucksack and swarmed up the nearest tree. He called down: "Can't see much. No, wait, there's a slope off that direction." He waved an arm, almost lost his footing, and slid down again in a small torrent of bark and leaves.

	They started towards the slope in the hope that it represented a river valley, where they could expect to find human habitations. After half a mile a scraping sound halted him wordlessly. They crept forward, peering. A tall, spotted buck was rubbing its horns against a tree. It flung up its head as it heard them, gave a sneezelike snort, and leaped gracefully away.

	Shea said: "If he's just getting rid of his velvet, it ought to be late summer or early fall."

	"I wasn't aware you were so much of a woodsman, Harold."

	"What the hell, Doc ... Doctor, I've been having practice. What's that?"

	Something far off had gone "Ow-ooh," a sort of musical grunt, as though somebody had casually scraped the C string of a cello.

	Chalmers fingered his chin. "It sounds remarkably like a lion. I trust we need not expect to encounter lions in this country.

	The noise came again, louder. "Don't bet on it, Doctor," said Shea. "If you remember your Spenser, there were plenty of lions around; also camels, bears, wolves, leopards, and aurochs, as well as human fauna like giants and Saracens. Not to mention the Blatant Beast, which had the worst qualities of all and slandered people besides. What worries me is whether lions can climb trees."

	"Merciful Heavens! I don't know about lions, but I'm afraid I shouldn't be equal to much climbing. Let's hurry."

	They strode on through the wood, a wood of open glades with little underbrush and no recognizable paths. A little breeze came up to make the leaves whisper overhead. The coughing roar of the lion came again, and Shea and Chalmers, without realizing, stepped up their pace to a trot. They glanced at each other and slowed down again.

	Chalmers puffed: "It's good for a man of my age to have a little ... uh ... exercise like this."

	Shea grinned with one side of his mouth. They came out onto the edge of a meadow that stretched a couple of hundred yards downhill. At the bottom of the valley, more trees evidently concealed a stream. Shea scrambled up another tree for a look. Beyond the stream and its wide, shallow vale stood a castle, small in the distance and yellow in the low sun, with pennants writhing lazily from its turrets. He called down the news.

	"Can you make out the devices on any of the pennants?" Chalmers answered. "I was ... I am ... not altogether inexpert in matters of heraldry. It might be wise to learn something of the character of the institution."

	"Nor a damn thing," said Shea, and swung himself down. "Air's too quiet and she's too far away. Anyhow, I'd rather take a chance on the castle than on being part of a lion's breakfast. Let's go."

-

	In the tone of an announcer offering the express for East Chicago, Laporte, and South Bend on Track 18, a voice cried at them: "Who would enter Castle Caultrock?"

	There was nobody in sight, but the travellers' eyes caught a flash of metal on one of the projecting balconies where the drawbridge chains entered the wall. Shea shouted back the rehearsed answer: "Travellers, to wit, Harold Shea, gentleman and squire, and Reed Chalmers, palmer!" Wonder what they'd say about the "gentleman," thought Shea, if they knew my father was head bookkeeper of a meat-packing concern?

	The answer floated back: "This is a castle of deeds and ladies. The holy palmer may enter in the name of God, but no gentleman unless he be accompanied by his fair dame, for such is the custom of this place."

	Shea and Chalmers looked at each other. The latter was smiling happily. "Perfect selectivity!" he murmured. "This is exactly right; right at the beginning of Spenser's fourth book —" his voice trailed off and his face fell. "I don't quite know what to do about your being left out —"

	"Go ahead in. I've slept in the open before."

	"But —" Just then a movable section in the bars of the portcullis creaked outward, and a man in armour stumbled through, apparently pushed from behind. There was a shout of derisive laughter. A horse was squeezed through the opening behind. The man took the reins and came towards them. He was a small man with close-cropped hair. A scar intersected one corner of a mouth drawn into a doleful expression. "Hi," said Shea. "Did they throw you out?"

	"I high Hardimour. Aye; it is even the hour of vespers, and being ladyless I am put forth from the fair entertainment within." He smiled wryly. "And what hight you? Nay, tell me not now; for I see my dinner and bed approach, mounted on the back of a jennet."

	The travellers turned to follow Hardimour's eyes behind them. Across the even meadow came a pair of horses, bearing an armoured knight and his lady. The latter rode sidesaddle, clad in rich garments of a trailing, impractical kind.

	The little knight vaulted to his saddle with a lightness that was surprising, considering the weight of his hardware. He shouted, "Defend yourself, knight, or yield me your lady!" and snapped down his visor with a clang.

	The smaller horse, with the woman, swung to one side. Shea gave a low whistle as he got a look at her: a slim, pale girl, with features as perfect as a cameo, and delicately rounded eyebrows. The other rider, without a word, whipped a cloth covering from his shield, revealing a black field on which broken spear points were picked out with silver. He swung a big black lance into position.

	Heads appeared along the battlements of the castle. Shea felt Chalmers pluck at his sleeve. "That Sir Hardimour is in for trouble," said the older psychologist. "Sable, semé of broken spears is the bearing of Britomart."

	Shea was watching the knights, who had spurred their horses to a heavy gallop. Wham! went lances against shields, and there were sparks in the fading light. The head of the little knight from the castle went back, his feet came up, and he turned a somersault through the air. He landed on his head with the sound of thirty feet of chain being dropped on a manhole cover.

	The stranger knight reined in and brought his horse back at a walk. Shea, followed by Chalmers, ran to where Sir Hardimour sprawled. The little knight seemed to be out cold. As Shea fumbled with unfamiliar fingers at his helmet fastenings, he sat up groggily and helped get it off. He drew in a long breath.

	"By'r Lady," he remarked with a rueful grin, "I have stood before Blandamour of the Iron Arm, but that was as rude a dint as ever I took." He looked up as the knight who had overthrown him approached. "It seems I was too ambitious. To whom do I owe the pleasure of a night with the crickets?"

	The other pulled up his visor to reveal a fresh young face. "Certes," he said in a light, high-pitched voice, you are a very gentle person, young sir, and shall not spend a night with the crickets and bugbears if I can help it. Ho, warder!"

	The castle guard's head came through the gate in the portcullis. "Your worship," he said.

	"Have I fairly gained admittance to Castle Caultrock as the knight of this lady?"

	"That is most true."

	The knight of the shivered spears on their field of black put both hands up to his own helmet and lifted it off. A sunburst of golden hair burst forth and flowed down to his — her — waist. Behind him Shea beard Chalmers chuckle, "I told you it was Britomart." He remembered that Britomart was the warrior girl who could beat most of the men in the Faerie Queene.

	She was speaking: "Then I declare I am the lady of this good knight who has been overthrown, and since he has a lady he may enter."

	The warder looked worried and scratched his chin. "The point is certainly very delicate. If you are her knight — and yet his lady — how can she be your lady and he your knight? Marry I warrant me this is a case Sir Artegall himself could not unravel. Enter, all three!"

	Shea spoke up: "Beg pardon, miss, but I wonder if I could arrange to go in as your friend's man?"

	"That you may not, sir," she replied haughtily. "She shall be no man's lady till I restore her to her husband; for this is that Lady Amoret who was foully stolen from her spouse's arms by Busyrane, the enchanter. If you wish to be her knight, you must even try Sir Hardimour's fate against me."

	"Hm-m-m," said Shea. "But you're going in as Sir Hardimour's lady?" They nodded. He turned to the latter. "If I had a horse and all the fixings, Sir Knight, I'd fight you for the privilege of being Miss Britomart's man. But as it is I'll challenge you to a round on foot with swords and without armour."

	Hardimour's scarred face registered an astonishment that changed to something like pleasure. "Now, that is a strange sort of challenge —" he began.

	"Yet not unheard of," interrupted the statuesque Britomart. "I mind me that Sir Artegall fought thus against three brothers at the Ford of Thrack."

	Chalmers was plucking at Shea's sleeve again. "Harold, I consider it most unwise —"

	"Shh! I know what I'm doing. Well, Sir Knight, how about it?"

	"Done," Sir Hardimour unbuckled himself from his chrysalis of steel. He stepped forward, his feet feeling uncertainly on the smooth grass which he was used to crossing in metal shoes.

	Hardimour stamped and swung his sword a couple of times in both hands. He shifted it to one and moved towards Shea. Shea waited quietly, balancing the épée. Hardimour made a couple of tentative cuts at Shea, who parried easily. Then, feeling surer of his footing, Hardimour stepped forward nimbly, swinging his sword up for a real clash. Shea straightened his arm and lunged, aiming for Hardimour's exposed forearm. He missed, and jumped back before the knight's sword came down, gleaming red in the setting sun.

	As the blade descended, Shea flipped it aside with a parry in carte, being careful not to let the heavy blade meet his thin épée squarely. Hardimour tried again, a forehand cut as Shea's head. Shea ducked under it and pricked Hardimour's arm before he could recover. Shea heard Chalmers' quick intake of breath and an encouraging word from Britomart, "Bravely done, oh, bravely!"

	Hardimour came on again, swinging. Shea parried, lunged, missed again, but held his lunge and drilled the knight's arm properly with a remise. The slim steel needle went through the muscles like butter. Britomart clapped her hands.

	Shea withdrew his blade and recovered, keeping the épée flickering between them. "Had enough?" he asked.

	"By Gods wounds, no!" gritted Hardimour. The sleeve of his shirt was turning dark red, and he was sweating, but he looked thoroughly grim. He swung the sword up in both hands, wincing slightly The épée flickered out and ripped his now dripping shirt-sleeve. He checked, and held his sword out in front of him, trying to imitate Shea's fencing position. Shea tapped it ringingly a couple of times, gathered it up in a bind in octave, and lunged. Hardimour saved himself by stumbling backward. Shea followed him. Flick, flick, flick went the thin blade, Hardimour's eyes following it in fearful fascination. He tried to parry the repeated thrust, but could no longer control his big blade. Shea forced him back zigzag, got him into the position he wanted, feinted, and lunged. He stopped his point just as it touched the smaller man's chest. Hardimour put a foot back, but found no support. His arms went up, his sword whirling over and over, till it went plunk into the moat. Sir Hardimour followed it with a great splash.

	When he came up with a green water plant plastered on his forehead, Shea was kneeling at the edge.

	Hardimour cried: "Gulp ... pffth ... ugh! ... help! I can't swim."

	Shea extended Chalmers' staff. Hardimour caught it and pulled himself up. As he scrambled to his feet, he found that villainous épée blade flickering in his face.

	"Give up?" demanded Shea.

	Hardimour blinked, coughed up some more water, and sank to his knees. "I cry craven," he said grudgingly. Then: "Curse it! In another bout I'll beat you, Master Harold!"

	"But I won this one," said Shea. "After all, I didn't want to sleep with the crickets, either."

	"Right glad am I that you shall not," said Hardimour honestly, feeling of his arm. "What galls me is that twice I've been put to shame before all these noble lords and ladies of Castle Caultrock. And after all, I must stay without."

	Chalmers spoke up. "Hasn't the castle some rule about admitting persons in distress?"

	"I bethink me this is even the case. Sick or wounded knights may enter till they are well."

	"Well," said Shea, "that arm won't be well for a couple of months."

	"Perhaps you caught a cold from your ducking," advised Chalmers.

	"I thank you, reverend palmer. Perhaps I did." Hardimour sneezed experimentally.

	"Put more feeling into it," said Shea.

	Hardimour did so, adding a racking cough. "Ah me, I burn with ague!" he cried, winking. "Good people of the castle, throw me at least a cloak to wrap myself in, ere I perish! Oooo-ah!" He sank realistically to the ground. They got him up, and supported him, staggering, across the drawbridge. Britomart and Amoret followed, the former leading the three horses. This time the warder made no objection.

Chapter Thirteen

	A trumpet blew three notes as they passed through the gate in the portcullis. The last note was sour. As the travellers entered a paved courtyard littered by heaps of dirty straw, they were surrounded by a swarm of little page boys in bright-coloured costumes. All were chattering, but they seemed to know what to do. They attached themselves two by two to each of the new arrivals and led them towards the door of a tall, greystone building that rose from the opposite side of the court.

	Shea was taken in tow by a pair of youths who gazed at him admiringly. Each wore medieval hose, with one leg red and the other white. As he mounted a winding stair under their guidance, one of them piped: "Are you only a squire, sir?"

	"Shh!" said the other. "Have you no manners, Bevis? The lord hasn't spoken."

	"Oh, that's all right," said Shea. "Yes, I'm only a squire. Why?"

	"Because you're such a good swordsman, worshipful sir. Sir Hardimour is a right good knight." He looked wistful. "Will you show me that trick of catching an enemy's blade sometime, worshipful sir? I want to slay an enchanter."

	They had arrived at the entrance of a long, high room, with a huge four-poster bed in one corner. One of the pages ran ahead and, kneeling before a cross-legged chair, brushed it off for Shea to sit on. As he did so, the other reached around him and unbuckled his sword belt, while the first ran out of the room. A moment later he was back, carrying a big copper basin of steaming water, a towel over his arm.

	Shea gathered he was expected to wash his hands. They needed it.

	"In the name of Castle Caultrock," said the little Bevis, "I crave your lordship's pardon for not offering him a bath. But the hour of dinner is now so near —"

	He was interrupted by a terrific blowing of trumpets, mostly out of tune and all playing different things, that might have heralded the arrival of the new year.

	"The trumpets for dinner!" said the page who was wiping Shea's hands for him, somewhat to his embarrassment. "Come."

	It had fallen dusk outside. The winding stair up which they had come was black as a boot. Shea was glad of the page's guiding hand. The boy sure-footedly led the way to the bottom, across a little entry hall where a single torch hung in a wall bracket. He threw open a door, announcing in his thin voice, "Master Harold de Shea!"

	The room beyond was large — at least fifty feet long and nearly as wide, wretchedly lighted — according to American standards — by alternate torches and tapers along the wall. Shea, who had recently been in the even dimmer illumination of Bonder Sverre's house, found the light good enough to see that the place was filled with men and ladies, gabbing as they moved through an arch at the far end into the dining hall.

	Chalmers was not to be seen. Britomart was visible a few feet away. She was the tallest person in the room with the exception of himself, and fully equal to his own five feet eleven.

	He made his way towards her. "Well, Master Squire," she greeted him unsmilingly, "it seems that since I have become your lady you are to take me to dinner. You may give the kiss of grace, but not liberties, you understand?" She pushed her cheek towards him, and since he was apparently expected to do so, he kissed it. That was easy enough. With a little make-up she might have been drawn by George Petty.

	Preceded by the little Bevis they entered into the tall dining hall. They were led to the raised central part of the U-shaped table. Shea was glad to see that Chalmers had already been seated, two places away from him. The intervening space was already occupied by the cameolike Amoret. To the evident discomfort of Chalmers, she was pouring the tale of her woes into his ear with machine-gun speed.

	"— and, oh, the tortures that foul fiend Busyrane put me to!" she was saying. "With foul shows and fantastic images on the walls of the cell where I was held. Now he'd declare how my own Scudamour was unfaithful to me; now offer me great price for my virtue —"

	"How many times a day did he demand it?" inquired a knight beyond, leaning down the table.

	"Never less than six," said Amoret, "and oft as many as twenty. When I refused — as ever I must — the thing's past understanding —"

	Shea heard Chalmers murmur: "What, never? No never. What, never —"

	The knight said: "Sir Scudamour may well take pride in such a wife, gentle lady, who has borne so much for his sake."

	"What else could she do?" asked Britomart coldly.

	Shea spoke up: "I could think of one or two things."

	The Petty girl turned on him, blue eyes flashing. "Master Squire, your insinuations are vile, and unworthy the honour of knighthood! Had you made them beyond that gate, I would prove them soon your body, with spear and sword."

	She was, he observed with some astonishment, genuinely angry. "Sorry; I was joking," he offered.

	"Chastity, sir, is no subject for jest!" she snapped.

	Before the conversation could be carried further, Shea jumped at another tremendous blast of trumpets. A file of pages pranced in with silver plates. Shea noted, there was only one plate for him and Britomart together. Looking down the table, he saw that each pair, knight and lady, had been similarly served. This was apparently one of the implications of being a knight's "lady". Shea would have liked to inquire whether there were any others; but in. view of Britomart's rebuff at his mild joke at Amoret, he didn't quite dare.

-

	The trumpets blew again, this time to usher in a file of serving men bearing trays of food. That set before Shea and Britomart was a huge pastry, elaborately made in the form of a potbellied medieval ship, upon which the page Bevis fell with a carving knife. As he worked at it, Chalmers leaned around Amoret's back, and touching Shea's sleeve, remarked: "Everything's going according to plan."

	"How do you mean?"

	"The logical equations. I looked at them in my room. They puzzled me a bit, at first, but I checked them against that key I made up, and everything fitted into place."

	"Then you can really work magic?"

	"I'm pretty sure. I tried a little enchantment on a cat that was strolling around. Worked a spell on some feathers and gave it wings." He chuckled. "I daresay there will be some astonishment among the birds in the forest tonight. It flew out the window."

	Shea felt a nudge at his other side, and turned to face Britomart. "Will my lord, as is his right, help himself first?" she said. She indicated the plate. Her expression plainly said she hoped any man who helped himself before her would choke on what he got. Shea surveyed her for a second.

	"Not at all," he answered. "You go first. After all, you're a better knight than I am. You pitched Hardimour down with a spear. If you hadn't softened him up, I couldn't have done a thing."

	Her smile told him he had gauged her psychology correctly. "Grace," said she. She plunged her hand into the pile of meat that had come out of the pastry ship, put a good-sized lump into her mouth. Shea followed her example. He nearly jumped out of his chair, and snatched for the wine cup in front of him.

	The meat tasted like nothing on earth. It was heavily salted, and sweet, and almost all other flavours were drowned in a terrific taste of cloves. Two big tears of agony came into Shea's eyes as he took a long pull at the wine cup.

	The wine reeked of cinnamon. The rears ran down his cheek.

	"Ah, good Squire Harold," came Amoret's voice, "I don't wonder that you weep at the tale of the agonies through which I have passed. Was ever faithful lady so foully put upon?"

	"For my part," said the knight farther down the table, "I think this Busyrane is a vile, caitiff rogue, and willingly would I take the adventure of putting an end to him."

	Britomart gave a hard little laugh. "You won't find that so easy, Sir Erivan. Firstly, you shall know that Busyrane dwells in the woods where the Losels breed, those most hideous creatures that are half-human in form, yet eat of human flesh. They are ill to overcome. Secondly, this Busyrane conceals his castle by arts magical, so it is hard to find. And thirdly, having found it and Busyrane himself, he is a very stout and powerful fighter, whom few can match. In all Faerie, I know of only two that might overthrow him."

	"And who are they?" asked Erivan.

	"This one is Sir Cambell, who is a knight of great prowess. Moreover, he has to wife Cambina, who is much skilled in the white magic that might pass both through the Losels and Busyrane's enchantments. The other is my own dear lord and affianced husband, Sir Artegall, justiciar to our queen."

	"There you see!" cried Amoret. "That's the kind of person who was after me. Oh, what sufferings! Oh, how I ever — "

	"Ssst, Amoret!" interrupted Chalmers. "Your food's geting cold, child."

	"How true, good palmer." A tear trickled down Amoret's lovely pale cheek as she rolled a huge ball of food between her fingers and thrust it into her mouth. As she chewed she managed to exclaim: "Oh, what would I do without the good friends who aid me!" There was certainly nothing weak about the frail-looking lady's appetite.

-

	Trumpets sounded the end of the course, and as one set of serving men took away the plates, another emerged with more dishes. Pages came running to each couple with metal bowls of water and towels. Sir Erivan, beyond Chalmers, lifted his wine cup and then set it down again.

	"Ho, varlet!" he cried. "My wine cup is empty. Is it the custom of Caultrock to let the guests perish of thirst?"

	The servitor signalled another, and a small wizened man in a fur-lined jacket hurried up and bowed to Sir Erivan.

	"My very gracious lord," he said, "I crave your pardon. But a most strange malady has befallen the wine, and it's turned sour. All the wine in Castle Caultrock. The good Fray Montelus has pronounced an exorcism over it, but to no purpose. There must be a powerful enchantment on it."

	"What?" shouted Sir Erivan. "By the seven thousand demons of Gehenna, do you expect us to drink water? And then, shrugging his shoulders, he turned towards Chalmers.

	"You see how it is reverend sir. Daily we knights of Faerie are compassed closer about by these evil spells till we know not what to do. I misdoubt me they will make trouble at the tournament."

	"What tournament?" asked Shea.

	"The tournament of Satyrane, the woodland knight, at his forest castle, three days hence. It will be a most proud and joyous occasion. There's to be jousting, ending with a mélée, for the prize among knights and also a tourney of beauty for the ladies after. I've heard that the prize of beauty is to be that famous girdle of the Lady Florimel, which none but the most chaste may bind on."

	"Oh, how you frighten me!" said Amoret. "I was kidnapped from a tournament, you know. Now I shall hardly dare attend this one, if there will be enchanters present. Just think, one might win the prize of valour and I be awarded to him of right!"

	"I shall be in the lists for you," said Britomart, a trifle haughtily.

	Shea asked: "Does the winner of the men's prize get the winner of the prize of beauty?"

	Sir Erivan looked at him in some astonishment. "You are pleased to jest — No. I see you are really a foreigner and don't know. Well, then, such is the custom of Faerie. But I misdoubt me these enchanters and their spells." He shook his head gloomily.

	Shea said: "Say, my friend Chalmers and I might be able to help you out a little."

	"In what manner?"

	Chalmers was making frantic efforts to signal him to silence, but Shea ignored them. "We know a little magic of our own. Pure white magic, like that Lady Cambina you spoke of. For instance — Doc, think you could do something about the wine situation?"

	"Why ... ahem ... that is ... I suppose I might, Harold. But don't you think —"

	Shea did not wait for the objection. "If you'll be patient," he said, "my friend the palmer will work some of his magic. What'll you need, Doc?"

	Chalmers' brow furrowed. "A gallon of so of water, yes. Perhaps a few drops of good wine. Some grapes and bay leaves —"

	Somebody interrupted: "As well ask for the moon in a basket as grapes at Caultrock. Last week came a swarm of birds and stripped the vines bare. Enchanter's work, by hap; they do not love us here."

	"Dear me! Would there be a cask?"

	"Aye, marry, a mort o' 'em. Rudiger, an empty cask!"

	The cask was rolled down the centre of the tables. The guests buzzed as they saw the preparations. Other articles were asked and refused till there was produced a stock of cubes of crystallized honey, crude and unstandardized in shape "— but they'll do as sugar cubes, lacking anything better," Chalmers told Shea.

	A piece of charcoal served Chalmers for a pencil. On each of the lumps of crystallized honey he marked a letter, O, C, or H. A little fire was got going on the stone floor in the centre of the tables. Chalmers dissolved some of the honey in some of the water, put the water in the cask and some of straw in the water. The remaining lumps of honey he stirred about the table top with his fingers, as though playing some private game of anagrams, reciting meanwhile:

-

So oft as I with state of present time
	The image of our ... uh ... happiness compare,
So oft I find how less we are than prime,
	How less our joy than that we once did share:
Thus do I ask those things that once we had
	To make an evening run its wonted course,
And banish from this company the sad
	Thoughts that in utter abstinence have their source:
	Change then! For, being water, you cannot be worse!"

-

	As he spoke, he withdrew a few of the lumps, arranging them thus:

-

H  H
H  C  C  O  H
H  H

-

	"By the splendour of Heaven!" cried a knight with a short beard, who had risen and was peering into the cask. "The palmer's done it!"

	Chalmers reached over and pulled the straw from the top of the cask, dipped some of the liquid into his goblet and sipped. "God bless my soul!" he murmured.

	"What is it, Doc?" asked Shea.

	"Try it," said Chalmers, passing him the goblet. Shea tried it and for the second time that evening almost upset the table.

	The liquid was the best Scotch whisky he had ever tasted.

