A Wizard in Midgard

14

Down they went into darkness, but there was light below. They descended a sloping ramp, but it was paved where the town’s streets were not. Then it leveled off, and they found themselves in a mine, shored up by timber—but the wood was smoothed and polished, and the surface between the beams was cream-colored stone. Oil lamps lit the tunnel, attached to the posts. Alea exclaimed with delight, for the dancing flames brought out glints of brilliance from the stone walls. Looking closely, she saw that the blocks were cut into regular rectangles and mortared neatly in place. “Surely the giants didn’t do this for you! Even I must stoop!”

“Even as you say—they didn’t.” Retsa chuckled. “Giants abhor close, tight places. We glory in them. But they did teach us this much of their craft.”

“What is that ringing ahead?” Gar stared down the tunnel toward the sound of metal on metal.

“Come and see,” Bekko invited.

Stooping to fit a five-foot ceiling, they followed him down a completely clean, almost antiseptic stone hall. Suddenly it opened out, and Gar stood up with a groan of relief, for they had come into a domed chamber with a twenty-foot ceiling. Lamps lit its walls, but most of the illumination came from a dozen forges placed around the room, with dwarves stripped to the waist hammering metal on anvils. Over each forge was a metal hood with a pipe leading to a central vent.

“This is for ironwork,” Bekko called over the din.

The noise quieted amazingly as the smiths caught sight of the strangers. They stared openly, not even trying to hide their astonishment. Alea was interested to notice that some of the smiths were women, wearing only a sort of double halter above the waist; she guessed it was to hold their breasts in place as they swung and bounced their hammers.

“Guests,” Retsa called to them. “We’ll introduce you all at dinner. We feast tonight, for these strangers led many pigs to us.”

“Well, that’s one way of looking at it,” Saret said, grinning. “The next chamber is for finework,” Bekko said, leading them on, and the hammering started up again. “Gold and silver.”

“Why so high a ceiling?” Gar asked as they threaded their way between forges.

“This was a mine at first,” Retsa explained, “and still is, below us. Our parents dug the iron out of this stope, then walled it with the very stone they’d had to dig out. Most dwarf villages are built on top of mines this way.”

“And when you’re done taking out the metal, you make the bracing sure and secure, and turn the stopes into underground shops.” Gar nodded with a smile of wonder. “Very efficient.”

It also struck Alea as amazingly industrious. She was overwhelmed to think of the amount of labor it had taken. So much for the notion of lazy, greedy dwarves who could be stirred to work only by the sight of gold.

“Since we mine iron here,” Bekko explained, “we trade with other dwarf villages for other metals.”

He led the way through another tunnel and into a second chamber with rings of workbenches, where dwarves sat rigidly erect, sculpting wondrous pieces of ware from gold and silver.

“Why do they make the benches so high?” Alea asked. “And why do they sit so straight?” Gar seconded.

“If they don’t, years of toil will make slabs of muscle and a bend to the spine that will make them look like hunchbacks,” Bekko explained.

Alea almost exclaimed out loud, but caught herself in time. To the children of Midgard, dwarves were indeed pictured as slit-eyed hunchbacks. Apparently earlier generations of small people had learned the lessons of posture the hard way.

The third chamber held workbenches with parts the size of a finger joint. The finished work was a rectangular gray block the size of her hand, and she had no idea what it was for—but Gar asked, “Radios?” and Retsa nodded.

The fourth chamber was divided into two separate workshops with a hallway between the dividers. They couldn’t go into either one, but they could look through wide windows and see the dwarves at work. They wore white from head to toe, and were making boxes with windows in the front.

“Why can’t we go in?” Alea asked.

“Because even specks of dust are too much here,” Retsa answered.

“They’re making computers,” Bekko explained.

Alea didn’t understand, but she told herself she would remember this, and some day it would make sense.

She found a few minutes to discuss it with Gar after they came out of the tunnels, and while they were sitting on the village common, waiting for the pigs to roast. The dwarves were gathering slowly, chatting with one another, obviously in a holiday mood. Retsa, Saret, and Bekko had left off being their hosts for a few minutes and were chatting with their neighbors, so Alea could marvel at the contrast between dwarf and giant without worrying about anyone overhearing by more than chance—at the contrast, and the resemblances, too.

“They are both craftsmen,” she told Gar, “but each on a scale that befits them. The giants craft walls and towers that are far bigger than themselves, while the dwarves craft things far smaller than themselves.”

“Doesn’t that fit in with the stories you were told as a child?” Gar asked.