	The thirsty Sir Erivan spoke up: "Is aught amiss with your spell-wrought wine?"

	"Nothing," said Chalmers, "except that it's rather ... uh ... potent."

	"May one sample it, Sir Palmer?"

	"Go easy on it." said Shea, passing down the goblet. Sir Erivan went easy, but nevertheless exploded into a series of coughs. "Whee! A beverage for the gods on Olympus! None but they would have gullets of the proper temper. Yet methinks I should like more."

	Shea diluted the next slug of whisky with water before giving it to the serving man to pass down the table. The knight with the short beard made a face at the flavour. "This tastes like no wine I wot of," said he.

	"Most true," said Erivan, "but 'tis proper nectar, and makes one feel wonnnnnnderful! More, I pray you!"

	"May I have some, please?" asked Amoret, timidly. Chalmers looked unhappy. Britomart intervened: "Before you sample strange waters I myself will try." She picked up the goblet she was sharing with Shea, took a long, quick drink.

	Her eyes goggled and watered, but she held it well. "Too strong for my little charge," said she when she got her breath back.

	"But, Lady Britomart —"

	"Nay. It would not — Nay, I say."

-

	The servitors were busy handing out the Scotch which left a trail of louder talk and funnier jokes in its wake. Down the table some of the people were dancing; the kind of dance wherein you spend your time holding up your partner's hand and bowing. Shea had just enough whisky in him to uncork his natural recklessness. He bowed half-mockingly to Britomart. "Would my lady care to dance?"

	"No," she said solemnly. "I do it not. So many responsibilities have I had that I've never learned. Another drink, please."

	"Oh, come on! I don't, either, the way they do here. But we can try."

	"No," she said. "Poor Britomart never indulges in the lighter pleasures. Always busy, righting wrongs and setting a good example of chastity. Not that anyone heeds it."

	Shea saw Chalmers slip Amoret a shot of whisky. The perfect beauty coughed it down. Then she began talking very fast about the sacrifices she had made to keep herself pure for her husband. Chalmers began looking around for help. Serves the Doc right, thought Shea. Britomart was pulling his sleeve.

	"It's a shame," she sighed. "They all say Britomart needs no man's sympathy. She's the girl who can take care of herself."

	"Is it as bad as all that?"

	"Mush worst. I mean much worse. They all say Britomart has no sense of humour. That's because I do my duty. Conscientious. That's the trouble. You think I have a sense of humour, don't you, Master Harold de Shea?" She looked at him accusingly.

	Shea privately thought that "they all" were right. But he answered: "Of course I do."

	"That's splendid. It gladdens my heart to find someone who understands. I Like you, Master Harold. You're tall, not like these little pigs of men around here. Tell me, you don't think I'm too tall, do you? You wouldn't say I was just a big blond horse?"

	"Perish the thought!"

	"Would you even say I was good-looking?"

	"And how!" Shea wondered how this was going to end.

	"Really, truly good-looking, even if I am tall?"

	"Sure, you bet, honest." Shea saw that Britomart was on the verge of tears. Chalmers was busy trying to staunch Amoret's verbal haemorrhage, and couldn't help.

	"Thass glorious. I'm so glad to find somebody who likes me as a woman. They all admire me, but nobody cares for me as a woman. Have to set a good example. Tell you a secret." She leaned towards him in such a marked manner that Shea glanced around to see whether they were attracting attention.

	They were not. Sir Erivan, with a Harpo Marx expression, was chasing a plump, squeaking lady from pillar to pillar. The dancers were doing a snake dance. From one corner came a roar where knights were betting their shirts at knuckle-bones.

	"Tell you shecret," she went on, raising her voice. "I get tired of being a good example. Like to be really human. Just once. Like this." She grabbed Shea out of his seat as if he had been a puppy dog, slammed him down on her lap, and kissed him with all the gentleness of an affectionate tornado.

	Then she heaved him out of her lap with the same amazing strength and pushed him back into his place. "No," she said gloomily. "No. My responsibilities. Must think on them." A big tear rolled down her cheek. "Come, Amoret. We must to bed."

-

	The early sun had not yet reached the floor of the courtyards when Shea came back, grinning. He told Chalmers: "Say, Doc, silver has all kinds of value here! The horse and ass together only cost $4.60."

	"Capital! I feared some other metal would pass current, or that they might have no money at all. Is the ... uh ... donkey domesticated?"

	"Tamest I ever saw. Hello, there, girls!" This was to Britomart and Amoret, who had just come out. Britomart had her armour on, and a stern, martial face glowered at Shea out of the helmet.

	"How are you this morning?" asked that young man, unabashed.

	"My head beats with the cruel beat of an anvil, as you must know." She turned her back. "Come, Amoret, there is no salve like air, and if we start now we shall be at Satyrane's castle as early as those who ride late and fast with more pain."

	"We're going that way, too," said Shea. "Hadn't we better ride along with you?"

	"For protection's sake, mean you? Hah! Little enough use that overgrown bodkin you bear would be if we came to real combat. Or is it that you wish to ride under the guard of my arm?" She shook it with a clang of metal.

	Shea grinned. "After all, you are technically my ladylove —" He ducked as she swung at him, and hopped back out of reach.

	Amoret spoke up: "Ah, Britomart, but do me the favour of letting them ride with us! The old magician is so sympathetic."

	Shea saw Chalmers start in dismay. But it was too late to back out now. When the women had mounted they rode through the gate together. Shea rook the lead with grumpily silent Britomart. Behind him, he could hear Amoret prattling cheerfully at Chalmers, who answered in monosyllables.

	The road, no more than a bridle path without marks of wheeled traffic, paralleled the stream. The occasional glades that had been visible near Castle Caultrock disappeared. The trees drew in on them and grew taller till they were riding through a perpetual twilight, only here and there touched with a bright fleck of sunlight.

	After two hours Britomart drew rein. As Amoret came up, the warrior girl announced: "Time for a bath. Join me, Amoret?"

	The girl blushed and simpered. "These gentlemen —"

	"Are gentlemen," said Britomart, with a glare at Shea that implied he had jolly well better be a gentleman or else. "We will halloo." She led the way down the slope and between a pair of mossy trunks.

	The two men strolled off a way and sat. Shea turned to Chalmers, "How's the magic going?"

	"Ahem," said the professor. "We were right about the general worsening of conditions here. Everyone seems aware of it, but they don't quite know what causes it or what to do about it."

	"Do you?"

	Chalmers pinched his chin. "It would seem — uh — reasonable to suspect the operations of a kind of guild of evil, of which various enchanters, like this Busyrane mentioned last night, form a prominent part. I indicate the souring of the wine and the loss of the grapes as suggestive examples. It would not even surprise me to discover that a well-organized revolutionary conspiracy is afoot. The question of whether such a subversive enterprise is justified is of course a moral one, resting on that complex of sentiments which the German philosophers call by the characteristically formidable name of Weltansicht. It therefore cannot be settled by scientific —"

	Shea said: "Yeah. But what can we do about it?"

	"I'm not quite certain. The obvious step would be to observe some of these people in operation and learn something of their technique. This tournament — Good gracious, what's that?"

	From the river came a shriek. Shea stared at Chalmers for three seconds. Then he jumped up and ran towards the sound.
As he burst through the screen of brush, he saw the two women up to their necks in a little pool out near the middle of the river. Wading towards them, their backs to Shea, were two wild-looking, half-naked men in tartan kilts. They were shouting with laughter.

	Shea did a foolish thing. He drew his épée, slid down the six-foot bank, and ploughed into the water after the men, yelling. They whirled about, whipped out broadswords from rawhide slings, and splashed towards him. He realized his folly: knee-deep in water he would be unable to use his footwork. At best his chances were no more than even against one of these men. Two ...

	The bell-guard of the épée gave a clear ringing note as he parried the first cut. His riposte missed but the kilted man gave a little. Shea out of the tail of his eye saw the other working around to get behind him. He parried, thrust, parried.

	"Wurroo!" yelled the wild man, and swung again. Shea backed a step to bring the other into his field of vision. Cold fear gripped him lest his foot slip on an unseen rock. The other man was upon him, swinging his sword up with both hands for the kill. "Wurroo!" he yelled like the other. Shea knew sickeningly that he couldn't get his guard around in time ...

	Thump! A rock bounced off the man's head. The man sat down. Shea turned back to the first and just parried a cut at his head. The first kiltie was really boring in now. Shea backed another step, slipped, recovered, parried, and backed. The water tugged at his legs. He couldn't meet the furious swings squarely for fear of snapping his light blade. Another step back, and another, and the water was only inches deep. Now! Disengage, double, one-two, lunge — and the needlepoint slid through skin and lungs and skin again. Shea recovered and watched the man's knees sag. Down he went.

	The other was picking himself out of the water some distance down. When Shea took a few steps towards him, he scrambled up the bank and ran like a deer, his empty swordsling banging against his back.

-

	Amoret's voice announced: "You may come now, gentlemen." Shea and Chalmers went back to the river to find the girls dressed and drying their hair by spreading it to the sun on their hands.

	Shea asked Britomart: "You threw that rock, didn't you?"

	"Aye. Thanks and more than thanks, Squire Harold. I cry your grace for having thought that slaughtering blade of yours a toy."

	"Don't mention it. That second bird would have nailed me if you hadn't beaned him with a rock. But say, why did you just sit there in the pool? A couple of steps would have taken you to the deep water. Or can't you swim?"

	"We can swim," she replied. "But it would not be meet to expose our modesty by leaving the pool, least of all to the wild Da Derga."

	Shea forebore to argue about the folly of modesty that exposed one to death or to a fate that Britomart would undoubtedly consider worse. The blonde beauty was showing a much friendlier disposition towards him, and he did not wish to jeopardize it by argument over undebatable questions.

	When they rode on, Britomart left Amoret to inflict her endless tale of woe on Chalmers, while she rode with Shea. Shea asked leading questions, trying not to reveal his own ignorance too much.

	Britomart was, it transpired, one of Queen Gloriana's "Companions" or officers — a "count" in the old Frankish sense of the term. There were twelve of them, each charged with the righting of wrongs in some special field of the land of Faerie.

	Ye olde tyme policewoman, thought Shea. He asked whether there were grades of authority among the Companions.

	Britomart told him: "That hangs by what matter is under consideration. In questions involving the relations of man to man, I am less than those gallant knights, Sir Cambell and Sir Triamond. Again, should it be a point of justice, the last authority rests with Sir Artegall."

	Her voice changed a trifle on the last word. Shea remembered how she had mentioned Artegall the evening before. "What's he like?"

	"Oh, a most gallant princely rogue, I warrant you!" She touched her horse with the spurs so that he pranced, and she had to soothe him with: "Quiet, Beltran!"

	"Yes?" Shea encouraged.

	"Well, for the physical side of him, somewhat dark of hair and countenance; tall, and so strong with lance that not Redcross or Prince Arthur himself can bear the shock of his charge. That was how I came to know him. We fought; I was the better with the spear, but at swords he overthrew me and was like to have killed me before he found I was a woman. I fell in love with him forthwith," she finished simply.

	Singular sort of courtship, thought Shea, but even in the world I came from there are girls who fall for that kind of treatment. Aloud he said: "I hope he fell for you, too."

	Britomart surprised him by heaving a sigh. "Alas, fair squire, that I must confess I do not know. 'Tis true he plighted himself to marry me, but he's ever off to some tournament, or riding to some quest that I know not the end or hour of. We'll be married when he gets back, quotha, but when he does return, it's to praise my courage or strength, and never a word to show he thinks of me as a woman. He'll clap me on the back and say; 'Good old Britomart, I knew I could depend on you. And now I have another task for you; a dragon this time.' "

	"Hm-m-m," said Shea. "Don't suppose you ever beard of psychology?"

	"Nay, not I."

	"Do you ever dress up? I mean, like some of those Ladies at Castle Caultrock."

	"Of what use to me such foibles? Could I pursue my tasks as Companion in such garb?"

	"Do you ever roll your eyes up at Artegall and tell him how wonderful he is?"

	"Nay, marry beshrew me! What would he think of so unmaidenly conduct?"

	"That's just the point; just what he's waiting for! Look here, in my country the girls are pretty good at that sort of thing, and I've learned most of the tricks. I'll show you a few, and you can practise on me. I don't mind."

-

	They dined rather thinly that night, on coarse brown bread and cheese which Britomart produced from a pack at the back of her saddle. They slept in cushiony beds of fern, three inches deep. The next day they rode in the same arrangement. Chalmers rather surprisingly consented. He explained: "The young lady is certainly very ... uh ... verbose, but she has a good deal of information to offer with regard to the methods of this Busyrane. I should prefer to continue the conversation."

	As soon as they were on the road Britomart pulled up her visor and, leaning cowards Shea, rolled her eyes. "You must be weary, my most dear lord," she said, "after your struggle with those giants. Come sit and talk. I love to hear —"

	Shea grinned. "Overdoing it a little, old girl. Better start again."

	"You must be weary — Hola, what have we here?"

	The track had turned and mounted to a plateau-like meadow. As they emerged into the bright sun, a trumpet sounded two sharp notes. There was a gleam of metal from the other side. Shea saw a knight with a shield marked in wavy stripes of green drop his lance into place and start towards him.

	"Sir Paridell, as I live!" snapped Britomart, in her policewoman's voice. "Oft an illdoer and always a lecher. Ha! Well met! Gloriana!" The last shouted word was muffled in her helmet as the visor snapped shut. Her big black horse bounded towards this sudden opponent, the ebony lance sticking out past his head. They met with a crash. Paridell held the saddle, but his horse's legs flew out from under. Man and animal came down together in a whirlwind of dust — Shea and Chalmers reached him together and managed to pull the horse clear. When they got Paridell's helmet off he was breathing, but there was a thin trickle of blood at his lips. He was unconscious.

	Shea gazed at him a moment, then had an inspiration. "Say, Britomart," he asked, "what are the rules about taking the arms of a guy like that?"

	Britomart looked at her late opponent without pity. "Since the false knave attacked us, I suppose they belong to me."

	"He must have heard I was travelling in your company," piped Amoret. "Oh, the perils I go through!"

	Shea was not to be put off. "I was wondering if maybe I couldn't use that outfit."

	Paridell's squire, a youth with a thin fuzz of beard on his chin and the trumpet over his shoulder, had joined them. He was bending over his master, trying to revive him by forcing the contents of a little flask between his lips. Now he looked up. "Nay, good sir," he said to Britomart, "punish him not so. He did but catch a glimpse of you as you rode up, and mistook this dame for the Lady Florimel."

-

	A flush of anger went up Britomart's face. "In very truth!" she cried. Now if I had no thought before of penalties, this would be more than I needed. Sir, I am Britomart of the Companions, and this Paridell of yours is a most foul scoundrel. Strip him of his arms!"

	"What about me?" asked Shea insistently. "That tournament —"

	"You could not ride in the tournament in a knight's arms without being yourself knight, fair squire."

	"Ahem!" said Chalmers. "I think my young friend would make a very good addition to the knights of your Queen Gloriana's court."

	"True, reverend sir," said Britomart, "but the obligation of knighthood is not lightly undertaken. He must either watch by his arms in a chapel all night, and have two proved knights to vouch him; or he must perform some great deed on the battlefield. Here we have neither the one nor the other."

	"I remember how my Scudamour —" began Amoret.

	But Chalmers broke in, "Couldn't you swear him in as a kind of deputy?"

	"There is no —" began Britomart, and then checked herself. " 'Tis true, I have no squire at present. If you, Master Harold, will take the oaths and ride as my squire, that is, without a crest to your helmet, it might be managed."

	The oath was simple enough, about allegiance to Queen Gloriana and Britomart in her name, a promise to suppress malefactors, protect the weak, and so on.

	Shea and Chalmers pulled off Sir Paridell's armour together. His squire clucked distractedly through the process. Paridell came to in the middle of it, and Chalmers had to sit on his head until it was finished.

	Shea learned that a suit of armour was heavier than it looked. It was also a trifle small in the breastplate. Fortunately Paridell — a plump young man with bags under his eyes — had a large head. So there was no trouble with the well-padded helmet, from which Britomart knocked off the crest with the handle of her sword.

	She also lent Shea her own shield cover. She explained that Paridell's engrailed green bars would cause any of half a dozen knights to challenge him to a death duel on sight.

	They had eaten the last of their provisions at lunch. Shea had remarked to Chalmers on the difficulty of getting a bellyful of adventure and one of food on the same day. So the sight of Satyrane's castle, all rough and craggy and set amid trees, held a welcome promise of food and entertainment. Unlike that of Caultrock, it had portcullis and gate open onto the immense courtyard. Here workmen were hammering at temporary stands at one side.

	The place was filled with knights and ladies, most of them familiar to Britomart and Amoret. Shea quite lost track of the number he was introduced to. In the hall before the dinner trumpet he met one he'd remember: Satyrane himself, a thick bear of a man, with a spade beard and huge voice. 

	"All Britomart's friends are mine!" he shouted. "Take a good place at the table, folks. Hungry, not so? We're all hungry here; like to starve." He chuckled, "Eat well, good squire; you'll need strength tomorrow. There will be champions. Blandamour of the Iron Arm has come, and so have Cambell and Triamond."

Chapter Fourteen

	At ten the next morning, Shea came out of the vault-like castle and blinked into the morning sun. Armour pressed his body in unfamiliar places. The big broadsword at the side was heavier than any he had ever handled.

	The stands were finished and occupied by a vocal swarm of gentlemen and ladies in bright clothes. At their centre was a raised booth under a canopy. In it sat an old man with frosty-white hair and beard. He held a bundle of little yellow sticks.

	"Who's he?" asked Shea of Britomart, walking just a step ahead of him across the wide courtyard to a row of tents at the opposite side.

	"Sssh! The honourable judge of the lists. Each time one of the knights scores a brave point he shall notch the stick of that knight, and thus the winner will be chosen."

	They had reached the row of tents, behind which grooms held horses. A trumpet blew three clear notes and a mounted herald rode right past them. Behind him came Satyrane on a big white horse. He had his helmet off, and was grinning and bobbing his head like a clumsy, amiable bear. He held a richly carved gold casket. As he reached the front of the stands, he opened it up and took from it a long girdle, intricately worked and flashing with jewels. The trumpeter blew another series of notes, and shouted in a high voice:

	"This is that girdle of Florimel which none but the chaste may wear. It shall be the prize of the lady judged most beautiful of all at this tourney; and she shall be lady to that knight who gains the prize of valour and skill. These are the rules."

	"Some piece of rubbish, eh, folks?" shouted Satyrane and grinned. Shea heard Britomart, next to him, mutter something about "No manners." The woodland knight completed his circuit and came to a stand near them. A squire passed up his helmet. From the opposite end of the lists a knight came forward, carrying a long slim lance, with which he lightly tapped Satyrane's shield. Then he rode back to his place.

	"Do you know him?" asked Shea to make conversation.

	"Nay. I ken him not," replied Britomart. "Some Saracen: see how his helmet ends in a spike and crescent peak and his shoulder plates flare outward."

	The trumpet sounded again, two warning notes. The antagonists charged. There was a clang like a dozen dropped kettles. Bright splinters of wood flew as both spears broke. Neither man went down, but the Saracen's horse was staggering as he reached Shea's end of the lists and he himself reeling drunkenly in the saddle, clutching for support.

	Satyrane was judged winner amid a patter of applause. Shea caught sight of Chalmers in the stands, shouting with the rest. Beside him was a heavily veiled woman, whose slender-bodiced figure in the tight gown implied good looks.

	Another knight had taken his place at the opposite end of the lists. The crowd murmured.

	"Blandamour of the Iron Arm," remarked Britomart. as the trumpet blew. Again came the rush and the whang of metal. This time Satyrane had aimed mole shrewdly. Blandamour popped out of his saddle, lit on the horse's rump, and slid to the ground amid a shout of applause. Before he could be pulled aside another knight had taken his place. Satyrane rode him down, too, but came back from the encounter with his visor up, calling "Givors!" and shaking his head as though to clear it.

	A squire hurried past with a cup of wine. Britomart called at him: "Am I needed yet?"

	"No, my lady," he replied. "Ferramont is to ride the next run." Shea saw a little dark man with a black triangle on gold across his shield climb aboard his horse and take Satyrane's place. The pace of the jousting began to quicken. After Ferramont's second trip down the lists, two knights appeared at the opposite end. A page pushed past Shea calling for someone whose name sounded like "Sir Partybore" to join Ferramont for the defenders.

	This time there was a double crash from the lists, which were getting dusty. Sir Partybore, or whatever his name was, went down. But he got up, clanked over to his horse, and pulled a big broadsword from the saddle bow. He waved it at the knight who had overthrown him, shouting something muffled in his helmet. The other turned back and dropped his broken lance. He drew a sword of his own, and aimed from the stirrups a blow that would have decapitated an elephant. The defender turned it easily with upraised shield. The man on foot and man on horseback circled each other, banging away with a frightful racket. Ferramont had downed another opponent in a cloud of dust, and new knights from either side were preparing to ride.

	Shea turned to Britomart. "Aren't you going to get in?"

	She smiled and shook her head. "Those are the Lesser knights of either side," she said. "You must know, good squire, that it is the custom of these tourneys for one or two knights of good report to ride at the beginning, as Satyrane has done for us and Blandamour for them. After that, those younger men have their opportunity to gain reputation, while such as we the Companions remain aside until needed."

	Shea was about to ask who chose the sides. But Britomart gripped his arm. "Ha! Look! With the gyronny of black and silver."

	At the other end of the lists Shea saw a big blond man ducking into a helmet. His shield bore a design of alternating black and silver triangles all running to the same point, which must be "gyronny". "That is Sir Cambell and none other," continued Britomart impressively.

-

	As Britomart spoke, the big man came storming into the press. One of the lesser knights on foot, attempting to stop him, was knocked down like a nine-pin, rolling over and over under the horses hoofs. Shea hoped his skull had not been cracked.

	Ferramont, who had secured another lance, was charging to meet Cambell. Just before black-and-gold and black-and-silver came together, Cambell dropped his own lance. With a single clean, flowing motion he ducked under the point of Ferramont's Lance, snatched a mace from his side and dealt Ferramont's a terrific backhand blow on the back of the head. Ferramont clanged heavily from his saddle, out cold. The stands were in a bedlam, Britomart shouting, "Well struck! Oh, well!" and shifting from foot to foot.

	Near by Shea saw Satyrane's face go grim and heard his visor clang shut as Cambell turned back into the mêlée, laying furiously about him with his mace and upsetting a knight at every stroke. Shouts warned him of Satyrane's approach. He turned to meet the chief defender and swerved his horse quickly, striking with his mace at the lance head. But Satyrane knew the answer to that. As the arm went up, he changed aim from Cambell's shield to his right shoulder. The long spear took him right at the joint and burst in a hundred shivering fragments. Down went Cambell with the point sticking in his shoulder.

	With a yell of delight the defenders threw themselves on Cambell to make him prisoner. The challengers, more numerous, ringed the fallen knight round and began to get him back. Those still mounted tilted against each other around the edges of the mêlée.

	A trumpet blew sharply over the uproar. Shea saw a new contestant entering the arena on the side of the challengers. He was a big, burly man who had fantastically decked every joint of his armour with brass oak leaves and had a curled metal oak leaf for a crest. Without any other notice, he dropped a big lance into position and charged at Satyrane, who had just received a fresh weapon on his side of the lists. Whang! Satyrane's spear shivered, but the stranger's held. The chief defender was carried six feet beyond his horse's tail. He landed completely out. The stranger withdrew and then charged again. Down went another defender.

	Britomart turned to Shea. "This is surely a man of much worship," she said, "and now I may enter. Do you watch me, good squire, and if I am unhorsed, you are to draw me from the press."

	She was gone. The wounded Cambell, forgotten amid the tumult around this new champion, had been dragged to the security of the tents at the challengers' end of the lists. The press was now around Satyrane, who was trying groggily to get up.