“Why—yes, it does!” Alea said in surprise. “The dwarves were supposed to be wondersmiths, hammering out marvelous things in their caverns—and the giants built huge stone castles.”

“I’m sure the giant village we visited would look like a castle to people who never saw the inside,” Gar said, “and the workshops we’ve just seen would certainly seem to be caverns, if you ignored the stonework and finishing that have made them pleasant places to work.”

“You don’t think the first storytellers had actually been to Jotunheim and Nibelheim!”

“No, I don’t,” Gar said. “In fact, I think those tales were being told before the first giants were born, and before the first dwarves escaped from slavery. But I suspect all of them heard those stories in their childhood, and remembered them so deeply they may not have thought of them until they’d been exiled. Then, though, the stories came to mind, and they thought that was how they were supposed to behave.”

“Could they really pattern their lives after stories?” Alea asked in wonder.

“Haven’t the Midgarders done just that?” Gar asked. “And the bandits are quickly making up stories to justify the way they live. Of course, it could be that the giants began building huge houses simply because of their size, and found the work very satisfying.”

“And the first dwarves burrowed for safety, accidentally dug up metal nuggets, and found they enjoyed making things of that metal?” Alea nodded slowly. “It could be. Will we ever know?”

“Probably not,” Gar said, “but after dinner, I’m going to ask Bekko to let me have some time with their village computer. After that, I’ll see if I can use their radio to talk to our friend Garlon to tell him we’ve arrived safely—and what we’ve learned.”

“He probably knows it already,” said Alea, “if the giants and dwarves talk to one another as much as they say.” Then their hosts came back, and the banquet began. There was much talk and laughter, and as much ale as pork, or so it seemed. When they were done eating, the dwarves began to tell stories. Alea listened wide-eyed as Obon told the tragedy of the heroic dwarf Alberich, who agreed to guard the Rhinegold for the Lorelei, and took it down into the caverns of Nibelheim to hide it from the wicked gods of Asgard. But Wotan called on the sly god Loki, and the treacherous two sneaked into Nibelheim and stole the gold anyway. Alberich fought to defend it, and the gods slew him most ingloriously for his loyalty to the Lorelei, and his struggle to keep his promise.

That, of course, was quite the opposite of the tale Alea had learned in her childhood, in which Alberich had been a twisted, power-hungry little villain who had stolen the Rhinegold and forged from it the Ring that had given him power over all other dwarves. Then Wotan and Loki had braved the dangers of Nibelheim, and the risk of a battle against thousands of dwarves, to rescue the Lorelei’s treasure. Alberich had been justly punished for his greed and his crime.

She was so unnerved that when Saret pressed her for a story, all she could say was, “I don’t know any you haven’t heard,” which was true in its way, though the dwarves certainly would have found the Midgarder versions of the stories to be strange—and also insulting. “Ask Gar.”

“Yes, Gar!” Bekko turned to the big wanderer. “Tell us a new tale, as you told the giants!”

“Well, there’s no point in telling you one the giants have already broadcast to you.”

“Broadcast, like sowing seed?” Retsa grinned. “A good metaphor! But surely you know others.”

Gar did. He made them laugh with the tale of Chang-tzu’s dream that he was a butterfly, and how he wondered ever after if he was really a butterfly who was now dreaming that he was Chang-tzu. Then he held them spellbound with the story of the magical King of the Monkeys, sworn to protect a monk on pilgrimage to the holy land of India, and how he fought three other monsters, brought them to repentance, and made them the monk’s servants.

Alea listened as spellbound as the rest, and wondered if she should have him tell her a new story every night.

But Retsa saw through his ruse, and leaned forward, smiling. “So no matter how foreign or threatening a person may seem, he can repent his evil ways and become a friend?”

Gar gained a faraway look, gazing off over their heads, and nodded. “You could interpret the story that way, yes.” Alea was suddenly completely sure he had meant them to interpret it just that way.

So was Retsa. “Even if that person is a Midgarder or a bandit?”

“It’s possible,” Gar agreed. “In fact, if a robber band’s women and children came to ask you for protection from their men, I’d say it would show that they were on their way toward learning to respect dwarves and giants, and that their children would grow up thinking you should all be friends.”

Retsa laughed, and all the dwarves joined her. “Well, we won’t give up on them, friend Gar,” she said, “but for now, we should dance.”