	A trumpet sounded behind Shea. He turned to see Britomart ready. Oakleaves heard it, too, He wheeled to meet her. His lance shattered, but Britomart's held. Though he slipped part of its force by twisting so it skidded over his shoulder, his horse staggered. Oakleaves swayed in the saddle. Unable to regain his co-ordination, he came down with a clatter.

	The warrior girl turned at the end of the lists and came back, lifting a hand to acknowledge the hurricane of cheers. Another of the challengers had taken the place of the oakleaf knight. Britomart Laid her lance in rest to meet him.

	Then a knight — Shea recognized Blandamour by the three crossed arrows on his shield and surcoat — detached himself from the mob around Satyrane. In two bounds his horse carried him to Britomart's side, partly behind her. Too late she heard the warning shout from the stands as he swung his sword in a quick arc. The blow caught her at the base of the helmet, Down she went. Blandamour leaped down after her, sword in hand. Somebody shrieked: "Foully done!" Shea found himself running toward the spot, dragging at the big sword.

	Blandamour had swung up his sword for another blow at Britomart. He turned at Shea's approach and swung at his new adversary. Shea parried awkwardly with the big, clumsy blade, noticing out the corner of his eye that Britomart had reached a knee and was yanking a mace from her belt.

	Blandamour started another swing. Can't do much with this crowbar, thought Shea. He was trying to get it round, when he got a violent blow on the side of the head He reeled, eyes watering with pain. More to gain balance than to hit anything, he swung his sword round like a hammer thrower about to let go.

	It caught Blandamour on the shoulder.

	Shea felt the armour give before the impact. The man toppled with a red spurt of blood. The world was filled with a terrific blast of trumpets. Men-at-arms with halberds were separating the contestants. Britomart snapped up her visor and pointed to the man in armour at her feet, jerking like a headless chicken.

	"A favour for a favour," she remarked. "This faitour knave struck you from behind and was about to repeat the blow when my mace caught him." She noticed that the grovelling man's surcoat bore the green bars of Sir Paridell. "Yet still I owe you thanks, good squire. Without your aid I might have been sped by that foul cowardly blow that Blandamour struck."

	"Don't mention it," said Shea. "Are we taking time out for lunch?"

	"Nay, the tournament is ended."

	Shea looked up and was dumfounded to see how much of the day had gone. The herald who had opened the proceedings had ridden across to the booth where the judge of the tournament sat. Now he blew a couple of toots, and cried in his high voice:

	"It is judged that the most honour of this tournament has been gained by that noble and puissant lady, the Princess Britomart." There was a shout of approval. "But it is also judged that the knight of the oak leaves has shown himself a very worthy lord and he also shall receive a chaplet of laurel."

	But when Britomart stepped up to the judge's stand the knight of the oak leaves was nowhere to be found.

-

	The stands emptied slowly, like those at a football game. Some spectators hooted after Blandamour and Paridell as they were helped out. Shea caught a glimpse of Chalmers, hurrying after the veiled girl who had been his neighbour in the stands.

	She moved slowly, with long, graceful strides, and he caught up to her at the entrance to the castle. Someone, hurrying past, bumped them into each other. A pair of intense eyes regarded Chalmers over the low face veil.

	"It is the good palmer. Hail, reverend sir," she said in a toneless voice.

	"Ahem," said Chalmers, struggling to find something to say. "Isn't it ... uh ... unusual for a woman to ... uh ... win a tournament?"

	"Ywis, that it is." The voice was toneless still. Chalmers feared he had managed things badly. But she walked by his side down the great hall till a blast of warmth came from a fireplace where a serving man had just started a blaze.

	"The heat!" she gasped. "Bear it I cannot! Get me to air, holy sir!"

	She reeled against the psychologist's arm. He supported her to a casemented window, where she leaned back among the cushions, drawing in deep breaths. The features outlined against the thin veil were regular and fine; the eyes almost closed.

	Twice Chalmers opened his mouth to speak to this singularly-abstracted girl. Twice he closed it again. He could think of nothing to say but: "Nice weather, isn't it?" or "What's your name?" Both remarks struck him as not only inadequate, hut absurd. He looked at his knobby knuckles with the feeling of being attached to a set of hands and feet seven times too big for him. He felt an utter fool in his drab gown and phony air of piety.

	Dr. Reed Chalmers, though he did not recognize the sensations, was falling in love.

	The girl's eyelids fluttered. She turned her head and gave him along, slow look. He squirmed again. Then his professional sense awoke under that intent gaze. Something was the matter with her.

	Certainly she was not feebleminded. She must be acting under some sort of compulsion — posthypnotic suggestion, perhaps — Magic!

	He leaned forward, and was nearly knocked from his seat by a violent clap on the back.

	"Good fortune, palmer!" cried a raucous voice. The dark Blandamour stepped past him, one arm bound tightly to his side. "Gramercy for your care of my little rosebud!" With the undamaged arm, he swung the girl expertly from her place in the casement and kissed her with a vigour that left, a damp spot on her veil.

	Chalmers shuddered internally. The girl submitted with the same air of preoccupation. She sank back into the casement. Chalmers meditated on a suitably horrible end for this jolly roughneck. Something humorous and lingering, with either boiling oil or melted lead.

	"Hi, Doc, how are we doing?" It was Shea. "Hi, Sir Blandamour. No hard feelings, I hope?"

	The knight's black eyebrows came down like awnings. "Against you, you kern?" he roared. "Nay, I'll give you a meeting beyond the castle gate and spank you with the flat o' my blade."

	Shea looked down his long nose and pointed towards Blandamour's bandaged shoulder. "Be careful that iron arm of yours doesn't get rusty before you go that far," he remarked. He turned to Chalmers. "Come on, Doc, we got some reserved seats for the beauty parade. They're starting now."

-

	As they left, Chalmers said: "Harold, I wish I could talk to that girl ... uh ... in private. I believe she's the ... uh ... key to what we're looking for."

	Shea said: "Honest? She's Blandamour's lady, isn't she? I suppose if I fought him for her and beat him, she'd be mine."

	"No, no, Harold, I implore you not to start any more fights. Our superiority over these people should be based on ... uh ... intellectual considerations."

	"Okay. It's funny, though, the way they pass women around like bottles of liquor. And the women don't seem to mind."

	"Custom," remarked Chalmers. "Beyond that, deep-rooted psychology. The rules are different from those we're accustomed to, but they're strict enough. A knight's lady is evidently expected to be faithful to him until he loses her."

	"Still," Shea persisted, "if I had a lady, I'm not sure I'd want to enter her in this beauty contest, knowing she'd be turned over to the winner of the tournament."

	"Custom again. It's not considered sporting to hold out on the other knights by refusing to risk an attractive lady."

	They had been bowed into a kind of throne room with a raised dais at one end. At one side of the dais the bearish Satyrane sprawled in a comfortable chair. Six musicians with tootle-pipes and things like long-stemmed ukeleles were setting up a racket unlike any music Shea and Chalmers had ever heard. The knights and ladies appeared to find it charming, however. They listened with expressions of ecstasy till it squeaked and plunked to a close.

	Satyrane stood up, the famous girdle dangling from his hand. "All ye folks know," he said, "that this is a tournament of Love and beauty as well as a garboil. This here girdle goes to the winning lady. It used to be Florimel's, but she lost it and nobody knows where she is, so it's finders keepers."

	He paused and looked around. "Now, what I want to say is that this here is a very useful little collop of jewellery, both for the lady and her knight. It has a double enchantment on it. For the lady, it makes her ten times fairer the minute she puts it on, and it hides her from anyone who would do her wrong. But also, it won't stay around the waist of any wench who's not perfectly chaste and pure. That's for the benefit of the knight. The minute this lady can't keep her belt on he knows she's been up to tricks." He ended with a bellowing laugh. A few echoed it. Others murmured at his uncouthness.

	Satyrane waved for quiet and went on. "Now, as to who wins, the honourable judges have eliminated the contestants down to four, but among the claims of these four they say they can't decide nohow. So they ask, lords and ladies, that you yourselves choose." Satyrane turned to the opposite side of the dais where four women sat, with veils over their heads, and called: "Duessa! Lady to Sir Paridell."

-

	One of the girls rose and advanced to the front of the dais. Satyrane removed her veil. Her hair was red almost as bright as her heavily rouged lips. Eyebrows slanted low at the centre. She looked a queenly, disdainful scorn at the audience. The company murmured its appreciation. Satyrane stepped back a pace and called: "Cambina! Lady and wife to Sir Cambell."

	She came forward slowly — blonde, almost as tall as Cambell himself, and of the mature, Junoesque beauty she dwarfed without outshining the fiery little redhead.

	Shea whispered to Chalmers: "A little bit too well upholstered for me."

	Just then there was a clang as an iron glove was thrown on the floor. Cambell's deep voice boomed, "My challenge to any one who tries to take her from me!"

	There was no acceptance. Satyrane never turned a hair. He whipped off the next veil crying: "The Lady Amoret!" She stepped forward bravely, turning her head to show the perfect profile, but as Satyrane announced, "Lady and wife of Sir Scudamour," the delicate nostrils twitched. They gave an audible sniffle. Then, abandoning all efforts at self-control, the burst into a torrent of tears for the absent Scudamour. The Lady Duessa looked angry contempt. Cambina tried to comfort her as the sobs became louder and louder, mixed with words about, "— when I think of all I've been through for him —" Satyrane threw up his hands despairingly and stepped back to the fourth contestant. Shea saw one of the judges whisper to Satyrane. "What?" said the woodland knight in an incredulous stage-whisper. He shrugged and turned to the company.

	"Sir Blandamour's lady, Florimel!" he announced, and drew the veil from the woman with whom Chalmers had been talking. Shea heard Chalmers gasp. The girl who advanced to the front of the dais with a sleep-walker's step and wide eyes was the most beautiful thing Shea had every seen. Clapping and murmurs foretold who would win.

	But there was a buzz of talk as well. Shea's ear caught Britomart's remark to Chalmers: "Good palmer! You who are skilled in magic and supersticerie, mark her well!"

	"Why ... why, Miss Britomart?"

	"Because there's something here very strange. She's as like that Florimel of the sea to whom the girdle really belongs as one pea to another. Yet I will swear it is not the same woman, and see! — all here are of the same mind."

	In truth the hall was shouting for Florimel as the winner, but they were shouting for "Blandamour's Florimel," as though to distinguish her from the true owner of the girdle. Satyrane bowed and extended the jewelled trinket towards her.

	With a word of thanks she took the belt. She clasped it around her middle. There seemed to be some difficulty about buckling it. She fumbled, worked at it a second, snapped it tight, lifted her hands — and the enchanted belt, still buckled, slid down her hips and thumped to the floor.

-

	A low murmur of laughter ran around the room. Everyone looked at Blandamour who turned beet-colour. Florimel stepped out of the circle of the belt and picked it up, a frown of puzzlement on her perfect features.

	"Here, let me put it on," said the red-haired Duessa, and snatching it, suited the action to the word. As soon as she clasped it, the girdle popped open and slid down. She caught it and tried again. Same result. Shea noticed her lips were moving as though pronouncing a charm.

	"At least, I can do it," said Cambina, and Duessa threw the belt at her angrily. But Cambina could not make the belt stay either. No more could the others, as they tried one after another. With each effort the knights' jokes grew louder and more barbed. Satyrane looked worried. Shea sympathized with him. This backwoods knight had tried so hard to give a polite tournament and party. Blandamour had ruined one with his back blow at Britomart, while the girdle was ruining the other.

	But Satyrane was not done yet. "Ladies!" he shouted. "Cease, I pray you! The rules of the contest only provide that this girdle should go to the winner with nothing about her trying it on. That's Florimel, and she is now the lady of the winner of the tournament, who is — by the seven thousand virgins of Cologne, it's the Princess Britomart!"

	The tall blonde stepped forward and said something to Satyrane, then turned to the company. "I do refuse this gift," she said, "since I am sworn to accompany Amoret till she finds her Scudamour."

	Chalmers whispered: "Harold, I've simply got to talk to that girl. For ... uh ... scientific reasons. Couldn't you persuade Britomart to accept her for —"

	"I say to me!" Blandamour's shout drowned, every other sound. "If the winner won't have her, then she's mine again by right of reversion!" Satyrane, scratching his head-was the middle of a knot of knights.

	"Assotishness!" shouted Sir Cambell. "If the winner won't have her, then she reverts to the champion of the other side and, marry, that am I!"

	"I overthrew more knights than you today," cried sir Ferramont. If it comes to a question of the second best —"

	Britomart cut in icily: "Good knights and gentles, I have changed my mind and will accept the charge of this lady."

	"By my halidome, no!" bellowed Blandamour. "You refused her once, and she's mine!"

	"Hey," Shea put in. "Didn't I knock you for a loop this morning? Then doesn't that —"

	Blandamour spat. "That for you, springald! Pox on these legal points! I'm on my way!" He strode across the room, grabbed Florimel's wrist, and dragged her after him, snarling something inaudible through his moustache. Florimel whimpered with pain.

	Shea bounded after them, spun Blandamour round and slapped his face. He jumped back and got the épée out just in time.

	"Stop, fair sirs!" wailed Satyrane. The clash of steel answered him. His guests scattered, pushing furniture back. To them, stopping a good fight would be wicked waste of entertainment.

	Shea remembered that in dealing with these broadsword men, you had to rely on footwork. If they got close enough for a good swing, you might get your blade snapped on a parry. He felt rather than saw the approach of a corner, and drove in a stop-thrust to keep from being backed into it. He heard a voice: "Nay, bid them cease. Blandamour uses but one arm."

	"So does the other," came the answer, "and he has the lighter blade. Let them go."

	Back and forth they went, Swish, clang, tzing! Shea caught a ferocious backhand cut with a parry sixte, but his light blade was borne back by the force of the blow. The edge chopped through the sleeve of his jacket and barely nicked the skin. Blandamour laughed. Shea, thinking fast, grunted as if with pain, jumped back and dropped his épée. But he caught it with his left hand, and as Blandamour came hurling in, nailed him just above the knee. The knight's blade whistled round and clipped the tip off Shea's hat feather before Blandamour crashed to the floor on the stabbed leg.

	"Enough!" shouted Satyrane, jumping between them. "Let there be an end of manslaying! Now I rule that Sir Blandamour has his just deserts for unknightly behaviour, both here and at the tourney. Let any who challenge this prove it on me! Squire Harold, ye have won Florimel for your lawful paramour — Why, pest take it, where is she?"

	Florimel, the fair bone of this knightly contention, had disappeared.

Chapter Fifteen

	Shea said: "I get sick of the flatness of this country. And doesn't it ever rain?" He sat on the white gelding he had purchased at Castle Caultrock, the armour that had been Sir Paridell's bundled up behind him. He had tried wearing it, but the heat made it unbearable.

	Chalmers was just taking his bearings with a crude jack-stave he and Shea had managed to patch together. He remarked: "Harold, you're an incorrigible varietist. If we had cliffs and a downpour you'd doubtless complain about that."

	Shea grinned. "Touché, Doc. Only I get bored. I'd even welcome a lion for the sake of excitement."

	Chalmers climbed back onto the ass. "Giddap, Gustavus," he said, and then: "I daresay you'll have plenty of excitement if this wood harbours as many enchanters as they say. I rather wish you wouldn't challenge all the ... uh ... hard characters we encounter on the strength of your ability to fence."

	"Well, what the hell, I've gotten away with it so far."

	"Undoubtedly. At the same time it is just as well not to carry matters too far. I should hate to he left alone."

	"A nasty, selfish point of view. Say, Doc, it's too bad the girls wouldn't come with us. That ebony spear of Britomart's gave me a feeling of solid comfort."

	"You're not acquiring a ... uh ... sentimental fondness for that brawny lady?"

	"Good Lord, no! She reminds me of Gert. I was just giving her practice in the theory and practice of feminine charm, for snaring her own boy friend. But, say if anybody's loopy over a girl it's you! I saw the look on your face when Satyrane suggested Florimel had been carried off by enchantment."

	"Why ... ahem ... nothing of the sort ... that is, very well." Chalmers looked worried. "The trouble with travelling with a fellow psychologist is that concealments are impossible. However, I will say that Florimel's manner gave me to pause. When the girdle refused to stay on anyone, I became certain of the operation of magic. The laws of probability should have produced at least one faithful lady among so many." Chalmers gave a sigh. "I suppose Florimel was just an illusion. It was fortunate in a way. It gave us a good excuse to ask how to find an enchanter. Otherwise they might have suspected us of trying ... uh ... to make common cause with their enemies. The Faerie knights seem convinced that all enchanters are working against them. Perhaps they are right."

	They rode in silence for a while. Then Shea said: "Looks like the woods begin about here." A little stream crossed the track in front of them, and beyond it the sparse timber gave place to dense forest. They dismounted, tying up Gustavus and the horse, which had been christened Adolphus, and produced their lunch.

	Both munched in silence for a moment. Then Chalmers said: "Harold, I wish you'd promise not to get into any more fights if —"

	"Hey!" said Shea, and leaped to his feet.

	Out from among the trees loped a pair of naked, hairy seven-foot ape men. They had huge ears with tufts of hair sprouting from them, and throat pouches like orangutans. In their hands were clubs. For a moment they stood at gaze, then came splashing through the stream at a gallop.

	Chalmers ran to untie the animals, but they were leaping about, crazy with fear. In a glance Shea decided he could never reach Sir Paridell's sword. He would have to use the épée, feeble as that toothpick was against those huge clubs.

	The first of the ape men ran at him, bellowing. Shea never knew whether he had gained his senses or lost his nerve, but he next instant he and Chalmers were running round and round the tethered animals, with the ape-men foaming through their tusks behind.

	One of the creatures boomed something to the other. On the next circuit the fugitives were surprised to run head-on into one ape-man who had stopped and waited for them. Shea was in front. He saw the club swing up in two hairy hands and did the only thing possible — extend the épée and fling himself forward in a terrific flèche.

	His face was buried in fur and he was clutching at it for support. The hilt was wrenched from his hand, and the animal-man went screaming off, with the weapon sticking through him.

	Shea himself was running; over his shoulder, he saw Chalmers was running, with the other ape-man gaining, twirling up his club for the blow. Shea had an instant of horror and revulsion — the poor old Doc, to pass out this way, when he couldn't help —

	Twunk!

	The feathered butt of an arrow appeared in the thing's side, as though it had just sprouted there. The club missed Chalmers as the creature staggered and turned. Twunk! The second arrow took it in the throat, and it collapsed in a clump of bracken, screeching and thrashing. Shea tried to stop; Chalmers careened into him and they went down together.

	Shea sat up and wiped leaf mould from his face. Footsteps preceded a tallish, slim girl in a short-skirted tunic and soft leather boots. She had a bow in one hand and a light boar spear in the other, and she moved towards them at a springy trot as though it were her normal gait. A feathered hat like Shea's sat on her red-gold hair, which was trimmed in a long bob.

	Shea got up. "Thanks, young lady. We owe you a life or two. I think the thing's about dead."

	"I'll make certain. Those Losels are hard to kill," said the girl. She stepped to the bracken and jabbed. She seemed satisfied as she pulled the spear out, wiping its point on some moss. "Is the old man hurt?"

	Chalmers gained breath enough to sit up. "Just ... puff winded. I am ... uh ... merely middle-aged. To whom do we owe our rescue?"

	The girls eyebrows went up, Shea noticing they were a delightful colour. "You know me not? I hight Belphebe."

	"Well," said Shea, "I ... ah ... hight Harold Shea, esquire, and my friend hight Reed Chalmers, the palmer, if that's how you say it."

	"That would be your blade sticking in the other Losel?"

	"Yes. What happened to it."

	"I will even show you. The creature died when erst I saw it."

	Losels. Shea recalled the table at Castle Caultrock, with Britomart telling Sir Erivan he would not find it easy to come to grips with Busyrane the enchanter, because Busyrane's castle was in "the wood where the Losels breed".

	"We're on the right track, Doc," he said to Chalmers as he helped the latter up and followed Belphebe.

	Chalmers merely gave him a sidelong glance and sang softly:

-

"But when away his regiment ran,
	His place was at the fore, oh,
That celebrated, cultivated, underrated nobleman,
	The Duke of Plaza-Toro!"

-

	Shea grinned. "Meaning me, I suppose? I was just setting a good pace for you. Here's our other Losel." He pulled the épée from the repellent corpse.

	Belphebe gazed at the instrument with interest. "Marry, a strange weapon. May I try its balance?"

	Shea showed her how to hold the épée and made a few lunges, enjoying to the full his first recent chance to show off before an attractive girl.

	Belphebe tried. "Ouch! These poses of yours are as awkward as a Mussulman at Mass, Squire Harold." She laughed and tossed the épée back to him. "Will you show me more another day?"

	"Glad to," replied Shea. He turned to Chalmers. "Say, Doc, it seems to me we were eating lunch when the fracas started. Maybe the young lady would like to help us finish it."

	Chalmers gulped. "I had — this harrowing experience had quite driven the thought of food out of my mind, Harold. But if Miss Belphebe would like to — by all means —"

	"If I may give that I may get," she said. "Hola, attend!" She pulled out an arrow and tiptoed slowly away from them, peering intently into the greenery. Shea tried to follow her gaze, but could see nothing but foliage.

	Then Belphebe brought up the bow; aimed, drew, and released all in one movement. To Shea it looked as though she had loosed at random. He heard the arrow strike. Down from the trees fell a large green macaw-like bird. It struck the leaf mould with a thump, and a couple of green feathers gyrated down after.

-

	Gustavus and Adolphus still trembled and tugged at their reins when the three approached them. Shea soothed them and took them down to the stream to drink while Chalmers started a fire and Belphebe stripped the feathers from the parrot. Presently she was toasting the bird on the end of a stick. She was so deft in rustling a meal in the open that Shea felt no desire to compete with her in scoutcraft.

	Chalmers, he was surprised to observe, was holding his right forefinger against his left wrist. He asked: "What are you doing, Doc? "Taking your pulse?"

	"Yes," said Chalmers gloomily. "My heart seems to be — uh — holding up all right. But I'm afraid I wasn't cut out for this type of life, Harold. If it were not for pure scientific interest in the problems —"

	"Aw, cheer up. Say, how's your magic coming along? A few good spells would help more than all the hardware put together."

	Chalmers brightened. "Well, now — ahem — I think I may claim some progress. There was that business of the cat that flew away. I find I can levitate small objects without difficulty, and have had much success in conjuring up mice. In fact, I fear I left quite a plague of them at Satyrane's castle. But I took care to conjure up a similar number of cats, so perhaps conditions will not be too bad."

	"Yeah, but what about the general principles?"

	"Well, the laws of similarity and contagion hold. They appear to be the fundamental Newtonian principles, in the field of magic. Obviously the next step is to discover a system of mathematics arising from these fundamentals. I was afraid I should have to invent my own, as Einstein was forced to adapt tensor analysis to handle his relativity equations. But I think I have discovered such a system ready made, in the calculus of classes, which is a branch of symbolic logic. Here, I'll show you."

	Chalmers fished through his garments for writing materials. "As you know, one of the fundamental equations of class calculus which a naive academic acquaintance of mine once thought had something to do with Marxism — is this;

-

-

	"That is, the class alpha plus the class non-alpha equals the universe. But in magic the analogous equation appears to be:

-

-

	The class alpha plus the class non-alpha includes the universe. But it may or may not be limited thereto. The reason seems to be that in magic one deals with a plurality of universes. Magic thus does not violate the law of conservation of energy. It operates along the interuniversal vectors perpendicular, in a sense, to the spatial and temporal dimension. It can draw on the energy of another universe for its effects.

	"Evidently, one may readily have the case of two magicians, each summoning energy from some universe external to the given one, for diametrically opposite purposes. Thus it must have been obvious to you that the charming Lady Duessa — somewhat of a vixen, I fear — was attempting to operate an enchantment of her own to overcome that of the girdle. That she was unable to do so —"

	"The fowl is ready, gentlemen," said Belphebe.

	"Want me to carve?" asked Shea.

	"Certes, if you will, Master Harold."

	Shea pulled some big leaves off a catalpa-like tree, spread them out, laid the parrot on them, and attacked the bird with his knife. As he hacked at the carcass he became more and more dubious of the wisdom of psittacophagy. He gave Belphebe most of the breast. Chalmers and he each took a leg.

	Belphebe said: "What's this I hear anent the subject of magic? Are you practitioners of the art?"

	Chalmers replied: "Well — uh — I would not go so far as to say —"

	"We know a couple of little tricks," put in Shea.

	"White or black?" said Belphebe sharply.

	"White as the driven snow," said Shea.

	Belphebe looked hard at them. She took a bite of parrot, and seemed to have no difficulty with it. Shea had found his piece of the consistency of a mouthful of bedsprings.

	Belphebe said: "Few are the white magicians of Faerie, and all are entered. Had there been additions to the roster, my lord Artegall had so acquainted me when last I saw him."

	"Good lord," said Shea with sinking heart, "are you a policewoman too?"

	"A — what?"

	"One of the Companions."

	"Nay, not a jot I. I rove where I will. But virtue is a good master. I am — but stay, you meet not my query by half."

	"Which query?" asked Chalmers.

	"How it is that you be unknown to me, though you claim to be sorcerers white?"

	"Oh," said Shea modestly, "I guess we aren't good enough yet to he worth noticing."

	"That may be," said Belphebe. "I, too, have what you call 'a couple of tricks', yet 'twere immodesty in me to place myself beside Cambina."

	Chalmers said: "Anyhow, my dear young lady, I — uh — am convinced, from my own studies of the subject, that the distinction between 'black' and 'white' magic is purely verbal; a spurious distinction that does not reflect any actual division in the fundamental laws that govern magic."

	"Good palmer!" cried Belphebe. "What say you, no difference between 'black' and 'white'? 'Tis plainly heresy."

	"Not at all," persisted Chalmers, unaware that Shea was trying to shush him. "The people of the country have agreed to call magic 'white' when practised for lawful ends by duly authorized agents of the governing authority, and 'black' when practised by unauthorized persons for criminal ends. That is not to say that the principles of the science — or art — are not the same in either event. You should confine such terms as 'black' and 'white' to the objects for which the magic is performed, and not apply it to the science itself, which like all branches of knowledge is morally neutral —"

	"But," protested Belphebe, "is't not that the spell used to, let us say, kidnap a worthy citizen be different from that used to trap a malefactor?"

	"Verbally but not structurally," Chalmers went on. After some minutes of wrangling, Chalmers held up the bone of his drumstick. "I think I can, for instance, conjure the parrot back on this bone — or at least fetch another parrot in place of the one we ate. Will you concede, young lady, that that is a harmless manifestation of the art?"

	"Aye, for the now," said the girl. "Though I know you schoolmen; say 'I admit this; I concede that,' are ere long one finds oneself conceded into a noose."

	"Therefore it would be 'white' magic. But suppose I desired the parrot for some — uh — illegal purpose —"

	"What manner of crime for ensample, good sir?" asked Belphebe.

	"I — uh — can't think just now. Assume that I did. The spell would be the same in either case —"

	"Ah, but would it?" cried Belphebe. "Let me see you conjure a brace of parrots, one fair, one foul; then truly I'll concede."

	Chalmers frowned. "Harold, what would be a legal purpose for which to conjure a parrot?"

	Shea shrugged. "If you really want an answer, no purpose would be as legal as any, unless there's something in game-laws. Personally I think it's the silliest damned argument —"

	"No purpose it shall be," said Chalmers. He got together a few props — the parrot's remains, some ferns, a pair of scissors from his kit, one of Belphebe's arrows. He stoked the fire, put grass on it to make it smoke, and began to walk back and forth pigeon-toed, holding his arms out and chanting:

-

"Oh bird that speaks
	With the words of men
Mocking their wisdom
	Of tongue and pen —"

-

	Crash! A monster burst out of the forest and was upon them before they could get to their feet. With a frightful roar it knocked Chalmers down with one scaly forepaw. Shea got to his knees and pulled his épée halfway out of the scabbard before a paw knocked him down too ...

	The pressure on Shea's back let up. He rolled over and sat up. Chalmers and Belphebe were doing the same. They were close to the monster's chest. Around them the thing's forelegs ran like a wall. It was sitting down with its prey between it's paws like a cat. Shea stared up into a pair of huge slit-pupilled eyes. The creature arched its neck like a swan to get a better look at them.

	"The Blatant Beast!" cried Belphebe. "Now surely are we lost!"

	"What mean you?" roared the monster. "You called me, did you not? Then wherefore such surprise when I do you miserable mortals the boon of answering?"

	Chalmers gibbered: "Really — I had no idea — I thought I asked for a bird —"

	"Well?" bellowed the monster.

	"B-but you're a reptile —"

	"What is a bird but a reptile with feathers? Nay, you scaleless tadpole, reach not for your sorry sword!" it shouted at Shea. "Else I'll mortify you thus!" The monster spat, whock, ptoo! The green saliva sprayed over a weed, which turned black and shrivelled rapidly. "Now then, an you ransom yourselves not, I'll do you die ere you can say 'William of Occam'!"

	"What sort of ransom, fair monster?" asked Belphebe, her face white.

	"Why, words! The only valuable thing your vile kind produces."

	Belphebe turned to her companions. "Know, good sirs, that this monster, proud of his gift of speech, does collect all manner of literary expressions, both prose and verse. I fear me unless we can satisfy his craving, he will truly slay us."

	Shea said hesitantly: "I know a couple of jokes about Hitler —"

	"Nay!" snarled the monster. "All jests are stale. I would an epic poem."

	"An — epic poem?" quavered Chalmers.

	"Aye," roared the Blatant Beast. "Ye know, like

-

Herkeneth to me, gode men
Wives, maydnes, and alle men,
Of a tale ich you wil telle,
Hwo-so it wile here, and there-to dwelle.
The tale of Havelok is i-maked;
Hwil he was litel, he yede ful naked."

-

	Shea asked Chalmers: "Can you do it. Doc? How about Beowulf?"

	"Dear me," replied Chalmers. "I'm sure I couldn't repeat it from memory."

	The monster sneered: "And 'twould do you no good; I know that one:

-

Hwaet! we Gar-Thena      in gear-dagum
theod cyninga              thrym gefrunon,
hu tha aethelingas          ellen fremedon.

-

	"Twill have to be something else. Come now; an epic or shrive yourselves!"

	Shea said: "Give him some of your Gilbert and Sullivan, Doc."

	"I — uh — I hardly think he —"

	"Give it to him!"

	Chalmers cleared his throat, and readily quavered:

-

"Oh! My name is John Wellington Wells.
I'm a dealer in magic and spells,
	In blessings and curses
	And ever-filled purses
	And ever-filled purses,
	And ever-filled —

-

	"I can't! I can't remember a thing! Can't you recite something, Harold?"

	"I don't know anything either."

	"You must! How about Barbara Frietchie?"

	"Don't know it."

	"Or Chesterton's Lepanto?"

	"I don't — hey, I do know one long poem. But —"

	"Then say it!" cried Chalmers.

	Shea looked at Belphebe. "Well, it's hardly suitable for mixed company. Monster, if you'll let the young lady go —"

	"Nay!" roared the Blatant Beast. "To your verses, tadpole!"

	Shea turned a stricken face to Chalmers. "It's The Ballad of Eskimo Nell. What'll I do?"

	"Recite it, by all means."

	"Oh, Lord!" Chalmers was right, of course. But Shea had begun to feel an affinity for the red-haired huntress. He drew a deep breath and began:

-

"When Deadeye Dick and Mexican Pete
	Set forth in search of fun,
'Twas Deadeye Dick who ..."

-

	He wished he knew a bowdlerized version; he didn't dare to try to change the working extempore.

-

"They hit the strand of the Rio Grande
	At the top of a burning moon,
And to slake their thirst and do their worst
	They sought Black Mike's saloon."

-

	On he went, getting redder and redder.

-

"Soon Deadeye Dick was breathing quick
	With lecherous snorts and grunts ..."

-

	Out of the corner of his eye he saw Belphebe's face. It registered puzzlement.

-

"Then entered into that hall of sin,
	Into that Harlot's Hell,
A lusty maid who was never afraid:
	Her name was Eskimo Nell ..."

-

	Shea went faster and faster to get to the end of the awful epos. He finished with a sigh of relief, and looked up to see how the Blatant Beast was taking it.

	The monster got slowly to its feet. Without a word to its late captives, it lumbered off into the woods, shaking its reptilian head.

	Shea looked at Belphebe. She said, "A life for a life. Truly we should be friends henceforth, and fain would I be such, did I but understand your craft of magic. That magic is white that draws such a monster nigh, you'll hardly assert. That poem — half the words I understood not, though meseems 'twas about a battle betwixt a warrior maid and a recreant knight."

	"You might put it that way," said Shea.

	"Riddle me those words, Squire Harold. For ensample —"

	Shea interrupted hastily: "Some other time, Miss Belphebe, if you don't mind. Right now we want to get our bearings. Is this what they call 'the wood where the Losels breed'?"

	"Aye. Some say the enchanters created that gruesome race of monsters to be their cattle."

	Shea asked innocently: "Why, is the place infested with enchanters too?"

	"Marry, a mort of 'em. Take care lest you fall into their snares."

	Chalmers broke in; "Ahem ... could you tell us where there are any — uh — magicians to be found?"

	Shea scowled at his partner. Belphebe's face changed. "Now wherefore would you know such things?"

	"We're trying to rescue somebody we think they have, and we thought if we could — uh — gain the confidence of one —"

	"Meseems that is a strange and not well-thought-on plan," said the girl coolly. "Yet, since you wish, straight on, and I warrant me you'll find enough of the naughty rogues." She waved her hand. "And now, good gentles, if you will even pardon me, I must trim the ears from the Losel I slew —"

	"You must what?" demanded Shea.

	"Trim the ears from the Losel. For trophies. Already I have pairs an hundred and twenty and two. Good morrow, gentles."

-

	"That," said Shea when they were on their way, "is my idea of a real girl. And you had to put her off us by that crack about magicians!"

	"Very fine girl, provided she doesn't put an arrow through you and cut off your ears for trophies. I confess my taste runs to a somewhat more sedentary type of female. I doubt whether I can stand much more excitement of this sort."

	Shea said: "I know how you feel. Travelling through Faerie is just one damned encounter after another." His two narrow escapes in one day had left Shea feeling like a damp washcloth.

	Chalmers mused: "It is logical that it should be so. The Faerie Queene indicates that this is a world wherein an endless and largely planless concatenation of encounters are a part of the normal pattern of events — Merciful Heavens, another one! What's that?"

	"That" was a big black leopard which leaped out suddenly into their path. It snarled with the sound of tearing sheet iron. The mounts bucked and started to whirl against the bits.

	"Stop, Doc," yelled Shea, manhandling Adolphus around and reaching behind him for the broadsword. "If you run, it'll jump you sure!"

	He tumbled off, snubbed his reins around a convenient stump, and faced the leopard with the broadsword in one hand and the épée in the other. This was getting to be a worse bore than the Garaden Institute. If I stand my ground, he thought, it probably won't attack, but if it does — There was a book he had read once — what was its name? — about a Lithuanian who hunted jaguars with a spear. If it springs, impale it with the épée; if it stands off and claws, chop with the broadsword —

	The leopard snarled again. It seemed uncertain. Then, to Shea's astonishment, it swelled and changed into a huge lion. He felt a prick of fear. A man might handle a 150-pound leopard, but a 600-pound Lion — not even a mortal stab wound would keep it from ripping him up, once it got to close quarters. He was in for it —

	"Harold!" Chalmers' voice was not too near. "It's all right."

	"The hell it's all right!" thought Shea, holding his ground for want of anything better to do.

	The lion did not spring. Instead it grimaced. The fanged mouth became a beak, wings sprouted from its shoulders, and it was a griffin. That, Shea realized, was not kosher; griffins did not —

	Chalmers called, closer. "It's the man we're looking for."

	Shea relaxed. "Take off the false whiskers, Mr. Magician; we know you," he said. The griffin began to dwindle and dissolve. Shea turned to Chalmers, who was struggling with a patently balky Gustavus. "Didn't you say something about when away his regiment ran, his place was in the fore, oh —"

	"I couldn't control this confounded beast. And it's "at the fore oh," not in. How do you do, sir?" This was to the ex-griffin, which had become a stout, dark, bald man, who stood glowering at them, fists on hips.

	"I do right well," said the man. "What do you two here? Eh? Seek trouble? You've come to the right market."

	Shea grinned. "In a way I suppose we are, if you call yourself trouble."

	"Ho, you seek my professional service! I warn you I handle no minor matters, like turning cows sour or the manufacture of love philters. That's witch-wife work. I'm a master magician."

	"Then we're delighted —"

	"Ahem," said Chalmers. "Excuse me, Harold. I should like to explain to the gentleman that our interest is professional, looking to an exchange of information that might he mutually profitable."

	"Ho!" cried the enchanter. "You two claim to be magicians? How do I know you speak sooth? Tell me that, eh?"

	"Well ... uh —"

	"Work a spell for him, Doc," said Shea.

	"Oh, dear me. I don't suppose he'd be satisfied with more mice — or cats. All I can think of now is one I prepared for conjuring up a dragon."

	"What the hell, that's fine! Go ahead with your dragon!" The magician's ears caught the last word. "Dragon? D'you think you can really produce a dragon? Let's see you do it!"

	"But won't it be ... uh ... dangerous?" This was Chalmers.

	"Have no fear. I'll get a counterspell ready. Dolon protects you. The Dolon." He strutted.

	"Show him, Doc."

	Chalmers, with a look of baffled and apprehensive resignation, began to make a list of the properties needed. A small red salamander was discovered under a stone. Most of the other things they had already, but a snapdragon plant was called for, and there was none in sight. "Conjure one up," said Shea, coolly. The harassed psychologist looked annoyed. But, with the aid of a roadside weed, he produced a snapdragon plant the size of a tree. The Dolon snorted.

	Chalmers laid out his properties, lit a fire with flint and steel, and began an incantation:

-

"By Fafnir and Hydra,
	Apophis and Yang:
With the length of Nidhöggr,
	Tiámat's sharp fang,
The shape of the lizard,
	The strength of the bear,
Thou, scaled like the serpent.
	Emerge from your lair!
Steed of Triptolemus.
	Beowulf's bane.
Symbol of Uther.
	And bringer of rain —"

-

	Shea prudently hitched the animals' reins around a tree. If the dragon turned out to be winged and hungry — He wished that his damned reckless impulsiveness had not made him force Chalmers' hand. If the Dolon's counterspell didn't work — The oyster-coloured smoke of the fire thickened and darkened. Chalmers bit off his chant in mid-stanza and scrambled back. A reptilian head a yard long was poking towards them out of the smoke.

	The head had a scaly neck behind it. Then came a foreleg and another. The dragon seemed to be crawling from nothingness through an orifice somewhere in the smoke, ballooning our as it came. There it was, complete to stinger-tipped tail, gazing at them with yellow cat's eyes.

	Shea breathed, not daring to attract its attention by a movement: "If it starts for us, Doc, you get on Gustavus and I'll let go the reins."

	Dolon's face was twisting as though he had swallowed too big a mouthful. The dragon lurched a few steps, not towards them but off at right angles, opened its terrible mouth, gave a whistling "beeep!" and began to crop the grass contentedly.

	"God bless my soul!" said Chalmers.

	"He'd better," replied Shea, "Look!"

-

	A second draconian head was pushed through the smoke. This one was squirted out in a few seconds. It looked at the three men, then wandered over to a clump of bright-coloured flowers, sniffed, and began to eat them. Now a third and a fourth head were already in sight. As fast as the dragons were extruded, more followed them. The field down to the very confines of the trees was crowded with them, new arrivals butting the others to make room or scratching their sides on trees. Shea was counting: "Thirty-three, thirty-four — We better untie the animals and move or we'll get stepped on. Thirty-six, thirty-seven —"

	"Dear me," remarked Chalmers, fingering his chin, as they backed among the trees. "I rather feared this. The same thing happened with the mice."

	"Fifty-two, fifty-three —" Shea continued. "My God, the country will be overrun with them!"

	Dragons had overflowed the field and were lurching through the trees with their ungainly gait, munching everything green in sight, and mooing at each other with the same plaintive beeping sound. "Ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred. Oh, boy!"

	The fire suddenly died, and the cascade of vegetarian dragons ceased. "My God!" said Shea in an awe-struck voice. "One hundred reptilian Ferdinands!"

	Dolon's voice was that of a man shaken to the core. "Forsooth, you do things not by halves. Though I mind me I once succeeded with a bushel measure full of pearls." Dolon snapped his fingers. "By Ahriman's toe nails, are you not those who even now bested the Blatant Beast?"

	"That's us," said Shea. "How did you hear about it?"

	"The Beast passed me a few hours ago, and warned me of a prow company. He said he demanded a trifle of poesy, as is his custom, and you gave him a lay full of such — ah — spice that even he durst not repeat it for shame. The like had never before happened to him, and he seemed much downcast thereby. But was there not another of you? The Beast mentioned three."

	Chalmers cleared his throat, but Shea quickly answered: "No; he's got us mixed up with another bunch."

	" 'Tis a thing conceivable; the Beast is in sooth of the lower orders, and cannot count beyond two." Dolon shook a finger and said with a slight leer: "Now about these dragons: Tell me, fellow magicians, was't not by error you got eaters of grass? Eh? No secrets in the trade!"

	"Ahem. No use taking unnecessary risks," said Chalmers, still looking a trifle wall-eyed.

	"Doubtless," remarked Dolon with a glance that Shea just barely saw, "you can exorcise them as rapidly."

	"We could," said Shea, before his companion had a chance to answer. "For the dragon-disappearing spell, though, we need an aneroid comptometer, and we lost ours. Do you have one with you?"

	"An ... ah, certes, an ameroid combompeter. Nay, I fear me not so. Last spring came a black frost that killed all the plants on which ameroid combompeters grow." He spread his hands regretfully. "However, meseems these dragons will in the long run be a benefit, making rare good sport and food for our friends and servants, the Losels. And now, Sir Magicians whom I have not seen, explain your purpose in Loselwood."

	Chalmers spoke. "Uh ... we're looking for a lady named Florimel, and were advised we might find her here. Do you know the young person?"

	Dolon chuckled. "The real Florimel or the false?"

	"The real or — The one who was at Satyrane's tournament recently."

	"That would be the false one, made by the Witch of Riphira. A fair piece of work — though I will say I care nor much for these witches. Duessa is the only one who has any standing in the Chapter — And that brings me to remark, magical sirs, are you members of one of the outland Chapters? My memory is practically infallible, and I do not recall having seen you at our meetings."

	Chalmers stammered: "We ... uh ... that is ... can you tell me a little more about this Florimel? The ... uh ... false one."

	Dolon waved his hand. "A mere witch's thing — a creature made of snow, or no special value. You must let me show you the really fine chess player I made sometime, or the imps I conjured up to handle my torture work. Really an achievement. Busyrane, our archmagician, doubtless called this false Florimel in for inspection." He accented the last word and snickered. "But you haven't answered my question, magical sirs."

	Shea spoke up boldly. "The point is, we'd like to join up with you."

	"You mean you have been working independently and we know it not?" Dolon narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "Aye; Busyrane opened the Chapter but a twelvemonth ago and you may well have slipped his attention. I trust you have not refused his invitation. Our archimage is not soft or slow with unlicensed magicians He has a spell that turns 'em into spiders. Witty, is he not, eh?"

	"Good gracious!" said Chalmers. "But how does one acquire a licence?"

	"That falls somewhat upon the applicant. Our charter calls for a round twenty-one master magicians, the magic number. Naturally, you behold in me one of the leading masters, whether by ability or seniority. There is also a class of journeymen, who handle the ordinary work, and one of apprentices. Perhaps you have talent enough to be elected to mastership. There are three or four places unfilled, I believe. The next meeting comes in five days, and with my backing your election would be certain."

Chapter Sixteen

	Dolon, in the form of a handsome stallion, trotted in front. Shea leaned back in his saddle, and, watching the stallion's ears carefully, murmured: "Doing all right, aren't we, Doc?"

	"I suppose so, but I admit to being somewhat apprehensive as to what will happen if both the Companions and the Chapter of Magicians learn we've been cooperating with the other party. This ... ah ... playing both ends against the middle may get us in trouble."

	"Maybe," said Shea. They rode on in silence.

	Once a tiger glided out from between the trunks ahead. Gustavus and Adolphus, both rapidly approaching nervous breakdowns, tried to bolt from the trail. Dolon turned himself from a stallion into an immense buffalo. The tiger slunk off, snarling.

	The sun was already low when the trail made a right-angled bend and dipped under a bank. A huge oak door was set into the earth. Dolon, again in his natural form, waved a hand, and the door flew open. "Fear not for the safety of your mounts," he said. "An invisible wall, which none may penetrate without my warrant, surrounds this place."

	Shea, dismounting, said: "That ought to be nice for keeping the mosquitoes out."

	Dolon laughed dutifully, then shook his head. "Ah, good 'prentice, how true! Is it not sad that a man of genius must concern himself with petty moils and worries?"

	The air was stuffy inside. The first thing Shea saw was a huge pile of dirty dishes. Dolon was evidently not the neat type of bachelor. Beyond was an object that made his scalp prickle. It was the life-sized nude statue of a young man, stiff, at one side of the room, emitting a faint bluish glow. It held aloft a torch, which Dolon set alight.

	The enchanter noticed Shea's glance of inquiry. "A former 'prentice of mine," he remarked. "I found he was a spy from Queen Gloriana's court, where a few of those high-born grandees practise a kind of magic they call 'white'. So there he stands, with all his sensations alive and the rest of him dead. Eh, Roger?" He pinched the statue playfully and laughed. "I'm really the best humorist in the Chapter when I'm in the mood. Let me show you my collection of Mallamies."

	"What's a Mallamy?" inquired Chalmers.

	Dolon looked at him hard, then decided it was a kind of joke and laughed. He began taking bottles off a shelf and holding them up to the light. Each contained a human figure about an inch tall. "Homunculi from the hand of great master, Mallamy himself," he explained. "He specialized in this art, and none other has been able to shrink folk to so small size. Even I, Dolon, cannot equal his art. This is the finest collection of his figures in existence. It wants only a blond Saracen. Busyrane has one, but he will not yield it, though I have offered him a water fay, which his own collection lacks. He insists that water fays arc not permanent, since any accident will bring water in contact with the bottle and they can work a spell of their own and so escape."

	He sighed. "You see how things fall sort of perfection even for the greatest of us. But come in, good sirs, and seat yourselves in my cabinet. Only 'ware the cockatrice as you go down this passage."

	"A cockatrice?" said Shea.

	"Aye. A rare, priceless idea of Busyrane's. All masters of the Chapter are supplied with them. They are just outside our inner cabinets and under an enchantment, so they may not look on any member of the Chapter — or his friends. But should any of Gloriana's people essay to enter, the cockatrice looks on them and they turn to stone."

-

	Dolon threw open a door and led the way down a dimly lighted passage. Behind bars at one side the beast stalked to and fro with a clatter of its scaly tail. It turned its head this way and that. The stench made Shea want to vomit. Over his shoulder he saw Chalmers' lips moving. He hoped it was with a protective counterspell, not prayer. Dolon's voice floated back: "— had to get them after Cambina, one of those 'white magic' practitioners, got into Mallamy's cabinet and drowned him in a pool of alkahest. Thank Lucifer, she married that oaf, Sir Cambell, and marriage cost her some of her powers —"

	The door banged behind them. Shea gasped for air as though he had swum up from the bottom of the ocean.