Dance they did—it seemed they had only been telling stories to let their dinner settle. Some of the taller men pressed Alea to dance, and Saret taught her the steps. She gave frequent glances to make sure she was never out of Retsa’s sight, but with the assurance of the presence of the older dwarf woman, she was actually able to relax a bit and let herself enjoy the dance. She enjoyed it all the more because it had been so many years since a man had been willing to dance with her.

In fact, she was enjoying herself so much that she almost missed seeing Gar go off into the underground chambers with Bekko. She made a mental note to ask him in the morning, and felt sure he would tell her everything he learned from this computer, whatever it was.

Then she put it out of her mind, and enjoyed the dance.

Gar was already awake and sitting by the door, watching the sunrise, when she staggered out to join him, a mug of hot drink in her hand—Retsa had assured her that it would make her head feel better. She sat down beside Gar, took a slurping sip, then glanced up at him, and saw by the glow in his face that his night’s adventure had been as rewarding, in its way, as her own. She tried to summon interest and asked, “What did you learn?”

“The history of your world,” Gar told her. “It’s pretty much as I guessed, only worse.”

That brought Alea awake. “Worse? How? Our ancestors came from the stars and started to build a city, but everything fell apart. The people gathered into villages and managed to scratch out a living farming. Then the giants and dwarves started being born.”

“That happens when there aren’t enough people,” Gar told her, “so that, after two or three generations, no matter whom you marry, he’s a first cousin one way or another.”

Alea stared, appalled. “That happened here?”

“It did,” Gar confirmed. “Your ancestors left Old Earth with half a million people—but it would have taken far too big a ship to carry food and drink for so many, so all but the ship’s crew traveled asleep, frozen stiff.”

“Frozen?” Alea stared, shocked.

“Yes, but it was perfectly safe—they knew how to freeze people and thaw them out safely. There were always a few who died, but only a few, and everyone understood they chance they were taking.”

“The Frost Giants,” Alea whispered.

Gar nodded. “Perhaps that’s where the story started, though these people were all the size of ordinary Midgarders. Apparently one of the crew loved the story of the Ring of the Niebelungs and played it whenever the rest of the crew would let him. Perhaps the sound filtered through the walls to the sleeping people and filled their dreams—who knows?”

“That’s not enough to make things fall apart,” Alea told him.

“No, it wasn’t. But as they neared this planet, a small rock, no bigger than your fist, struck the ship and punched a hole clear through it. The crew patched the hole quickly enough, and didn’t think anything more about it—until they started to thaw out the passengers. Then they found out, too late, that the stone had damaged the defrosting computer—the machine that controlled the thawing. They didn’t have any choice, they had to go ahead and try to thaw everybody out anyway, but a hundred thousand people died without waking.”

Alea gasped. “How horrible!”

“Yes, it was,” Gar said somberly, “but the stone had done even more damage than that. It had broken a corner of the ship’s furnace, not the part that made it go but the one that made heat and light for the crew, and no one had noticed. The furnace spilled an invisible poison into the stocks of unborn cattle and and pigs and sheep—ova and sperm banks, they were called.”

“So their livestock was born dead?” Alea asked, wide-eyed. “No, but it might have been better if it had. The animals were born, all right, but something went wrong inside of a great number of them, and their meat gave the people who ate it a sickness that killed them in a few days. Half the colonists died before anyone found out why and killed all the infected livestock.”

“So there were only two hundred thousand of them left,” Alea said, watching his face.

Gar’s mouth worked,, but his eyes were cold and grim. “Yes, but there weren’t enough animals left to feed them all.”

“So they fought over the cattle,” Alea whispered.

Gar nodded. “When it was all over, only a hundred fifty thousand people still lived, and they all hated one another because of the fighting. They split into rival bands, and after fifty years or so, each of those bands thought if itself as a separate kingdom.”

“And they only married people within their own kingdom?” Alea asked.

Gar turned to her in surprise. “You see the answers so quickly! Yes, you’re right—it took a hundred years before they started marrying people from other kingdoms, and by that time, the giants and dwarves had begun to be born.”

“But why did the Midgarders think they were evil?” Alea pressed.

“Mostly because of a man named Tick, who wanted to rule everybody,” Gar told her. “He found the story of the Ring of the Niebelungs that the crew member had made sure everyone knew. He told that story from one end of the land to the other, haranguing the Midgarders and telling them that dwarves and giants were evil, and that they must cast diem out and band together, or the giants would pound them flat and the dwarves would undermine their towns. Besides, he pointed out that the giants would eat all the food, and that if the Midgarders exiled them and the dwarves, there would be that much more food for everyone else.”