	The table was ready and the food — thank Heaven, thought Shea — not too highly spiced. Whittling at a steak, he asked:

	"What's this meat? It's good!"

	"Fried Losel," said the magician calmly.

	Shea saw Chalmers halt a mouthful in midair. He felt himself gag momentarily; it was, after all, on the borderline of cannibalism, and after the cockatrice — He forced himself to go on eating. Squeamishness right now was a luxury.

	Dolon poured out some wine, sat back and, rather to the travellers' astonishment, produced and lit a clay pipe.

	"Aye," he pronounced, "competition is the curse of our business. One playing against another, and those curst companions of Gloriana making sad work of us all — that's how matters stood till Busyrane organized our Chapter. Why, I mind me, I had a very good thing once, very good. Found a man of property who wanted a love philter. I made it for him, and he refused to pay. As he was more ass than human, I promised him his ears should grow an inch a day, with the price doubled for each inch they grew till he got me to take the spell off." Dolon laughed and puffed. "I told you I was a good deal of a humorist.

	"Well, what does he do but go to Malingo, who gives him a counterspell at half price! No more of that now."

	Shea had a question: "Look here! If you magicians all cooperate so well, what went wrong at Satyrane's tournament? That girdle wouldn't stay on the false Florimel, or on Duessa either for that matter. I should've thought Busyrane would see to that."

	Dolon chuckled. "Briskly questioned, springald! The trick with the girdle was doubtless Duessa's doing. It's in her style. She tried to remove the enchantment already on it, but when she found she couldn't do that, clapped another atop, so 'twould fit nobody. But Florimel's case was an error, I fear me much." He shook his head. "Especially if in good sooth Busyrane has sent for her. Nothing would gall those high knights and ladies of the court half so much as having one of their queens of beauty, approved chaste by the test of the girdle, to live with an enchanter. But now, alack, there's a doubt."

	Shea saw Chalmers start and run his tongue around his lips at the mention of the connection between Busyrane and Florimel. He pressed questions about the Chapter to give Chalmers a chance to recover. But now Dolon shut up like a clam, with suspicious glances. Shea had uneasy memories of the cockatrice and the spy in the outer room.

	The magician finally rose. " 'Tis time we retired, eh, magical sirs? 'Twere wise to set out for Busyrane's tomorrow. If we arrive ere the meeting be called, I'm sure that my connections and the skill in intrigue for which I'm known will enable me to secure your election."

-

	A whisper: "Hey, Doc, you asleep?"

	Another: "Merciful Heavens, no. Not in this place. Is he?"

	"If he isn't, that's a damned good magical snore. Say, can't we do something about that poor guy he made into a statue?"

	"It would be injudicious to attempt it, Harold. Moreover, I'm not certain I know how. It would jeopardize our whole plan of campaign."

	"Didn't know we had one. Are we stringing along with him?"

	"I suppose we must if we really intend to help Queen Gloriana and the Companions. I may also mention Florimel. Dolon remarked that she was made of snow — created. I find it difficult to credit and rather awful. I fear we must join this Chapter and ... uh ... bore from within, as if it were."

	"I suppose," said Shea thoughtfully, "that the Chapter explains why the Land of Faerie is sort of running down."

	"Yes. The enchanters had just discovered the —"

	"Say, Doc," Shea's whisper was almost loud. "If the Chapter was formed a year ago, Faerie Queene time, and it had already been started when Spenser wrote, which was four centuries ago, Earth time — Faerie time must be much slower than ours. If we go back, we'll land somewhere in the twenty-fifth century — along with Buck Rogers."

	"If we go back. And also if the curvature of the spacetime vectors is uniform. There might be sine curves in the vectors, you know."

	"Never thought of it. Say, how come your dragon spell was so extremely successful?"

	Chalmers permitted himself an under-the-breath chuckle. "A property of the mathematics of magic. Since it's based on the calculus of classes, it is primarily qualitative, not quantitative. Hence the quantitative effects are indeterminate. You can't — at least, with my present skill I can't — locate the decimal point. Here the decimal point was too far rightward, and I got a hundred dragons instead of one. It might have been a thousand."

	Shea lay still a moment digesting that thought. Then: "Can't you do something about that?"

	"I don't know. Apparently the professionals learn by experience just how much force to put into their incantations. It's an art rather than a science. If I could solve the quantitative problem I could put magic on a scientific basis. I wish, Harold, that tomorrow you could ... uh ... manage to distract Dolon for long enough to allow me to possess myself of one of his testbooks. His place is such a hurrah's nest that he's certain not to miss it."

-

	The three riders — Dolon had conjured up a horse because, he said, taking the form of one for a long journey would be fatiguing — had been going for miles through Loselwood. They saw deer, but no other living creatures. Conversation was scarce till they came out on a road, once wide and well graded, now much overgrown. Shea reasoned that this was one more sign of how the enchanters were getting the best of the Faerie knights.

	He pushed his mount alongside the magician. "With your superlative powers, Dolon, I wonder they didn't elect you head of the Chapter instead of Busyrane."

	Dolon shrugged. "I could have had the post at good cheap, ho-ho! But I would not strive and moil for it. I'm really a very good judge of human nature, so I arranged Busyrane's election, knowing he would do it well."

	"You must be just about perfect," said Shea.

	" 'Just about', my 'prentice friend, is a weak phrase. I am perfect. I've no doubt that people in ages to come will date the history of true wizardry from my entry into the field."

	"Modest, too," remarked Shea, drawing a quick glare from Chalmers.

	Dolon dropped his eyes. "Too modest, I sometimes think. Yet do I guard against such affectation — hola! Here's an encounter!" An armoured horseman had appeared at the far end of the defile through which they were riding. His lance came down and he trotted towards them.

	Dolon cried: "Ten thousand devils, 'tis Artegall himself! Flee, or we are undone!" Looking a bit undone himself, the magician whirled his horse sharp round on its hind legs.

	A woman's voice behind them called, "Stand, all of you!" Belphebe was perched on a rock at the side of the defile, covering them with bow bent full.

	"To the air!" screeched Dolon, the last word going beyond human pitch as he changed to hawk and flapped slanting upward. There was the flat snap of the bow, the whistle of the arrow and there was a puff of feathers. Down hurtled the hawk, changing to Dolon with an arrow through his arm as he fell. He landed, plop, in a soft spot. Shea observed that these people really knew something about swearing in the minute or two before Artegall's lance jabbed him.

	"Dismount, runagates!" roared the knight. It seemed the best thing to do. The man was as big as Cambell, cased in steel, yet moved quickly. Besides, Belphebe had another arrow already nocked.

	Artegall pushed up his visor to show a stem, swarthy face with a broken nose. He produced a couple of looped chains, which he slipped over the victims' heads, tightened, and locked. "You're in arrest," quoth he.

	"What for?" asked Shea.

	"For judgment by the high justice of the court of her majesty, Queen Gloriana."

	Chalmers groaned. "The high justice," he explained in a low voice, "means the death penalty if we're found guilty."

	"Then I'll take low," said Shea.

	"You had better not ask it. He probably has the privilege of low justice himself, which means he can sentence you to about five years in prison right here. He probably would."

	Belphebe had come down from her rock. "Dolon, by the splendour of Heaven!" she cried. "I bear witness, Sir Artegall, that when I met this pair in Loselwood but yesterday, they were asking after magicians. Guard the young one well; he bears a blade of much power, which I doubt not has some enchantment on it."

	"Say you so!" observed Artegall, with an unpleasant expression. "By my halidome, we are well met, then. A pretty gift for the queen's justice! Let's see that little sword." He yanked Shea's baldric up over his head, nearly taking off an ear.

	He climbed back on his horse, holding the end of the chains. The prisoners had no choice but to trot along behind him.

	Chalmers managed to whisper: "Don't try to tell them we're on the right side. Britomart will clear us if necessary. We must ... uh ... retain Dolon's confidence."

	They plodded on. The more Chalmers thought about it the less he liked the idea of being dragged off to the Faerie court for judgment. If they were released with Britomart's help, any enchanters they met afterward might reasonably ask them how they came to escape when Dolon was condemned. Of the master magician's condemnation there could be little doubt. Artegall looked at him with pure detestation. Belphebe, trotting along beside them, was amusing herself by catching the enchanter's eye, putting one hand around her neck, and making strangling sounds. The great Dolon did not seem to be enjoying it.

	Shea? Shea was admiring Belphebe's springy stride. Anything Chalmers did would have to be on his own. Fortunately, Chalmers had succeeded in purloining and sneaking a look into one of Dolon's textbooks that morning. There was a simple weakness spell in it; not much of a spell, lasting only a few hours and easily guarded against if one knew it were coming. But it required no apparatus beyond twelve blades of grass, a small piece of paper, and some water.

	Chalmers stooped and pulled up the grass blades as he stumbled along, holding them in his mouth as though he merely warned something to chew on. He slipped a hand inside his robe, ostensibly to scratch, really to tear a page corner from Dolon's book. This also went into his mouth; saliva ought to be a fairish substitute for water. He mumbled the incantation. If it worked, Artegall and Belphebe ought to be weakened enough to let the prisoners escape.

	Shea decided that he liked the little spray of freckles across Belphebe's nose, but that it was difficult to admire a girl who had a bead drawn on one's right kidney with a longbow. He would like to see more of Belphebe. She had about everything, including an adventurous spirit not unlike his own — Why the devil was he so tired? He could barely drag one foot after the other. He should be hardened to strenuous living by now. Belphebe was drooping, too; the spring had left her walk. Even the horse's head hung.

	Artegall swayed in his saddle. He made one monstrous effort to balance himself, overcompensated, and slowly fell into the road with the dignity of a toppling factory chimney. The crash halted the procession. The horse sat down jerkily and sprawled beside its rider, its tongue lolling out. Chalmers and Dolon followed suit, their chains jangling.

	Artegall heaved himself up on one elbow. "Sorcery!" he drawled languidly. "The rascals have tricked us! Skewer them, Belphebe!"

	The girl fumbled with her bow. Chalmers rolled over and reached hands and knees. "Come on, Harold! Rouse Dolon!" he said. He smothered a yawn and started to crawl. "Dear me, I wish I could learn to keep these spells within bounds."

	Shea tried to leap over Dolon; lost his balance and fell across the magician. Dolon grunted as Shea's knees dug into him, but he, also, made his hands and knees. The three prisoners set off down the road in that fashion.

	Shea looked back. Belphebe was still on her feet, trying to draw the bow, but lacking strength to pull it more than a few inches. She aimed up and let fly at random. The recoil knocked her over backward. The arrow soared in a whispering parabola and thwunked into the seat of Dolon's pants with just enough force to stick. The magician yelped and increased his speed to almost a mile an hour.

	"Hurry," said Shea. "They're coming after us." Belphebe was crawling along at a fair rate, regardless of the abrasion of her bare knees. Behind her, Artegall brought up the rear of the bizarre parade like some monstrous tailless lizard. In his armour he could barely move.

	"Belphebe's gaining," remarked Shea, after a minute.

	"That sorrows me not," said Dolon, with a nasty expression. He fished a knife from his boot.

	"Hey," said Shea, "not that!"

	"And wherefore not?"

	While Shea was trying to think of a reasonable answer, a man in a kilt appeared at the side of the road. For a moment he stared in astonishment at the singular procession, then put a willow whistle in his mouth and blew.

	"The Da Derga!" gasped Dolon. "Ah, woe are we, to be caught thus!"

	A swarm of the wild men came trotting through the trunks. All wore tartan kilts. With them were a number of lean, rough-coated dogs. The five crawlers were efficiently bowled over and frisked for weapons. Shea found himself looking into the ugly, bearded face of a gigantic redhead, who moved a nasty broadsword back and forth an inch from the prisoner's throat as though he were sawing. The redhead seemed to think it very funny.

	"Sure and is it not a strange thing to find them so?" remarked a benign-looking greybeard. "The folk would be taking poison to make them so weak."

	"Do we be takin' them back entire," asked another, "or just their heads to put in the hall, now?"

	"Shame on you, Shawn! 'Tis a month now since the gods have had a proper sacrifice. 'Tis a lack of proper reverence you show, I'm thinking."

-

	Shea could have thought of one or two terms more appropriate than lack of reverence. But he was not consulted. He was tied up and suspended from a pole. For the next hour or so, as the carriers of the pole jounced along, the pain in his wrists and ankles was too exquisite for him to think coherently.

	They followed deer trails, ultimately emerging into a clearing with tents around it. The Da Derga were evidently on a raiding expedition; there were no women or children to be seen. The captives were dumped in a row near a rough-hewn wooden altar with ominously dark stains down its sides.

	Shea whispered: "Can't you work a spell, Dolon?"

	"Aye, as soon as I recover from this curst weakness. Malediction on the bungling knave who clipped us in it!"

	"I'm afraid I was ... uh ... responsible," said Chalmers humbly.

	"May Beelzebub fly away with you then! After this, stick to your dragon-juggling tricks, and leave true magic to the great Dolon. Was it not the grass-and-paper spell?"

	"Yes."

	"I trow I recognized the symptoms. Haro! 'Twill not wear off for hours, and by that time we shall be dead as Judas Iscariot. Ah, 'tis foul that the greatest master of magic the world has seen should come to an end thus, like a netted herring! The tragedy of it makes me weep."

	He lapsed into gloomy silence. Shea thought desperately — what could they do? If neither the wily Dolon nor the powerful Artegall could help, the case appeared hopeless. Another last-minute rescue from outside would be too much of a coincidence to hope for.

	Three men in long white robes, absurdly garlanded with leaves, came out of a tent. One of them thoughtfully whetted a long knife. The sound it made on the stone was hard to bear.

	The one with the knife came over and looked down at the captives. The amiable-looking chieftain remarked: "Sure, 'tis a likely lot they are, isn't it?"

	"They'll do," replied the Druid. "For a chance-met lot, they'll do. The two younger are the handsomest. We take them first. But if it's so weak they are, how shall we ever get them to walk to the altar?"

	"A couple of the lads will support them, Oh, Murrahu! Would you be getting your pipes?"

	The Da Derga had formed a circle around the clearing. One of the Druids stood with his arms out and face to the sky, chanting, while another gestured symbolically over the altar. A third marched round the clearing, followed by the bagpiper. The piper cut loose with a sound like a thousand angry beehives. It seemed to Shea that a procession of ghostly figures was following the two marchers, floating in some medium of faint iridescence that made their forms and even their existence uncertain. The Da Derga bowed low as priest and piper passed, and stayed bent over till that trail of misty things had gone by.

	It was extremely interesting. Shea wished he were in a position to appreciate it without being dominated by the thought that these were probably his last sense impressions. He wondered if the gods of the Da Derga had something in common with the ancient Celtic deities — By the great horn spoon, he had an idea!

	A barbarian was cutting his bonds. Two others heaved him and Belphebe to their feet and supported them by the arms. Their expressions were of rapt ecstasy. Shea muttered out of the side of his mouth: "Hey, Belphebe, if I get you out of this, will you call a truce till we can explain?"

	The girl nodded. The Druid with the knife took his place at the altar. Another came over to the captives, faced about, and started to lead them. Summoning all his strength, Shea barked: "Hey, Mr. Priest!"

	The Druid turned. He had a kindly expression. "Now, laddie," he said, "it's no good shouting! Sure, 'tis an honour to be the first to go to the gods."

	"I know it. But you don't think the gods will be satisfied with a bunch of weak fish like us, do you?"

	"True enough for you. But the gods do he giving credit when a man offers the best he has, and faith, you are that."

	"You could make us better, though. We're under a spell. You're a pretty good magician; why not take this weakness off us?"

	The Druid's expression showed cunning. "I'm thinking you're saying that for your own benefit and not for ours, but 'tis rare good sense you speak, my boy." He looked at Shea, then at Belphebe and waved his hands towards them, mumbling. Shea felt the force flow back into his body. The old priest addressed the two with him; "Hold them tight, now, lads. It wouldn't do at all, at all, if they used their strength to get away."

-

	The rough hands of the Da Derga clamped down on Shea's arms till he winced. He saw that Belphebe wasn't enjoying their grip either. He held himself relaxed, as though putty in their hands.

	The procession approached the altar. The piper was red-faced, but seemed to be maintaining himself by that unique power all pipers have of keeping going long after ordinary people would collapse for lack of breath. Shea's feet dragged. The Druid with the knife awaited him with the supremely peaceful expression of a man who is rendering his own happiness sure by a great and noble act. The altar was only four paces away. He glanced towards Belphebe. Three. She was looking anxiously at him as though awaiting a signal. Two. He felt what he was waiting for — the relaxation of the tired, sweaty hands of the huskies. One. It was now or never.

	Shea snapped his left heel up and back. It hit a hairy kneecap, and the barbarian went down with a yell of pain. He let go. Shea spun around on the other heel, driving his left knee into the other guard and at the same time punching him in the Adam's apple. The second guard, not expecting this demoniac burst of energy, let go and dropped, strangling in the agony of the throat punch.

	What followed took seconds. The other two guards got their signals crossed, and instead of one of them holding Belphebe, both let her go to run at Shea. The woods girl pounced on the Druid with the knife and sank her teeth into his hand.

	The guards were good rough-and-tumble fighters, but under the handicap of having to take their captives unharmed. Shea was under no such inhibition. He jabbed one in the eyes with his fingers and kicked the other in the belly. Somebody screeched. Belphebe ran past with a bloody knife in her hand, yanking Shea after her.

	The other Da Derga were too dumbfounded by the sacrilege to interfere. Shea and Belphebe raced through a hole in their circle just as the barbarians began reaching for their broadswords.

	Then they were among trees, running madly. Belphebe glided ahead of Shea without even breathing hard. He guessed she could leave him behind if she wished. She seemed to know the woods by instinct. She swerved right, squeezed between a pair of trunks, down to a brook, splashed along its bed for fifty yards, then off into the woods again.

	"Up!" cried Belphebe suddenly, and climbed a trunk with the agility of a small boy, lending a hand to help Shea. They crouched together in a crotch and listened.

	Scattered sounds of pursuit came, now here, now there. The Da Derga had spread and were beating the woods. Shea and Belphebe held themselves still, almost breathless. There was a rustle of snapped twigs and a pair of the barbarians walked past a few yards from their tree, leading one of the huge dogs. "Sure, 'tis a terrible thing," said one of them. "Three men cut up, and one of them a holy man."

	"A wicked, cruel thing. And poor Fion, with his lovely neck all broke in. It's inhuman monsters they are, those two."

	The sounds died. They waited, and Shea explained his and Chalmers' plan to her in a whisper.

-

	Belphebe gave Shea a level glance. Apparently satisfied with his sincerity, she asked: "Why said you not so sooner, good squire?"

	"I couldn't in front of Dolon without giving the whole show away. If you don't believe me, Britomart will give us good characters. Honest."

	"You mean you plan still to go on with this witless scheme?"

	"Of course, if we can rescue our people."

	"You think Artegall would let Dolon go?"

	Shea hesitated. "I don't know Artegall. But you're right; he's the kind that, once he gets an idea, he won't change it for hell or high water."

	Belphebe gave a gurgling little laugh. "You should be a court jester, Squire Harold. But your wit is well taken; that describes Artegall exactly."

	"Well, we'll have to see to it that Artegall can't interfere till we've left."

	"Nay. In honour I cannot take the side of that foul enchanter —"

	"Look, Belphebe. Use your head. The knights of Faerie have been trying for years to catch up with these enchanters, haven't they?"

	"That is good sooth."

	"And they haven't made out very well, have they?"

	"Gentle Squire, you argue like a doctor. But I fear me you are right."

	"All right. This riding around in an iron shirt and knocking off an occasional enchanter isn't going to get you anywhere, either. Now, my boss and I have a plan for getting into their organization and rounding up the whole batch at once. Why not let us try?"

	"But how shall I —"

	"Oh, tell Artegall we made a private truce to escape the Da Derga, and one of the conditions was that we get a head start before —" He stopped, listening.

	Faintly, the drone of bagpipes wafted to them.

	Belphebe cried: "The ceremony has begun again. Haste, or our friends are sped!" She began to climb down, but as they went Shea asked: "What can we do?"

	"I'm not without some knowledge of things in the woods and their secret ways." She dropped to the ground and started to whistle a strange little tune. When the whistle reached an ear-piercing pitch a unicorn came trotting forward. It nuzzled up to her, pawing the ground, and she vaulted onto its back.

	"How about me?" asked Shea.

	Belphebe frowned. "Right glad would I be to have you ride with me, but I misdoubt this steed will bear the weight. And they are ever jealous beasts, not liking to go two and two. You could hold the tail."

	That seemed unsatisfactory. But Shea thought, after all, I know some magic and ought to be able to conjure one up, and a conjured unicorn probably won't object to this one. "If you'll show me that brook, I'll see what I can do," he said.

	He composed his incantation on the way to the stream. At its bank, he made a model, as well as he could, of the animal's head in wet sand, and stuck a stick in it for a horn. Then he recited:

-

Oh, steed that feeds on the lightning
	And drinks of the whirlwind's surge,
In the name of the horse of Heimdall,
	I conjure you now, emerge!

"Strong and docile and valiant,
	Decked with the single horn,
In the name of the horse of Mohammed,
	I conjure you now to be born!"

-

	The brook exploded outward with a whoosh of spray. Shea jumped up and rubbed the water from his eyes — then rubbed them again to make sure. Once more, the travellers' magic had been almost successful.

	Standing in the creek was a fine big bull Indian rhinoceros.

Chapter Seventeen

	Shea had a moment of panic. Then he remembered that the bad reputation of the rhinoceros tribe is based on the cantankerousness of the two-horned black rhino of Africa. Anyway, he couldn't fool around conjuring up more animals. As he had asked for a docile one, this was presumably it. He landed astride the rhino's back.

	The rhinoceros might he docile, but it was unaccustomed to riders. When it recovered from the shock of its arrival in an unfamiliar section of spacetime, it scrambled out of the creek and galloped off through the trees in the wrong direction. Shea dug his fingers into the folds of its armour and hung on, veiling at Belphebe: "Hey! See if ... ugh ... you can ... ugh ... herd this thing!"

	The rhino, seeing the unicorn on its right, charged snorting and baring its incisor tusks. The unicorn whirled aside. and poked the rhinoceros in the ribs as it lumbered past. The rhinoceros, now thoroughly upset, tried to flee. Belphebe skilfully herded it towards the camp of the Da Derga.

	The bagpipes were louder. The rhinoceros, now more afraid of the unicorn than of this noise, headed straight for the sound. Shea clung to its hack, hoping it wouldn't ram a tree. The trees sprang apart in front, and there was the camp of the Da Derga. A couple of guards held Chalmers across the altar. The Druids had found another knife.

	Shea yelled: "Yeeeeeow!"

	Heads turned towards him. The upraised knife hung suspended. Shea had a blurred picture of the camp streaming past, and everywhere the backs of the Da Derga departing in a swirl of tartan. They screamed most gratifyingly.

	Beyond the altar Shea tumbled off his mount and walked back. Belphebe had already cut the bonds from the others; but, stiff and weak as they were, they could not move.

	"I trust," said Chalmers feebly, "that you are ... uh ... convinced of the inadvisability of visiting the world of Irish myth, Harold."

	Shea grinned, "Well, yes, since you mention it." He turned to Dolon. "I can take this weakness off you. But I'm sure master like you would have a much better method than anything I could use. If you'll give the spell to me, I'll use it instead of my own."

	"Marry, that will I. Few youngsters are so polite as to appreciate the powers of the masters these days. Bend down —"

	Artegall raised a feeble hand to Belphebe. "What ails you, girl? Fall on these caitiffs! Slay them."

	"The squire and I have a truce."

	"A truce!" he growled. "Make a truce with the devil, or the Da Derga, but not with these enemies, of human kind. The queen's majesty shall hear of this."

	Shea was working the spell on Chalmers. As he got up he grunted: Thank you, Harold. Really, do we have to go on —"

	"Shut up, Doc," snapped Shea. He didn't intend to have his delicate bit of finagling gummed up at this stage. Then he turned to Dolon and worked the spell again.

	The magician seemed annoyed that Chalmers should have preceded him, but it turned out to be a good idea. The moment Dolon was on his feet, he snatched up one of the discarded sacrificial knives and flung himself towards the helpless Artegall. Belphebe tripped him as he tried to go past. Before he could get up, Shea was on his back with one hand on his neck and the other on his wrist. "Drop that!" he yelled.

	The magician's bulbous body heaved convulsively. Shea found himself gripping the neck of an enormous snake of the python type. With horror he felt the immense rubbery strength of the thing as ii writhed a section from under him and tried to throw a coil around his body.

	But, as the snakes have no hands, Dolon had perforce dropped the knife. Shea put the edge of it against the scaly throat. "Change back," he gritted, "or I'll saw your head right off!"

	Dolon changed back. "Are you clean daft?" he sputtered. "There's a stinking fool 'prentice for you — ruining our chance to get rid of our greatest enemy."

	"Not at all, master," said Shea, relaxing his grip a trifle.

	"You forget there's a truce on. Belphebe and I agreed not to have any scrapping until we've separated."

	"You mean to keep your word with them? 'Tis against nature and therefore void."

	Shea clamped down his grip again and turned to Artegall. "If I release you from the weakness spell, will you give me your word of honour to let us have a two-hour start?"

	"Fool! Doltard!" shouted Dolon. But Artegall settled the question. "Covenant with an enchanter? Not I! Slay me if you will; you shall nor rid yourselves of all Gloriana's knights so easily!"

	Shea sighed at the unreasonableness of men. "Doc, watch Dolon for a minute, will you?" He got up and said to Belphebe; "Take care of him after we go." Then, more softly: "Say, how can I get in touch with you again?"

	She thought. "If you go not beyond the confines of this great wood and know but how to call my unicorn of the forest — not that ungainly great beast of yours —"

	"Can you whistle the tune for me — softly?" She did so, and he followed till he could do it. But she finished with a smile. "I misdoubt you could entice her close enough. These unicorns fear not maidens, but men they are greatly wary of."

	Shea pondered, then drew Chalmers aside leaving Belphebe to guard Artegall against Dolon. "Doc, can you conjure up sugar?"

	"Harold, you are a continual source of astonishment to me. I really feel quite wont out, though. I'm incapable of coherent effort —"

	Shea shook him by the shoulders. "Listen, Doc!" he said fiercely. "I'm pretty close to the edge of collapse myself, but if you ever want to see Florimel again, you can't let me down! This is just a little applied psychology; to wit, setting up an androphiliac fixation in the libido of one female unicorn. Now, go to it!"

	Water, charcoal from the remains of one of the Da Derga's cooking fires, and a spell produced a double handful of neat patty-shaped moulds of maple sugar, which Shea rather dubiously guessed would do. The unicorn sniffed suspiciously from a distance, then under Belphebe's coaxing teetered close enough to taste. It munched meditatively, wiggling its ears, then reached out its muzzle for more. Shea fed it another piece, then ostentatiously put the remainder in his pocket.

	"All right," he said, "we're off. Say, Belphebe, maybe you better hitch J. Edgar Hoover's feet to the unicorn and haul him off before the Da Derga come back to see what happened. He glanced at the glowering Dolon. "Two hours truce now, and you can thank Heaven they took her bow away."

	The dark was beginning to close in. As they reached the road, Dolon worked a spell and produced a horse. He mounted.
"Hey!" said Shea. "What about us?"

	"I say a pox on you, 'prentice, for a rebellious rogue. Wend afoot and learn what it is to flout the great Dolon."

	Shea put on a sly grin. "You don't understand, master. Don't you think it pays for the Chapter to have someone that the opposition thinks is a real man of honour? I'm just building myself up for the job. When we get ready to put something really good over on that bunch and catch a lot of them at once, instead of just these two, I'll come in handy.

	Dolon considered a moment, then a smile ran round his red, full lips. "Oho! Sits the wind so? You want that red-polled baggage, eh?" Well, when we capture her, you shall have her before she goes to the torture chamber — if the Chapter chooses to admit you. For I tell you fairly I doubt you are skilled enough in the more practical forms of magic."

	Chalmers spoke up. "Ahem. You confessed, Doton, that you of the Chapter occasionally ... uh ... work at cross-purposes."

	"Aye. 'Tis the nature of things. For look you, magic is an art disorderly."

	"But it isn't! We can show you how to change all that."

	"Here's strange doctrine! Do you jest?"

	"Not at all. Didn't you notice the Druids' methods of doing magic?"

	"Those priests of the Da Derga? Magic they have, aye, but so meagre a sort any lout can outdo them."

	"That's not the point. It's not what they do, but how they do it. One man invokes their gods; another changes the altar from wood to stone, and so on. One man per function, and all timed to work together. That's real organization. Now, if ... uh ... your Chapter were organized like that —"

	Shea cut in: "You've been trying to break down Queen Gloriana's government, and set up a council of magic to rule in its place, haven't you?" Nobody had told him that, but it seemed a reasonable guess.

	"That we have; but the others worked singly, without any such leaders as myself to guide them."

	"But even you, master, you're only one, and can't be everywhere at once. As it stands, your Chapter is a professional guild. It keeps you from cutting each other's throats by competition, but that's all. You won't get anywhere just bopping off an occasional knight. We can show you how to make a real organization out of it with all the parts working together as smoothly as the Faerie knights work together. The beauty of such an organization is that when it gets such a man of genius as yourself to guide it, everyone in the organization becomes a kind of extension of the leader's personality. It's just as though your Chapter were made into twenty-one Dolons. Gloriana's government could never stand against that."

	"Ho-ho!" cried Dolon. "Now this proves once more that I am, as some are good enough to say, the great Dolon, and practically infallible in my judgment of men. I knew from the beginning that your minds held some noble and worthy plan for the advancement of the Chapter and the cause of magic. But I was forced to test you to bring it out. So — we are friends again, and I'll seal the bond by bringing forth your beasts and belongings."

	He wheeled his own horse behind a tree. He worked a spell that sent a pillar of smoke towering through the branches to catch the last rays of the sun. From beneath it Adolphus and Gustavus trotted out to stand in the twilight beside their masters, the former with Shea's épée at the saddle. Dolon came back, grinning as though at some private joke.

	"I shall present you to the Chapter as specialists in strange beasts," he remarked amiably. "That monster you rode to our rescue was as fearsome a hobgoblin as ever I saw, friend Harold. You see, I have the custom, not common among great men, of being affable to my juniors."

	It was growing very dark under the trees, and the horses began to stumble on the ruinous road. Another hour of riding brought them to an opening. Midway along it and fairly close to the road, a thatched hut stood in the inadequate moonlight. One window was lighted.

	"The castle of Busyrane," remarked Dolon.

	"It seems somewhat ... uh ... exiguous," offered Chalmers timidly.

	"Ho-ho! You know not our Archimage, who is a master of show and illusion, and sets such gulls to catch the unwary. Do but watch."

	As Dolon spoke the moon was blotted out. Shea heard a flutter of wings. Something brushed past his face. There was a sensation of insectlike crawling on his left hand that made him snatch it from the bridle. A long, low ululating shriek rose from out of the dark. The horse quivered uncertainly beneath him. Its hoofs clacked on stone in the velvet black. Down at stirrup level a face appeared. It had huge, drooping ears and ragged teeth fixed in a permanent grin above the pendulous lower lip. There was no source of light for it to be seen by, nothing but that face floating by itself.

	"The master makes you welcome and bids you dismount," mouthed the face indistinctly.

	A clawlike hand reached up to help Shea from his mount. Though by now well inured to shocks, he could not help a shiver at the clammy cold touch. Dolon chuckled behind him. He shook off the horrors and followed the guidance of the corpselike fingers down a corridor of utter dark. Something rustled, and he caught the sickening odour of cockatrice. A door closed. He was standing in a big room, blinking in a flood of light, with the other two beside him.

	An elderly man, wearing a palmer's robe like Chalmers', came forward to greet them. He smiled graciously. "Welcome, good Dolon! To what fortunate chance owe we your presence here before the meeting?"

	"To the same chance that brings me here with these two stout fellows, whom I rescued but today from Artegall's curst clutches." This version was a trifle startling, but Shea had the sense to lay low as Dolon described his thrilling rescue of Shea and Chalmers. He went on: "Most noble Archimage, a plan has occurred to me. As you know, people are good enough to say that I have a talent for plans amounting almost to genius.

	"Surely, noble Archimage, you are sib to the fact that you are but one and cannot be all places at once. As it stands, you head the Chapter well; but it is a professional guild. It prevents our cutting each other's throats by competition, but no more. What we need is an organization that will work together as the Faerie knights work together. It would be as though our mastership were composed of twenty-one Busyranes. Gloriana's government would have ill hap against it, eh?

	"By the favour of fortune, I fell in with these two, desirous of admission to the Chapter. With that skill at judging character for which I am well known, I saw at once that they were experts in exactly the form of organization we need, I present you, therefore, Reed de Chalmers, magician, and Harold de Shea, apprentice, as worthy members of our society. In magic, their art is the conjuration of singular and unheard of beasts. The Blatant One himself has fled before their spells."

	"Enchanted magical sirs," said Busyrane, with a polite bow. "Your application shall receive the most earnest attention. We presume, good Dolon, you have heard the sad news?"

	"That I have I not."

	"Poor Malvigen is slain — spitted with an arrow by that she-devil Belphebe."

	"The curst vile tripping wench!" Dolon turned to Shea and Chalmers. "Magical sirs I ask you, is this not a hard thing? Here's a man who spent a lifetime in the study and practice of magic; Malvigen. Made himself a great specialist in erotic dreams, excelling even the great Dolon in that one art. Now he's snuffed out in a second, like a wild boar, and for why? Because his attainments violate what those at the court choose to call morality."

-

	Shea woke from a dream of being shrunk to a statue of one inch and swallowed by a snake. His clothes lay over a chair. They had evidently been given a magical laundering and mending, since they looked as good as new, in contrast to their worn and dirty state of the previous evening.

	Chalmers came in. His clothes also were clean, and he looked younger than Shea remembered having seen him. He burst out: "I've found Florimel!"

	"Shh! For Pete's sake not so loud. Tell me about it."

	"She was walking on the battlements. Really, this place is quite large when seen by daylight. Busyrane was most affable. It appears he intends to use her for the object — perfectly legitimate from his point of view — of causing dissension —"

	"Okay, Doc. Okay! I get it. You're all excited. What did you really find out? Who is this Florimel, anyhow?"

	"She was ... uh ... manufactured out of snow by a person called the Witch of Riphoea, as a duplicate or double of the genuine Florimel, who seems to have disappeared. Busyrane tells me it is at least theoretically possible to find a magical spell that will endow her with a genuine human body. He was most kind, most kind. I am afraid we may have misjudged —"

	"Yeah. He promised he'd help you fix her up, I suppose."

	Chalmers was suddenly dignified. "As a matter of fact, he did. But I cannot see how this affects —"

	Shea jumped up. "Oh, my God! Next thing you'll be selling out to the magicians and letting Gloriana's crowd go chase themselves — as long as you can make this snow girl."

	"That's not fair, Harold! After all, you were the one who insisted that we go ahead with our campaign, when I was willing to —"

	"Yeah? Who had the bright idea of getting pally with the magicians in the first place? Who got up this marvellous plan —"

	"Young man, let me tell you that you're grossly unreasonable as well as grossly reckless. You've placed us in one predicament after another by getting into fights for no good reason. You force my hand by making me use spells before I've tried them out. Now, when I wish to embark on a really important scientific experiment —"

	"I suppose it never occurred to you that Busyrane might be trying to suck you in to work for him by means of this girl. He controls her, and —"

	"Shh! You needn't shout!"

	"I'm not shouting!" roared Shea.

	A knock on the door made them both go silent. "Uh ... ahem ... come in!" said Chalmers.

	Busyrane stood on the threshold, rubbing his hands.

	"Good morrow, magical sirs. We heard your conversation and bethought us there might be something our humble household might supply or our feeble powers obtain for your use."

	Chalmers made a good recovery. "We were wondering — You know, the job of providing organization requires a special ... uh ... methodology. The science of combinational magic ... uh ... uh —"

	Shea took over. "What we mean is, could we have the loan of some laboratory facilities?"

	"Oh, certes, that lies within our gift. We have a disused chamber that would admirably serve. A few prisoners, even, on which you may experiment. We shall be happy, also, to furnish you with a cockatrice. If your honours will have the goodness to follow our poor person —"

-

	"When the head enchanter had left them, Shea and Chalmers drew deep breaths. They had watched him for the least sign of suspicion, but he had displayed none — so far.

	Chalmers said: "Let me offer my apologies for... uh ... my hastiness."

	"That's all right, Doc. I shouldn't have flown off the handle. And I'm sorry for running you ragged by being reckless."

	They shook hands like a pair of shame-faced small boys. "What's the programme now?" asked Shea.

	"Well ... ahem ... I'd like to restore Florimel — that is, to give her a human body. Also, she might not find a person of my years peculiarly congenial. I observe Busyrane is able to assume almost any age he wishes."

	"Ha —" Shea had started to laugh, but stopped, as Chalmers gave him a hurt look. "After all, Harold, what's so heinous about wishing to be young?"

	"It isn't that, Doc. I just remembered something you said — about amorous adventure having few attractions for a person of your age."

	Chalmers smiled in mild triumph. "You forget that if I succeed in the rejuvenating process, I shall no longer be a person of my age!"

Chapter Eighteen

	"Good gracious," said Chalmers. "That's the second time you've wandered off the incantation! Whatever is on your mind, Harold?" Shea stared absently at the big steel cage filling half the laboratory. Into it, with the aid of a pot containing a small fire, they were trying to conjure a dragon — one dragon. "Nothing much," he replied, "except I'm wondering about This flock of bogeymen that's due to show up for the meeting tomorrow."

	It was only half the truth. Shea had not given up his idea of a grand assault on the place and the capture of all the enchanters at once. The previous evening, without telling Chalmers, he had been out to look over the ground.

	At the precise point where the gate began to fade from view, with rocks and trees on the other side of the building showing through it, he stopped and took careful bearings on the nearby landmarks. He chuckled internally over the thought that these invisible castles wouldn't be practical if the people of Faerie knew a little elementary surveying. Then he wedged the gate open with a small stone and slipped off among the trees.

	There he cautiously whistled the tune Belphebe had taught him. No result. He went through it a second time and a third, wondering how long it would be before his absence were noticed. He was just about to give up when he saw a unicorn, apparently the same one Belphebe had ridden, peering from behind a tree. It sniffed suspiciously before coming forward to mouth one of the maple-sugar lumps.

	Shea wrote:

-

DEAREST BELPHEBE: We are at Busyrane's castle. It lies about two hours' ride along the road from the place where we got away from the Da Derga. Looks like a hut till you turn off the road east and follow a track till you get to a big oak tree, the biggest in the neighbourhood, in line with a hill that has a round top. Then you can see the castle. Could you arrange to be in the neighbourhood in about forty-eight hours? I'll call the unicorn at that time and if you're riding it, will see you. Be careful about the magicians, will you?
	H.S.

-

	He impaled the note on the unicorn's horn and shooed the animal away. Now, he thought, if I make a break from the castle. I'll have a guide. If I don't, at least I'll see her again — That was last night. During the morning, he was more and more nervous and preoccupied, and now for the second time he had wandered from the incantation he and Chalmers were trying to work. "Nothing much," he had answered Chalmers' inquiry. Chalmers glanced at him shrewdly and hummed:

-

"Heighdy! Heighdy!
Misery me, lackadaydee!
He sipped no sup, and he craved no crumb,
As he sighed for the love of a layde!"

-

	Shea looked at his partner sharply, but Chalmers expression was bland. How much did he suspect?

	But Chalmers was wrapped up in the task. "Now," he said, "let's try again. 'By Fafnir and Python, Midgardsormr and yang —' " the incantation rolled out. The smoke from the fire in the cage thickened, and the amateur enchanters went on, ready to yell the counterspell Chalmers had worked out if the thing got out of hand.

	It was a variant on the original dragon spell, with wording and preparations slightly changed. There was a shrill metallic hiss and a minor convulsion in the smoke. The incantation stopped. The incantators stood gauping.

	They had produced a dragon all right. One dragon, not a hundred. But this dragon was ten inches long, with bat wings and a prominent sting on the end of its tail, it breathed fire.

	The bars of the cage had been made strong enough to hold a dragon of conventional size. But this little horror fluttered up to them, squeezed through, and flew straight at the experimenters.

	"Yeow!" yelled Shea, as a blast of flame from its jaws singed the hair off the back of his hand. "Awk!" shrieked Chalmers as the sting got him in the ankle. They tumbled over each other and dashed around the laboratory, Shea brandishing his épée and Chalmers swinging a pestle. The dragonlet dodged past them and flew through the door into the corridor. There was a rustle and a heavy clank.

	Shea went down the corridor. He came back with his face a trifle white.

	"The cockatrice looked at it," he said, and held out a perfect stone dragon, ten inches long.

	"Put it down," said Chalmers gloomily. He hobbled around, looking for something to put on his stung ankle. "Damnation, Harold, if there were only some way to control these things quantitatively —"

	"I thought that was it," replied Shea. "What went wrong to give us that animated blowtorch?"

	"I don't know. The only ... uh ... certitude is that we got our decimal point off again. We got point oh oh oh one dragon instead of a hundred dragons. I confess, the solution eludes me. The calculus of classes contains no aspect of quantitative accuracy —"

	The rest of the day gave them a sea horse three feet long and, after some effort, a cask to put it in; six stuffed owls with blue glass eyes: and finally a large and amiable Tomcat with nine tails. The last experiment found a moon looking in the castle window, so they gave up and went to bed. Chalmers murmured sadly that if he tried to give Florimel a human body in the present state of his knowledge, he'd probably make her into a set of lovely but embarrassing Siamese triplets.

	There were noises during the night. Neither slept well till towards morning. When they rose, someone was tapping at their door.

	It proved to be along-eared, potbellied imp, who handed them a sheet of parchment, grinned, and sped off down the corridor. Shea and Chalmers read:

Ye Encaunters'Chapter

will meete in Council this daye
in ye great Hall of Castle Busyrane

Arcimage	Maistre Magitian Busyraine	
Viceregente	M. M. Dolon	
Arciviste	M. M. Courromont	
Keeper of ye Moneys	M. M. Voulandour	

Ye Fyrst Daye

Addresse of ye Arcimage	M. M. Busyraine	
Reading of ye minutes	M. M. Courromont	
Report on ye treasurie	M. M. Voulandour	

Here will new members be Thought on
Now cometh ye professional meeting

I.	M. M. Dolon —"Ye powers magical of six selected Water Fae-Human hybrids."
II.	M. M. Surnoy —"A new use for ye Blood of unbaptized infants."
III.	M. M. Nuisane —"Of ye comparitive efficacie of ye Essence of ye Spotted Frogge & ye Common Green Frogge in sleeping Enchauntments."

	These all with Diverse experiments and shews by ye Maistres aforesaid.

Daye ye Second

Ye Maistres will meete in Executive Council
in ye D.M.

Banquet	At Vespers	
Maistre of ye Toasts	M. M. Nuisane
	
Ye Black Masse will be Celebrated after, followed by a Grand Ball, with various Comeley Witches, Sprites and Succubi.	

-

	"Sounds like a big occasion," observed Shea. "Let's go down to the great hall and see whom can we find."

	They found their way to a huge room whose stained-glass windows bore pictures of mystical signs grouped round centrepieces of knights in magical torment. Already five people were gathered at one end, talking earnestly. Shea recognized Busyrane, Dolon, and Duessa. He caught a fragment of a story Dolon was telling: — "and I say he was no more than a bungling poursuivant, journeyman though he ranked. Imagine summoning up a devil, but leaving one corner of the pentagon open! He deserved no better than he got — ho-ho! — which was to have his head torn off by the demon's red-hot pincers! Ha, here come my pair! Busyrane, do 'em the honours!"

	The Archimage bowed, first to Duessa and then to the new arrivals. "We are highly favoured," he said, "to present Master Reed de Chalmers, who has applied for elevation to the honourable state of mastership of our Chapter. He is most expert in the production of singular monsters, also a man full of ideas for the benefit of our order. Also his apprentice, Harold de Shea."

-

	Was there a slight change in the voice on that last sentence? Shea could not be sure, and Duessa was curtsying, pronouncing in a fine contralto: "Enchanted, good magical sirs." With that red hair she was certainly a beauty when she wanted to be gracious. If only — Plop! A bare-necked vulture flopped through the window and lit beside them, then changed into a hook-nosed man in a long monk's outfit, "The good Fripon!" exclaimed Dolon. "How wags the world with you?"

	"By your leave, not well," croaked the good Fripon, sadly. "I had all but trapped that wretch Belphebe, when what does she do but get a counterspell from Cambina, then shoot an arrow through one of the best sprites I ever had. Curse her! She's killing off the Losels, too."

	"I live for the day when I can tear her toenails out," said Duessa venomously. Shea's scalp tingled. A dust whirlwind that puffed in the window set everyone coughing, and dissolved into a short, fat man, who mopped his brow.

	"Whew!" he said. "Fatiguing! Still it's better than walking for a man of my figure. Hope you have an ample lunch, Busyrane. Always thinking of my belly, that's me, Voulandoure, at your service. Ah, fair Duessa! And the good Fripon! Still cheating the grave-digger, my gloomy friend?" He poked Fripon's ribs.

	Now magicians began to pour into the hall, by window and door, so many of them Shea could not keep up with their names. The trumpet for the midday meat found him vainly trying to catch up — and also separated him from Chalmers, who was taken in tow to sit at the masters' table.

	Shea found himself next to a fuzzy-haired youth who said shyly; "Pray, generous sir, may I see your enchanted blade?"

	"Huh?" said Shea. "But it —" before it occurred to him that no useful purpose would be served by disillusioning these people about the épée. He produced it and handed it over. The fuzzy young man waved it over the table, making noises of approval.

	"I feel no sudden access of strength," he remarked. "The spell must be very subtle. Or perhaps it is one you use on yourself — no, that could not be, for Cambina's magic prevented the use of such spells at the tournament. Hey, Grimbald!" He reached across and touched the blue-cowled man on Shea's other side. "He beat two of the most renowned knights of Faerie with this toothpick!"

	"Aye," replied the other, looking up from his plate, "including one of ours." He addressed Shea directly. "Knew you not that Blandamour and Paridell, though they wear the Faerie livery, are in the service of this Chapter? Nay, you're not a member — how could you? But 'ware both in the future."

	That explained a lot, thought Shea: the actions of the two knights, for one thing; and for another, why the magicians were so polite to him, though his rating was no more than that of an apprentice. There would be something practically supernatural about modern fencing technique to these people.

-

	Busyrane had arranged his hair so that the light failing through the stained-glass window touched it to a halo. He might have been some kindly saint as he began:

	"Magical sirs and ladies: Many are the pleasures that have fallen to our lot, but none equal to that of beholding you here assembled beneath our humble roof to carry on the good name and high purpose of magic. Ah, how much better and brighter a world it were if all in it could but know you all — could but see you all. My friends —"

	The afternoon was warm, the lunch had been ample, and Shea had a feeling of having heard something like this before. His eyelids began to weigh on him. The smooth voice rolled on:

	"— in the days of King Huon of glorious and blessed memory, my friends, when we lived a more abundant life —"

	Shea felt himself itching, now here, now there, now all over. He made one more effort to keep awake, then lapsed into an unashamed doze.