“And they believed him?” Alea asked incredulously.

Gar nodded, his face stone. “Hungry people will believe the most outrageous things, from a man who promises them food—and people who have been living in squalor and humiliation will be very quick to believe anyone who offers them pride and a better life.”

“So the Midgarders all banded together into one kingdom,” Alea inferred.

“Yes, but they didn’t let Tick rule them outright,” Gar said. “There was too much hatred between kingdoms for that. He did manage to get them to hold a gathering of barons called the Allthing once a year, though, to vote on the laws and judge disputes, so the kings became scarcely more powerful than any other lord. The Council of Kings sat all year around, you see, and they left their stewards to take care of their lands and people. Through them, Tick taught all the ordinary people to think of themselves as Midgarders, to revere normal size and looks, and to hate the other nations.”

“Did he teach them to hate women, too?” Alea asked, her voice hard.

“Close. He taught them that they had to be very strong warriors in order to fight off the giants.”

“And men are stronger than women,” Alea said bitterly, “so men had to be important, much more important.”

“And women were only there to take care of them and do all the drudgery, so the men could fight.” Gar nodded. “From that, all the rest followed. It justified slavery—the women alone couldn’t do all the hard work, after all—so anyone too tall or too short was enslaved. Anyone who grew to be a giant, though, was exiled, and so was anyone who was so short as to be clearly a dwarf. Many of them died, of course, but the ones who survived banded together and married.”

“So we have three separate nations today,” Alea said, feeling numb.

“Yes,” Gar said. “But remember, only one nation was nurtured with hatred. The other two survived because they learned how to trust one another, and to deserve that trust.”

“What of this ‘radio’ and these ‘computers’ of yours?” Alea asked. “Did Midgard forget how to make them?”

“Well, somebody there is using radio, at least,” Gar told her. “My guess is that the Council of Kings and the barons have remembered how, so that they can direct battles and listen to the giants’ and dwarves’ plans. They make sure that no one else learns.”

“My poor people.” Alea blinked back tears. “So torn apart, so blind! Can they ever be healed?”

“Oh, yes,” Gar said softly. “It will take time, it will take a great deal of time—but what one story has torn apart, another can mend.”

“But there’s nothing I can do about it!”

“Of course there is.” Gar smiled down at her, eyes glowing as though she were something precious.

She felt her heart stop for a few seconds and wondered what he saw. “What can I do?” she whispered, then wondered which way she meant it.

“Tell the story of Dumi wherever you go,” Gar said. “Tell the tale of Thummaz. What one poet has torn, another can knit up.”

“How?” Alea cried, not understanding.

“Because Tick may have taught the Midgarders to hate, but he forgot to teach them not to love,” Gar told her, “and his hatred made it all the more important for the giants and dwarves to keep that knowledge of loving alive. If they can love their children who look like Midgarders, they can learn to love the real Midgarders, at least enough to forgive them.”

“Perhaps, if the Midgarders can stop hating them.” Alea looked out over the village, at Midgard-sized fathers talking to dwarf sons, at dwarf mothers talking to Midgard-sized daughters. “They do care for their children mightily. To tell you the truth, I’m amazed to find that my parents weren’t the only ones who cherished their offspring so deeply, even though they were too tall.”

“I don’t think the dwarves really think of anyone as being ‘too tall,’ ” Gar said, “only as Midgarders, giants, or dwarves.”

“So they must learn to think only of people as people?” Alea gave him a skeptical glance. “Very good, if the Midgarders can learn it, too.” She knew the giants could.

“It’s like Christianity,” Gar sighed. “It would work so well, if only everyone would try it all at once. Since they won’t, though, someone has to try it first.”

Alea turned to him, frowning. “I don’t know this Christianity you speak of, but you make it sound as though the one who begins it would be likely to be hurt.”

“Not necessarily,” Gar said, “but in some matters, such as not striking back unless your life is threatened, it puts you at a distinct disadvantage. It’s like love—you have to take the risk of being hurt, if you wish to win the prize of joy.”

Alea glanced at him sharply, suddenly wary of what might be an overture, and told herself that the thudding of her heart was only fear—but Gar was gazing out at the dwarf village, calmly and thoughtfully. Piqued, she demanded, “So what risk could these dwarves take? You wouldn’t have them march empty-handed into Midgard, would you?”

Gar stated to answer, but Bekko came up to the guest house at that moment, rubbing his hand over his face, his gaze blurry. “Did you sleep well?” he asked politely if indistinctly.