	He was aroused by a mild patter of applause. Busyrane's place was taken by the keeper of ye archives, Courromont, a thin-lipped, bloodless-looking man, who hardly moved his mouth as he read:

	"At the council of the Enchanters' Chapter on August 1st following the address of our beloved archimage six members were advanced in grade from apprentice to journeyman and one journeyman member to wit the esteemed Sournoy was advanced to the full rank of master magician it was furthermore decided to raise the annual dues from seven and a half to ten elfars papers were read at the professional session by Master Magicians Malvigen and Denfero with various works of magical prowess in illustration it was furthermore resolved in the executive session to empower a special committee for drastic action against certain representatives of the Old Order whose activities have become threatening to wit the knight Sir Cambell and Belphebe of the Woods and the Princess Britomart the knights of the Chapter Blandamour and Paridell were accordingly —"

	Shea came wide awake, but there were no details. Busyrane merely asked if it were moved and seconded that the minutes be accepted. They were.

	Voulandoure's fat face shone greasily in the heat as he droned off figures and urged members to pay their dues on time. What could those plans for drastic action have been? Presumably the late Malvigen had tried one of them when he got Belphebe's arrow through him, but what else?

	His attention was snapped back by Busyrane's use of his name: "— proposed that the magicians Reed de Chalmers and Harold de Shea be admitted with the ranks of master magician and apprentice. If these gentlemen will kindly leave the room —"

	Outside, Shea said softly; "Did you hear what they said about Belphebe?"

	"Dear me, yes. Duessa seems quite determined on that point. She used a most vulgar term in speaking of her — one normally employed in the ... uh ... propagation of dogs. When —"

	"What are they going to do? Specifically?" Shea's voice was urgent.

	"I —" The door opened and a voice called: "Master Reed de Chalmers."

-

	Shea was left to fidget for five minutes before being summoned. Busyrane grasped him by the hand at the door and led him to the front of the hall. "We present to you the apprentice Harold de Shea as a member of this Chapter," he said. "A very worthy magical person, adept in the production of strange monsters, adroit in enchantments connected with the profession of arms. Apprentice Harold de Shea" — he turned towards the new member — "as members of a high intellectual calling we despise the silly ceremonies of admission such as the court uses for its orders of knighthood. Therefore, we will merely bid you welcome; but doubtless the other apprentices will have something to say to you tomorrow night after the Black Mass."

	Voulandoure came over and squeezed Shea's hand in his own thick, moist ones. "My 'gratulations, also, magical sirs!" He lowered his voice. "May I point out the initiation fee —"

	"Ahem," said Chalmers, who had joined the group. "How much?"

	"Fifty elfars for yourself, Master Magician Reed, and twenty-five for 'Prentice Harold."

	Chalmers looked slightly stricken. He fished out the money bag. His face showed some relief, but not much, when its contents proved adequate "I should think," he remarked, "that with so many fine magicians about, you'd have no difficulty in conjuring up ... uh ... all necessary funds."

	A shadow crossed the face of ye keeper of ye moneys. "Alas, magical sir, our great problem! 'Tis a department involving the use of the philosophers' stone and the blood of infants, this much we know. But our research in the question had been interrupted by the activities of that curst court and the Companions, and I fear me we shall never succeed till we rid ourselves of them."

	"Aye," said Dolon. "The one who came nearest the solution was the enchantress Acrasia. She did make a conjured gold that was all but permanent; met every test, and would only turn to ashes when one pronounced a Pater Noster. But where's Acrasia now? Eh? Dead, down and drownded by one of Gloriana's Companions, a murrain on them all!"

	"Good Master Dolon!" It was Busyrane. "The professional meeting is called, and I doubt not the other masters are as eager as we ourselves to hear your paper."

	Shea found the fuzzy-haired youth at his elbow. "D'you play at checks? We 'prentices are left much to our own devisings when the masters gabble."

	"Checks?"

	"Aye, you know, king, queen, knight, fool, pawn, check and you're mate. I'm hand in glove with one of Busyrane's imps, who'll furnish us a mug or two of musty ale to pass the time while we play."

	It sounded an attractive programme. But Shea remembered that chess game afterward. The fuzz-haired apprentice was not naturally a good player. Shea beat him in the first two games easily, winning the small bets the youth insisted on "to make the sport more interesting". Then the musty ale or the youth's magic too late Shea remembered what profession he was an apprentice in, rose up and bit him. The fuzzy one's pieces turned up in the most unexpected places, executing the most astonishing gambits and combinations. With every new defeat Shea grew more annoyed. Whether through annoyance or the musty ale, he began offering to double the bets for the next one.

	When the doors at the end of the hall were flung open and the master magicians emerged, the fuzzy youth was remarking gaily: "That makes eighty-six elfars, sixteen you stand in my debt. Ha-ha, that reminds me. Did I ever tell you about the journeyman Sligon, who owed my master, Voulandoure, sixty elfars over a box of dice? He refused to pay — said he couldn't — even when Vouldandoure sent him a plague of boils. Well, wasn't it funny, when Sligon was playing with his own cat one day, that he should turn into a fish? I say a good magician should never lack for money, when there are people who can be kidnapped and ransomed. Don't you agree?"

	"That's right," said Shea with a heartiness which he hoped didn't sound too hollow. He got up to join Chalmers.

	The elder psychologist was looking pleased with himself. "A trifle harrowing that session, but gratifyingly informative," he said as they went towards their rooms. "I really feel I've learned something about quantitative control. In fact, I'm confident that in a few months' research I can learn enough not only to transform Florimel and to rejuvenate myself, but also to ... uh ... revolutionize the entire practice of magic in Faerie, to make its benefits available to all."

	"Yes, but" — Shea looked worried — "did you find out what they intend to do about Belphebe?"

	"I gather that that is a matter for the ... uh ... executive session of tomorrow. But as I understand the outlines of the plan, it is not to direct the enchantments against her in person. She's protected against them. They intend rather to place spells on the two or three places where she sleeps, with the design of causing her to fall into so deep a slumber that she can be captured."

	They paused on Chalmers' threshold. He added: "However, I wouldn't worry about the young woman's ... uh ... safety, Harold. As I understand it she is to be brought here, and I am sure that as a member of the Chapter I can persuade them not to harm her. In fact —"

	"For the love of Mike, Doc, are you throwing in with these guys, or just plain daffy? Didn't you hear Duessa talking about pulling Belphebe's toenails out, come the Revolution, and Dolon mentioning the torture chamber? Wake up! You're being an old fool!"

	"Harold, I must request you not to use such intemperate language. After all, I'm somewhat your senior, and I require the uninterrupted use of all facilities as well as your own cordial cooperation to put this matter on a scientific basis. In a few months I shall be in a position to effect an industrial revolution in magic —"

	"Theory! Months! I might have known that's what you'd be after! Can't you realize somebody's in danger?"

	"I shall certainly give my most earnest attention to persuading the other members of the Chapter that this young woman to whom you are so attached is innocuous, and —"

	"Oh, for Pete's sake! Forget it! Good night." Shea stalked out, more angry with Chalmers than he had ever been before. He did not hear the velvety click of the Judas window in Chalmers' room. Nor could he overhear the two men in the secret passage that led to that window.

	Busyrane's voice was bland. "We were good enough to warn you that the young man was a suspicious character and mingled somehow in the affairs of the court."

	"Can it be that my judgment, usually so keen, was altogether thrown off?" asked Dolon.

	"Oh, you were right about the older. He's a proper magician and devoted to the Chapter. But the younger — he'll bear more than watching. A friend of Belphebe, forsooth."

Chapter Nineteen

	Shea lay in bed, staring at the black ceiling. No use trying to get the Doc to do anything. His heart was in the right place. But between his devotion to Florimel and his devotion to theory he could not be convinced that these enchanters, who talked so glibly of intellectual achievements, were bloody-minded racketeers who intended to put Belphebe, Britomart, and a lot of others to a slow and intricate death.

	Shea shuddered as he thought of it. Whatever was done to save them, he would have to do, quickly. Yes, and to keep Chalmers from turning the products of his really fine scientific mind over to these rascals.

	The castle was silent. He slipped out of bed, dressed, and buckled the faithful épée over his shoulder. It would not be much use against enchantments. But as long as the enchanters themselves believed it had magical power, it would help.

	The door swung open noiselessly. There was no light in the corridor. The stone floor was cold under Shea's feet. His soft leather boots made soundless progress. If he kept one hand along the wall, he thought he could find the way to the great hall, and so out. Step — step — the hand that had been following the wall touched nothingness. An appalling odour of cockatrice assailed his nostrils. Evidently the door of somebody's laboratory. He went down to hands and knees and slithered past an inch at a time, hoping the creature would not wake up.

	So. Here was the head of the stair. He took one step down, two — and felt something soft touch his ankles. Another step and the something soft was clear to his waist, catching at him. it felt ropy and vaguely slimy, a whole tangle of slime — cobwebs! For a moment Harold Shea felt unreasoning panic, as it seemed that going ahead and turning back would be equally fatal. Then he realized that this would be some of Busyrane's magic, part of the ordinary castle safeguards, and of no special significance.

	Yet what would cut through or destroy cobwebs? Fire. He had no fire. But in his previous adventure in Scandinavian myth, Surt's giants had made use of flaming swords, and he had the épée. With an incantation to make use of the law of similarity, it might become a flaming sword. On that narrow, stone-walled spiral staircase it was altogether unlikely that anyone would be able to see the light.

	With the ghostly fingers of the cobwebs clutching at his legs, Shea stood on the stair and thought as he never had before of a spell:

-

Sword, sword, sword that is now my salvation,
	Make me a light to cut through these cobwebs;
	Be like Surt's sword to cut through this maze.

-

	He could feel the hilt growing warm.

-

Help my escape to reach consummation;
	In the name of Durandal, help me to be free.

-

	It was not outrageously good poetry, but the hilt was so hot that he snatched it out. A smoky red flame ran down the blade and dropped from the point, revealing the whole stairwell from wall to wall and as high as Shea stood, filled with a solid mass of the hideous grey material. A man could smother in it easier than not. Busyrane left nothing to chance.

	Shea slashed at the stuff with the flaming épée. It shrivelled left and right before him, back against the wall with hissing, foul-smelling flames running along the strands. He advanced slowly, cutting one step at a time. As he reached the bottom and the last cobwebs, the fire in the blade went out. He was in the great hall; but a few steps carried him through it, across the forecourt and to the gate.

	A moon looked down out of a cloudless sky. Shea cursed it softly to himself, wondering whether he ought to take a chance on crossing the open stretch between gate and the shelter of the trees before it set. He decided to try it.

	Bending low, he scuttled rapidly across the space, his cloak flapping like a vampire's wings. He made it without stumbling and looked back. The castle had disappeared. There was nothing visible but stony ground with the hut in the middle.

	Once among the trees, he began pacing the circuit of the clearing, whistling very softly to himself the unicorn tune and pausing to listen. A quarter of the way round he was halted by a tense whisper, "Stand, sir!"

	"Belphebe!"

	"Aye." She stepped from her place of concealment, arrow drawn to the head. "In good sooth you look like Harold de Shea. But show me how you hold that narrow sword."

	Shea drew the still-warm épée and demonstrated.

	"Certes, then you are indeed he. I feared lest the enchanters had sent a phantom forth to beguile me. Right glad I am to see you, Square Harold."

	Shea said: "Say, I'm glad to see you, too. I knew I could depend —"

	"Save your fair speeches for another hour. Here is danger. What is toward?"

	Shea explained. Belphebe said: "For myself I fear not, though I thank you for the warning. Yet it's somewhat otherwise with Britomart, who has not the protection of the woods so close as I. And sure it were shame to miss the chance of catching the entire Chapter at once. Let me think. I left Artegall at a woodcutter's cot on the far flank of Loselwood. His man Talus had gone to fetch Cambina, that she might heal his bruises and calm his mind."

	"So Cambina's a psychologist too! Why does he need his mind calmed?"

	"Why, sir, he's the chief justiciar of all Faerie. Without a calm mind, how shall he hold the balance even? Let us go thither and lay this matter before him. Certes, we two cannot lay so many rogues by the heels alone."

	Two hours of walking brought Shea to the yawning stage. The moon had set. Under the black trees, even the surefooted Belphebe found the going hard. She was ready to listen to suggestions for a nap.

	"Sleep is still far from me now," she said. "If you wish, I will keep watch for the first hour — which should be till the stars of the Bear sink to the top of that tree." She pointed. Shea, too drowsy to notice, composed himself to rest.

	The next thing he knew, he was being shaken awake in a brightening world.

	"Hey, young lady," he said through his first yawn, "I thought you were going to wake me up after the first hour?"

	"And so thought I. But you were so in comfort that I wanted the heart to rouse you. I need but little sleep."

	"Naughty. What about my masculine pride?"

	She made a face at him. "I forgot that. Men are such foolish carls about it. But come." She danced a step or two. "Tirra-lirra, a brave day! Let's forth and seek our breakfast."

	As they walked along, Belphebe peering towards thickets for an edible target, and Shea a bit woozy from lack of sleep, he asked: "D'you suppose Cambina will have calmed Artegall down so he'll listen to my explanations before he starts carving?"

	"A thing to think on! Will you hide whilst I speak him fair?"

	"Guess I'll take a chance on his temper." Shea wasn't going to have his dream-girl suspect him of timidity at this stage. He was sure he could outrun the bulky justiciar if necessary.

	"Marry, I would not have you answer otherwise!" She smiled at him, and he felt rewarded. She went on, scrutinizing him: "Many knights, squires, and yeomen have I kenned, Master Harold, but never a wight like you. You speak fair, yet half the time with words I wot not of. You promised to explain the meanings of those wherewith you put the Blatant Beast to rout."

	Shea replied: "Curiosity killed a cat."

	"Miauw! Yet of this cat's allotted nine, I have several left to draw upon."

	"I really can't, Belphebe. Magical reasons."

	"Oh. Well then, tell me the meaning of the strange thing you called the Lady Cambina even now."

	"Psychologist?"

	"Aye."

	Shea gave an account in words of one syllable of the science of psychology, and of his own experiences in its practice. Under the girl's admiring curiosity he expanded. Before he knew it he was practically telling her the story of his life. As soon as he realized this, he cut his autobiography off short, not wanting to leave her with nothing to be curious about.

	Belphebe said: "A strange tale, Squire. Gin you speak truth, this homeland of yours were worth the seeing." She sighed a little. "The wilds of Faerie I know like my own palm. And since I will not tarry at Gloriana's tedious court, there's nothing left for me but to hunt the Losels and such vile — Sst!" She broke off, moved slowly a couple of steps, and loosed an arrow. It knocked over a rabbit.

	While they dressed and cooked their breakfast, Shea thought. He finally ventured: "Look here, kid, someday Doc and I will be going back, I suppose. Why don't you plan to come with us?"

	Belphebe raised her eyebrows. "'Tis a thought audacious. But stay — could I live among the woods-paths as I do here?"

	"Unh." Shea imagined the horrible complications that would ensue if Belphebe tried to lead her present life in Ohio's close-fenced farmland. "I'm afraid that wouldn't be practical. But there's plenty else to do."

	"What then? How should I live in one of your great towns?"

	That problem had not occurred to Shea. He revised his estimate of Belphebe. The girl might look like something out of a medieval romance, but she had a core of hard common sense. The only job he could think of for her was giving bow-and-arrow lessons, and he hardly supposed the demand for professional archers to be large.

	He said vaguely: "Oh, we'll figure something out. Doc and I would see to it that you were — uh — uh ..."

	"Harold!" she said sharply, "What are you proposing? Think not that because I lead a free roving life, I —"

	"No, no, I didn't mean — uh ..."

	"What then?"

	He thought again. One obvious solution was staring him in the face; yet to bring it up so early might spoil everything. Still, nothing ventured ...

	He drew a deep breath and plunged: "You could marry me."

	Belphebe's mouth fell open. It was some seconds before she answered: "You jest, good Squire!"

	"Not at all. People do it in my country, you know, just like here."

	"But — knew you not that I am affianced to Squire Timias?"

	It was Shea's turn to stare blankly.

	Belphebe said: "Nay, good friend, take it not so to heart. I had thought it known to the world, else I should have told you. The fault was mine."

	"No I mean ... it wasn't let's skip it."

	"Skip it?" said Belphebe wonderingly. Shea bent over his rabbit-haunch, muttering something about the meat's being good.

	Belphebe said: "Be not angry, Harold. Not willingly would I hurt you, for I like you well. And had I know you sooner ... But my word is given."

	"I suppose so," said Shea sombrely. "What sort of man is your friend Timias?" He wondered whether the question had a useful purpose, or whether he was showing a slight touch of masochism in keeping the painful subject alive.

	Belphebe's face softened. "A most sweet boy; shrinking and sensitive, not like these brawling knightly ruffians."

	"What are his positive qualities?" asked Shea.

	"Why — ah — he can sing a madrigal better than most."

	"Is that all?" said Shea with a touch of sarcasm.

	Belphebe bridled. "I know not what you mean. 'Tis even the core of the matter that he's no bold confident venturer like yourself."

	"Doesn't sound to me like much of a reason for marrying anybody. I came across a lot of cases like that in my psych work; usually the woman lived to regret it."

	Belphebe jumped up angrily. "So, Squire, you inquire of my privy affairs that you may sting me with your adder's tongue? Fie on you! It regards not you whom I marry, or why."

	Shea grinned offensively. "I was just making general remarks. If you want to take them personally, that's your lookout. I still say a woman is taking a lousy chance to marry a human rabbit in the hope of making a lion out of him."

	"A murrain on your general remarks!" cried Belphebe passionately. "An you would company me, I'll thank you to keep your long tongue in its proper groove! Better rabbit than fox with pretence of marriage —"

	"What do you mean, pretence?" barked Shea. "I meant that when I said it! Though now I see that maybe it wasn't such a good idea —"

	"Oh, you do? You change your mind quickly! I'll warrant me you'd have done so in any case!"

	Shea got himself under control, and said: "Let's not go any farther with this, Belphebe. I'm sorry I made those cracks about your boy-friend. I won't mention him again. Let's be friends."

	Belphebe's anger wilted. "And right sorry am I that I threw your proposal in your face, Squire Harold; 'twas a sad discourtesy." Shea was surprised to see a trace of moisture in her eye. She blinked rapidly and smiled. "So, we are friends, and our breakfast done. Let us be on."

-

	The new sun was a patch of flecks of orange fire through the foliage. They found a sluggish little stream and had to squeeze through the thickets on its banks.

	They reached a stretch of drier ground where the glades expanded to continuous meadow and the forest shrank to clumps of trees. They left one of these clumps and were swishing through the long grass, when a leathery rustle made them look up.

	Overhead swooped a nightmarish reptile the size of an observation plane. It had two legs and a pair of huge bat-wings. On its back rode Busyrane, all clad in armour, but his face, which was smiling benignly. "Well met, dear friends!" he called down. "What a pleasing thought! Both at once!"

	Twunk! went Belphebe's bow. The arrow soared through one wing membrane. The beast hissed a little and banked for a turn.

	"Into the woods!" cried Belphebe and set the example. "The wivern cannot fly among the trees."

	"What did you call it? Looks like some kind of a long-trailed pterodactyl to me." Shea craned his neck as the sinister shadow wove to and fro above the leaves.

	Belphebe led the way to the opposite side of the grove. When Busyrane circled above the segment away from them, they dashed across the open space and into the next clump. A shrill hiss behind and above warned them that they had been spotted.

	They worked their way through this grove. From under the trees they could see Busyrane silhouetted against the sky, while he couldn't see them.

	"Now!" said Belphebe, and ran like an antelope through the long grass. Shea pounded after. This was a longer run than the first, a hundred yards or more. Halfway across he heard the hiss of cloven air behind and drove himself for all his strained lungs were worth. The shadow of the monster unblurred in front of him. It was too far, too far — and then he was under the friendly trees. He caught a glimpse of the reptile, horribly close, pulling up in a stall to avoid the branches.

	Shea leaned against a trunk, puffing. "How much more of this is there?"

	Belphebe's face had a frown. "Woe's me; I fear this forest thins ere it thickens. But let's see."

	They worked round the edges of the grove, but it was small, and the distance to all others, but the one they had come from, prohibitively great.

	"Looks like we have to go back," said Shea.

	"Aye. I like not that. Assuredly he will not have pursued us alone."

	"True for you. I think I see something there." He pointed to a group of distant figures, pink in the rising sun.

	Belphebe gave a little squeak of dismay. "Alack, now we are undone, for they are a numerous company. If we stay, they surround us. If we flee, Busyrane follows on that grim mount — What are you doing?"

	Shea had gotten out his knife and was whittling the base of a tall sapling. He replied: "You'll see. This worked once and ought to again. You're good at tree climbing; see if you can find a bird's nest. I need a fistful of feathers."

	She went, puzzled but obedient. When she returned with the feathers, Shea was rigging up a contraption of sapling trunk and twigs, tied together with ivy vine. He hoped it wasn't poison ivy. It bore some resemblance to an enormous broom. As Shea lashed a couple of crosspieces to the stick he explained: "The other one I made a single-seater. This'll have to carry tandem. Let's see the feathers, kid."

	He tossed one aloft, repeating the dimly remembered spell he had used once before, and then shoved it in among the twigs.

	"Now," he said, "I'm the pilot and you're the gunner. Get astride here. Think you can handle your bow while riding this thing?"

	"What will it do?" she asked, looking at Shea with new respect.

	"We're going up to tackle Busyrane in his own element. Say, look at that mob! We better get going!" As the pursuers came nearer, thrashing the brushes of the near-by groves in their hunt, Shea could see that they were a fine collection of monsters: men with animal heads, horrors with three or four arms, bodies and faces rearing from the legless bottoms of snakes.

	They straddled the broom. Shea chanted:

-

"By oak, ash, and yew,
The high air through,
	To slay this vile caitiff,
Fly swiftly and true!"

-

	The broom started with a rush, up a long slant. As it shot out of the grove and over the heads of the nearest of the pursuit, they broke into a chorus of shouts, barks, roars, meows, screams, hisses, bellows, chirps, squawks, snarls, brays, growls and whinnies. The effect was astounding.

	But Shea's mind was occupied. He was pleased to observe that this homemade broom seemed fairly steady though slower than the one he had hexed in the land of Scandinavian myth. He remembered vaguely that in aerial dogfighting the first step is to gain an advantage in altitude.

	Up they went in a spiral. Busyrane came into view on his wivern, bearing towards them. The enchanter had his sword out, but as the wivern climbed after them Shea was relieved to see that he was gaining.

	A couple of hundred feet above the enemy he swung the broom around. Over his shoulder he said; "Get ready; we're going to dive on them." Then he noticed that Belphebe was gripping the stick with both hands, her knuckles white.

	"Ever been off the ground before?" he asked.

	"N-nay. Oh, Squire Harold, this is a new and very fearsome thing. When I look down —" She shuddered and blinked.

	"Don't let a little acrophobia throw you. Look at your target, not the ground."

	"I essay."

	"Good girl!" Shea nosed the broom down. The wivern glared up and opened its fanged jaws He aimed straight for the red-lined maw. At the last minute he swerved aside; heard the jaws clomp vainly and the bowstring snap.

	"Missed," said Belphebe. She was looking positively green under her freckles. Shea, no roller-coaster addict, guessed how she felt.

	"Steady," he said, nosing up and then dodging as the wivern flapped towards them with surprising speed. "We'll try a little shallower dive."

	She came down again. The wivern turned, too. Shea didn't bank far enough, and he was almost swept into the jaws by the centrifugal force of his own turn. They went clomp a yard from the tail of the bottom "Whew," said Shea on the climb. "Hit anything?"

	"Busyrane, but it hurt him not. He bears armour of proof and belike some magic garment as well."

	"Try to wing the wivern, then." They shot past the beast, well beyond reach of the scaly neck. Twunk! An arrow fixed itself among the plates behind the head. But the wivern, appearing unhurt, put on another burst of speed and Shea barely climbed over its rush, with Busyrane yelling beneath him.

	Belphebe had her acrophobia under control now. She leaned over and let go three more arrows in rapid succession. One bounced off the reptile's back plates. One went through a wing membrane. The third stuck in its tail. None of them bothered it.

	"I know," said Shea. "We aren't penetrating its armour at this range. Hold on; I'm going to try something."

	They climbed. When they had good altitude, Shea dove past the wivern. It snapped at them, missed, and dived in pursuit.

	The wind whistled in Shea's ears and blurred his vision.

	Forest and glade opened out below; little dots expanded to the pursuers on foot. Shea glanced back; the wivern hung in space behind, its wings half furled. He levelled out, then jerked the broom's nose up sharply. The universe did a colossal somersault and they straightened away behind the wivern. In the seconds the loop had taken, the beast had lost sight of them. Shea nosed down and they glided in under the right wing, so close they could feel the air go fuff with the wing beat.

	Shea got one glimpse of Busyrane's astonished face before the wing hid it. The scale skin pulsed over the immense flying muscles for one beat. "Now!" he barked.

	Twunk! Twunk! Belphebe had drawn the bow hard home, and the arrows tore into the beast's brisket.

	There was a whistling scream, then catastrophe. The wide wing whammed down on the aviators, almost knocking Shea from his seat. They were no longer flying, but tumbling over and over, downward. The top of a tree slashed at Shea's face. Dazedly, he heard the wivern crash and tried to right the broom. It nosed up into a loop and hung. A cry from behind him, receding towards the earth, froze him. He saw Belphebe tumble into the grass, twenty feet down, and a wave of the monster men close over her.

-

	Shea manhandled his broomstick around, fervently wishing he had a lighter one — a pursuit job. By the time he got it aimed at the place where he had last seen Belphebe, there was no sign of her or of Busyrane either. The wivern sprawled bloatedly in the grass with hundreds of the enchanter's allies swarming round it.

	Shea drew his épée and dived at the thick of them. They screeched at him, some of producing clumsy breast bows. He swooped towards a monster with a crocodile head as the strings began snapping. The arrows went far behind, but just as Shea stiffened his arm for the gliding thrust, Crocodile-head thinned to a puff of mist. The épée met no resistance. As Shea held his glide, parallel with the ground, he found the crowding monsters disappearing before him. He pulled up, looking back. They were materializing behind. More arrows buzzed past.

	He circled, cutting another swath through them. No sign of Belphebe.

	At the third charge an arrow caught in his cloak. The flint head of another drove through his boot and a quarter inch into his calf. The goblins were learning and-aircraft lire. But of Belphebe there was still no sign, and now the ghost men were streaming towards him out of the woods on all sides. In every direction they were hopping, yelling, drawing their crude bows.

	He climbed out of bowshot and circled, locking. No luck. It would have to be some other way. He felt slightly sick.

	He went up higher, till the vast green expanse of Loselwood spread out before him. The sun was well up. Under it he fancied he could see the region where he had tangled with the Da Derga. Beyond should be the edge of the forest, where he and Chalmers had met their first Losels.

Chapter Twenty

	An hour of cruising showed him a clearing with a little garden, a thatched cottage, and a circular palisade of pointed stakes around the whole. He helixed down slowly.

	A man came out of the wood and entered the palisade through a gate. Shea caught a glimpse of red face and black beard as his own shadows whisking across the grass, brought the man's eyes upward. The man dashed into the cottage as if all the fiends of Hell were after him. In a moment two armoured men came out. The shield of one bore the striking black and silver gyronny of Sir Cambell.

-

"By oak, ash and yew;
My broomstick true,
Like a dead leaf descending,
So softly fall you!"

-

	That was not quite the right way to put it, as Shea immediately learned. The broom settled slowly, but remorselessly literal, carried the imitation of a dead leaf to the point of a dizzying whirl. Cottage, forest, and waiting knights came to him in a spinning blur.

	Shea felt the ground under his feet. He staggered dizzily.

	Artegall roared: "By'r Lady, 'tis the enchanter's varlet!" His sword came out, Wheep!

	Shea said: "You're just the man I'm looking for —"

	"That I warrant!" His laugh was a nasty bark. "But you'll accomplish no more magician's tricks on me. I have a protection, which is more than you have against this!" He shook the sword and swung it back.

	"Wait a minute!" cried Shea. "I can explain, honest —"

	"Explain to the devils of Hell, where you soon will be!"

-

	At that moment Britomart and Cambina came out of the cabin. Shea wondered frantically whether to run towards them, try to start the broom, or — What was that? A set of little patterns was faintly visible on Artegall's breastplate as he turned in the morning sun. They were the type of pattern that would be left by soldering on brass oak leaves and then prying them off.

	"Hey!" he said. "You're the guy who showed up in the oak leaves at Satyrane's tournament and won the second prize but didn't stop to collect it!"

	"Huh? How knew you — What mean you, rogue?"

	"Just what I say. You fought for the challengers, and Britomart knocked you off your pony, didn't she?"

	"'Tis to be said ... ah —" Artegall turned his scowl on Britomart. She glared back.

	"Come, good friends," said Cambina, "no variance. I proclaim it was Sir Artegall, for I penetrated his disguise. Come, Artegall, confess; you cannot hide the sun at the bottom of a bucket."

	"I suppose I must," growled the knight. "I did but wish to make proof whether I were as strong in the lists as I seemed, or whether certain of the knights would rather fall off their horses than oppose the queens justiciar." He turned to Britomart. "You have a rude way towards an affianced husband, my lady!"

	Shea caught Britomart's eye and winked violently. She turned on Artegall a look that would have melted granite. "Ah, my dear lord, had I but known! Yet surely you shall feel no shame at that one overthrow, for 'twas the combination of that enchanted ebony spear I bear and your own horse's stumbling, neither alone sufficient." She reached for his mailed arm. "When we are wed I shall leave these broils and tournaments to you."

	Campbell and Cambina looked at Britomart, then at each other. The look implied they had never seen her act that way before. Shea repressed a grin. The brawny blonde learned fast.

	Artegall smiled shamefacedly. "Why, dearest dame, that were a great sacrifice indeed. I knew not you cared so." His voice hardened "But we have here a most villainous young rascal."

	"No rascal," said Britomart, "but a true and loyal squire, whom I have sworn to my service and that of the queen."

	"Then what of his soaring through the sky like a bug or witch? Nay, he's of the tribe of enchanters —"

	"Not so," interrupted Cambina. "His magic is white, even as my own; and my art tells me that this Harold de Shea will speak the truth if you'll let him."

	Artegall scowled, but asked: "Then what's the truth he would speak?"

	Shea told his story quickly before a new argument could start. "That is good truth, I guarantee," said Cambina, when he had finished, "and Belphebe is in deadly danger."

	"Then why stand we here at words?" snapped Artegall. "Ho, woodcutter! We start at once. Food and horses, as soon as they may be had, for all of us."

	Shea disapproved of this cavalier treatment, but didn't feel called upon to comment. He said: "Going to collect an army?"

	"Nay, not I. Time presses us too close. Here we must count on our own good arms and Cambina's magic. Art afraid?"

	"Try me."

	"There's a stout younker." The frown in Artegall's brows cleared a bit. "I will be just and admit I held you wrong."

-

	The moon in this world, Shea observed, set only twelve or thirteen minutes later each night, instead of the fifty minutes later of his own earth. He and his four companions were crouched at the edge of the opening that hid Busyrane's unseen castle. They did not attempt it till the moon had disappeared.

	As they crossed the open space Shea whispered: "I'm afraid I can't find the gate. Too dark to see my landmarks."

	"Small loss," answered Cambina. Shea saw her dimly, doing things with her wand. Out of nothing grew a faint phosphorescence that resolved itself into a row of bars.

	Cambina pointed the wand at it. The instrument elongated, flexing itself like some tame worm. The tip groped with the lock, inserting itself gently. There was a faint click.

	The wand withdrew, then poked its end through the bars. Under the night song of the insects there came a faint grate as the bolt slid back. The gate was open.

	As they tiptoed through, the infinitesimal jingle of the knight's armour sounded to Shea's ears like an earthquake in a kitchenware factory. Cambina pointed. Over their heads on the wall appeared a sentry, visible only as a cloak and hood, glowing with a phosphorescence almost too faint to he visible. The hood swung its black cavity towards them. Cambina pointed her wand, and the sentry froze in that position.

	Light and music streamed from the windows of the great hall. Shea, leading because of his knowledge of the place and the fact that his tread was most nearly soundless, was heading for the door, when he tripped over a huge, hairy leg.

	With simultaneous grunts a pair of Losels who had been stretched out on the steps rolled to their feet. While the one nearest was fumbling in the dark for his club, Shea drove the épée through the creature's throat. Behind him he heard the other's club swish up —

	But the club failed to come down. He looked around and saw the Losel, club aloft, frozen to a statue like the sentry. The other Losel was expiring with quiet bubbling noises.

	Cambina did things with her wand, and the door of the building swung open. There was light and noise within, but no one to see them. Across the corridor in which they stood was the entrance to the great hall, the door slightly ajar. Within, the revellers were too occupied with their grand ball to be watching the door.

	Shea beckoned the four heads close to his and breathed: "This corridor runs around to the serving entrance."

	"Are there other doors beside those two?" asked Artegall, and when Shea shook his head went on: "Then do you, Squire, with Cambell and Cambina, take that entrance. Here Britomart and I will take our stand; for this is the place where they will naturally come and we are, I think, the best men-at-arms."

	Heads nodded. Shea and the other two stole down the corridor. Just before they reached the service entrance, an imp crossed the corridor from the kitchen with a tray in his hands.

	He saw them. Cambell bounded forward and cut the imp in two. The bottom half of the imp ran back into the kitchen. There was an instant uproar.

	The three ran a few steps to the service entrance and flung open the door.

	Shea got one brief static picture of a roomful of magicians and red-lipped women looking at him. Some had their mouths open. Busyrane sat at one end of the horseshoe facing him, and he thought he recognized Chalmers. Before he could be certain, the photograph came to frenzied life.

	He turned to face the noise behind. Out of the kitchen boiled a mass of imps and hobgoblins, bearing spits, knives, rolling pins. Shea neatly spitted the first on his épée, dodging the counter. The imp leaped backward off the blade and came on again. Behind him Shea heard the roar of the Chapter, Cambell's deep war cry, and the whack of swords against his shield.

	"I can ... handle these," panted Cambina. Her wand darted to and fro, freezing imp after imp. The rest started to run.

	Shea turned back towards the hall, just in time to thrust through the throat a magician trying to roll under Cambell's legs with a knife, while others engaged the knight's attention.

-

	The noise was ear-splitting. Cambell filled the door, and at the far end Britomart was doing equally well. Artegall had leaped into the hall and was swinging his great sword with both hands. His temper might he bad, but he was certainly a good man to have around in a roughhouse.

	The lights dimmed to negligible red sparks. Cambina cried a spell and waved her wand; the magicians glowed with blue phosphorescence in the dark. The scene became that of a photographic negative — a wild one, with some of the enchanters turning themselves into winged things to flee, other hurling themselves upon the fighters, striking sparks.

	A whole press at once bore down on Cambell. Shea saw a glowing head fly from its shoulders, and himself thrust past the knight's shield arm against something that gave before his blade. Then he was out in the room. A green mist whirled about him, plucking. A pink flash and it was gone.

	Right in front of him a magician became a monstrous crab. Shea dodged it, clashed weapons with a still-human enchanter, thrust him through, and then went down as the falling man grabbed him by both ankles. He was stepped on four times before he kicked himself free. Colours, sparks, flashes of light danced about the room.

	Just ahead a whole crowd were boiling around Artegall. Shea took one step and found himself confronting Busyrane in person. Busyrane's eyes were twice their normal size with slit pupils, like a cat's. For all his venerable appearance the enchanter was swinging a huge sword as though it were a foot-rule.

	Shea gave back, almost slipping on a spot of blood. Busyrane came leaping nimbly after, slashing. The big sword, half seen, whirled in a continuous snaky blur. Shea parried, parried, backed, parried, and parried. The wall was against him.

	There was no time even for ripostes against this demoniac attack. Shea took the last refuge of an outmatched fencer; leaped into a corps-à-corps and grabbed Busyrane around the waist with his free arm.

	The magician seemed made of rubber and piano-wire. One hand clawed at Shea's face. Shea ducked and buried his face in Busyrane's cloak, trying to trip him. The magician fumbled for a dagger. Shea reflected that the weapon was probably poisoned.

	But just at this moment Busyrane was jerked backward, dragging Shea to his knees after him. Shea threw himself back and up. Then he saw what was the matter with Busyrane. Around the archimage's neck was clasped a pair of large, knobby hands. Just that and nothing more. Around the room, above, flitted a dozen more pairs of those disembodied hands, swooping at the throats of the enchanters.

	Shea lunged. But Busyrane was made of stern stuff. He got the hands loose, his own sword up, and came back with a low cut. Shea lunged again. The magician, groggy from that strangling grip, had strength enough left to beat off Shea's remises and one-twos. Shea tried a coupé and one-two and felt his point go home. He held his lunge, stabbing and stabbing.

	Down went Busyrane. Shea looked around, The windows of the hall were jammed with the bats and owls and things into which the magicians had changed themselves. They were beaten. The knobby hands clustered around them, tearing off wings and wringing necks with fine impartiality. The lights flared up again. It was all over. Dead and dying monsters about the great hall changed back into men. Cambell, Artegall, and Britomart picked themselves up from the floor, slowly and with effort. Cambina drooped against the service door, almost fainting.

	Artegall's deep voice boomed: "Ha! Lives one yet?" Shea turned to see him kick over a table and swing back the big blood-dripping sword. He gave a leap and clutched the arm in time.

	"Thank you, Harold," said Chalmers from the floor where the table had been. Florimel was beside him. He was squeezing the neck of a bottle in both hands. The large joints of those hands were familiar. Shea realized that the disembodied pairs that had wrought such havoc among the enchanters were outsize copies of his partner's.

	"Nice work, Doc," remarked Shea. To Artegall he said; "Don't. He's on our team."

	Chalmers gave a hand to Florimel. "You observe," he remarked, "the improvement in my technique, although, goodness gracious! I didn't expect the hands to be quite as efficacious as that!" He looked round the room, where nearly half the corpses showed marks of strangulation.

-

	Cambell carried his wife to a seat and supported her. He said: "'Twill pass. She is much fordone with the labour of defeating those enchanters' spells, and 'tis well she did so or we were all dead men."

	Artegall growled: "Master Harold has slain this Busyrane, a good end for as bad a man as drew breath; and Master Reed has slain more than any two of us with his own magic."

	"Said I not they were true and gallant gentlemen?" said Britomart.

	"True, my sweet." He wiped the sword on the skin of an enchanter's robe. "Kneel, sirs!"

	Shea and Chalmers went to their knees, but Cambell plucked at their sleeves. "Nay, on one knee only."

	Artegall tapped each on the shoulder. "I dub you knights. Be brave, honest, and true in the name of our gracious majesty. Rise, Sir Harold; rise, Sir Reed."

	Shea's irrepressible grin broke out as he stood up. "How does it feel to be named official racket buster, Doc?"

	"Quite ... uh ... normal, I assure you. The really important fact about this evening's work is that I've discovered the secret of quantitative control. Frege's definition of number solves the problem with relation to the calculus of classes."

	" 'The number of things in a given class is the class of all classes that is similar to the given class'?"

	"Precisely. By treating numbers as classes — that is, the number two as the class of all pairs, the number three as the class of all triples, we can —"

	"Say!" cried Shea. "Where's Belphebe?"

	"I don't recall having seen the young woman. As I was saying, once the problem of introducing a quantitative element —"

	"But I've got to find Belphebe! Busyrane caught her this morning. He must have brought her here."

	Nobody else had seen her. Florimel offered: "There be gruesome great dungeons below. Mayhap —"

	"How do you get to them?"

	Chalmers said: "Before you go searching, Harold, I have a spell against magicians that you really must learn."

	"To hell with that! She may be down there now!"

	"I know. But Duessa and Dolon certainly escaped this ... uh ... holocaust, and there may be others."

	"Be warned," rumbled Artegall. "The rash falcon strikes no game, Sir Harold. We shall need all and more than all the protection we can get to prowl those passages."

	Cambell spoke up: "Cambina, I greatly fear, can do no more for the present, gentle sirs."

	"Okay, okay," groaned Shea. "Why didn't you use this spell before, Doc?"

	"Why," said Chalmers, innocently, "it would have blown me back into my own universe! And I have too much to live for here." He exchanged beams with Florimel. "You see, Harold, the casting of a spell produces on both the caster and the ... uh ... castee an effect analogous to that of an electrostatic charge. Ordinarily this has no particular effect and the charge dissipates in time. But when a person or thing has passed from one space-time vector to another, he or it has broken a path in extradimensional space-time, creating a permanent ... uh ... line of weakness. Thereafter the path is easier for him — or it — to follow. If I accumulated too much magicostatic charge at one time, it would, since this charge is unbalanced by the fact that I am at one end of this space-time path ... uh ... it would by reaction propel —"

	"Oh, for God's sake! Let's have the spell now and the Lecture later."

	"Very well." Chalmers showed Shea the spell, relatively simple in wording for calling for complex movements of the left hand. "Remember, you've been doing spells, so you probably have a considerable charge at present."

-

	They left Florimel and Cambina with Cambell and divided into two parties. Artegall went with Shea.

	Smooth stone changed to rough ashlar as they went down. Their torches smoked, throwing long shadows.

	The passage turned and twisted until Shea had no idea where he was. Now and then they stopped to listen — to their own breathing. Once they thought they beard something, and cautiously crept to peer around a corner.

	The sound was made by water dripping down a wall. They went on. Shea could not help glancing over his shoulder now and then. Artegall, his iron shoes echoing, paused to say: "I like this not. For half an hour we have followed this passage into nothing."

	A side passage sprang away. Shea proposed: "Suppose you go a hundred steps ahead, and I'll go the same distance this way. Then we can both come back and report."

	Artegall growled an assent and set off. Shea, gripping his épée, plunged into the side passage.

	At a hundred paces the passage was the same, receding into blackness ahead of him.

	He returned to the T. It seemed to him that he reached it in less than half the time it had taken him to leave it. There was no sign of Artegall, just black emptiness inclosed in rough stone.

	"Artegall!" he called.

	There was no answer.

	He yelled: "Sir Artegall!" The tunnels hummed with the echo, then were silent.

	Shea found himself sweating. He poked at the stone before him. It seemed solid enough. He was sure, now, that this T had appeared in the passage after he passed it, about halfway to where he had gone.

	He set off to the right. If Artegall had gone this way, he should catch up with him. An impulse made him stop to look back. The leg of the T had already disappeared.

	He ran back. There was nothing but solid stone on both sides.

	His skin crawled as if a thousand spiders were scuttling over it. He ran till he began to puff. The passage bent slightly, one way, then another. There was no end to it.

	When he rounded a corner and came on a human being, his nerves seemed to explode all at once.

	The person shrieked. Shea recognized Belphebe. "Harold!" she cried.

	"Darling!" Shea spread his arms — torch, épée, and all. She threw herself into them.

	But almost immediately she pulled loose. "Marry, I'm but a weak woman and forgot my pledged word! Nay, dear Harold, dispute me not. What's done is done." She backed away determinedly.

	Shea sagged. He felt very tired. "Well," he said with a forced smile, "the main thing's getting out of this damned maze. How did you get down here?"

	"I sprained my ankle in my fall this morning. And Busyrane's minions —"

	"Hah, hah, hah!" Dolon, large as life, stepped through the side of the wall. The two mice who would kill cats!"

	Shea crouched for a flèche. But Dolon made a pass towards him. Something wrapped around his legs, like an invisible octopus. He slashed with his épée, but met no resistance.

	"Nay, there shall be a new Chapter," continued Dolon, "with my own peerless presence as archimage. First, I shall prove my powers on your bodies — a work worthy of my genius, doubt it not!"

	Shea strained at the invisible bonds. They crept up his body. A tentacle brushed his swordarm.

	He snatched his arm out of the way, reversed his grip on the hilt and threw the weapon point-first at Dolon, his whole strength in the movement. But the épée slowed up in midair and dropped with a clang to the floor.

	His hands were still free. If Belphebe was set on marrying this guy Timias, what did it matter if he got squirted back by the rocket effect of a magicostatic charge?

	He dropped the torch and raced through the spell. Dolon, just opening his mouth for another pontifical pronouncement, abruptly looked horrified. He shrieked, a high womanish scream, and dissolved in a mass of tossing yellow flame. Shea caught Belphebe's wrist with his right hand to snatch her back from the blaze.

	Pfmp!

	Walter Bayard and Gertrude Mugler jumped a foot. One minute they had been alone in Harold Shea's room, the former reading Harold Shea's notes and the latter watching him do it.

	Then, with a gust of air, Shea was before them in a battered Robin Hood outfit, and beside him was a red-haired girl with freckles, wearing an equally incongruous costume.

	"Wh-where's Doc?" asked Bayard.

	"Stayed behind. He liked it there."

	"And who ..."

	Shea grinned. "My dream-girl. Belphebe, Dr. Bayard. And Miss Mugler. Oh, damn!" He had happened to glance at his hands, which showed a lot of little blisters. "I'm going to be sick for a few days, I guess."

	Gertrude showed signs of finding her voice. She opened her mouth.

	Shea forestalled her with; "No, Gert, I won't need a nurse. Just a quart of calamine lotion. You see, Belphebe and I are getting married the first chance we get."

	Gertrude's face ran through a spectrum of expressions, ending with belligerent hostility. She said to Belphebe: "But — you —"

	Belphebe said with a touch of blithe defiance: "He speak no more than truth. Find you aught amiss with that?" When Gertrude did not answer, she turned to Shea. "What said you about sickness, my love and leman?"

	Shea drew a long breath of relief. "Nothing serious, darling. You see, it was poison ivy I tied the broom with."

	Belphebe added: "Sweet Harold, now that I am utterly yours, will you do me no more than one service?"

	"Anything," said Shea fondly.

	"I lack still the explanation of those strange words in the poem wherewith you bested the Blatant Beast!"

The End

* * * * * *
Book information

What am I doing here?

I'm Harold Shea. I live in Ohio, U.S.A.
Twentieth Century A.D. Or I did ... Okay,
so I thought I'd like to try something a
little adventurous—harmless enough, right?
And I found a way—a pretty strange way, sure—
to look for it. Anybody might have done
the same, huh?

Okay, but
		what am I doing riding around on a
		broomstick with a flying dragon
		chasing me?

That's all I want to know ...

the
Incomplete
Enchanter

L. Sprague de Camp
and
Fletcher Pratt

PYRAMID BOOKS, New York

To 
JOHN W. CAMPBELL, JR.,
of
gyronny, argent and sable

"I write of things which I have neither seen nor suffered nor learned from another, things which are not and never could have been, and therefore my readers should by no means believe them."
Lucian of Samosata

THE INCOMPLETE ENCHANTER

A PYRAMID BOOK
Published by arrangement with
L. Sprague de Camp and Mrs. Fletcher Pratt

First printing August, 1960
Second printing April, 1962
Third printing, December, 1968

Copyright, 1940 by Street & Smith, Inc.
Copyright, 1941 by Henry Holt and Company, Inc.

This story, in a somewhat different form, appeared in the May, 1940, and August, 1940, issues of Unknown.

All Rights Reserved

Printed in the United States of America

PYRAMID BOOKS are published by Pyramid Publications, Inc., 444 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10022, U.S.A.

* * * * * *
Back cover

IT 
COULDN'T 
HAPPEN ...

A 20th Century scientist couldn't find himself hobnobbing with the gods of Norse myth ...

You can't make a broomstick fly by chanting the right spell ...

The beautiful girl you're chasing doesn't turn out to be made of snow ...

Giants, enchanters, dragons, trolls, magical weapons and phantoms just don't exist ...

No ... ?

--BUT IT DID ...

... in The Incomplete Enchanter, one of the classics of modern imaginative writing ... and one of the most hilarious stories ever written!