“I did, yes, thank you,” Gar said.

“I too.” Alea smiled. “And without dreams. Sometimes that’s a blessing.”

“Yes … I dreamed…” Bekko gazed out over the village. Other dwarves had begun to come out of their houses, looking equally hung-over. Bekko shook his head, then winced. “I shouldn’t drink so much just before sleeping, I suppose.”

Alea had an uneasy premonition. “Of what did you dream?”

Bekko only frowned, staring off into space. “Of a wizard?” Gar prodded.

Bekko turned to stare at him. “You too, eh?”

Gar nodded. “I think your neighbors have, too, from the look of them.”

“Did this wizard show you a Great Monad?” Alea asked. “Did he tell you that we could only become better if giants, dwarves, and Midgarders banded together?”

“Something like that, yes.” Bekko frowned at her, studying her face. “Has the whole village dreamed of this?”

Alea started to say that she had dreamed of the Wizard weeks before, but Gar spoke first. “I think they have. Did this Wizard tell you that you should be ready to give shelter to Midgarder fugitives?”

Alea turned to him in surprise.

“He did, yes.” Bekko nodded heavily. “He said that was all we could do to heal our people for the time being. He didn’t say why the Midgarders should be fleeing.”

“They’ll be Midgarders like us,” Alea said flatly, “too big or too small. They’ll have been thrown into slavery. If they flee to you, they’ll have escaped—but there will be hunters hard on their trails.”

Bekko stared at her in surprise. “Is that your own tale?”

“It is,” Alea said, voice and face stony.

Bekko seemed to read a lot from her very lack of expression. His voice was gentle. “Did you suffer greatly at their hands?”

“Yes,” Alea snapped.

“Greatly enough to make you take the risk of punishment for those who escape,” Bekko interpreted. He nodded. “Yes. I think we could give such people shelter. Not too many in any one village, of course. Perhaps we’ll have to build them their own villages, and protect them with our armies.” Then he shrugged, turning away. “Of course, I’m only one dwarf, and this is only one village—but I think anyone who dreamed of that wizard would agree with me.”

“If you’ve all dreamed of him,” Gar said, “perhaps all of Nibelheim has.”

“Or will?” Bekko gave him a wintry smile. “Perhaps indeed.”

He shrugged off the whole issue with a visible effort. “Well, there will be time for us all to talk of this in council. For now, the day begins. Shall we see what food there is with which to break our night’s fast?”

They left down the winding road that led up to the village, turning back several times to wave to the dwarves who stood thronging the gates, hands raised in farewell, Bekko, Retsa, and Saret at their front. Finally the curve of the road took them in among trees, and they turned away, Alea blinking moisture from her eyes. “How can I feel more welcome among dwarves than among my own kind?”

“Do you mean the bandits we visited?” Gar smiled. “Yes, they weren’t terribly hospitable, were they? Besides, we’d seen how well the giants respect their women, and the bandits didn’t look very good against them.”

“No,” Alea said, her voice hard, “they surely didn’t.”

She looked around at the trees and the empty road ahead, and suddenly felt a bleak despair seize her. To banish it, she said, “Well, we’ve seen Jotunheim, we’ve seen Nibelheim, and we’ve both seen far too much of Midgard. Where shall we go now?”

“Back to the clearing where we met the dwarves,” Gar answered.

Alea stared at him. “Why?”

“Because something is waiting for us there,” Gar said with absolute assurance.

Alea eyed him narrowly. “What’s this? More of your magic?”

Gar looked at her, astounded. “How did you know?” Alea hadn’t, she’d meant it in sarcasm, but wasn’t about to let him know that. Let him think she was the mindreader for a change. She kept her face carefully immobile and said, “How else could you know what lies in a clearing miles away?”

“So you guessed.” Gar smiled, his gaze warming. “Only it wasn’t just a guess, it was deduction—very clear thinking—from a few facts.”

His gaze was so admiring that Alea had to look away, shaken again. Any other man giving her that look would have been devouring her body with his eyes. Gar was admiring her mind. It was very flattering, and she was glad he wasn’t thinking of her figure. At least, she thought she was glad of it. She needed a change of subject. Not looking at him, she asked, “How can the dwarves so love children twice their size? Wouldn’t such offspring remind them too much of the ones who cast them out?”

“You’d think so, yes,” Gar agreed. “Maybe, though, the first dwarves were bound and determined not to treat their children the way their own parents treated them—and those children, when they grew up, never thought of not loving their offspring, no matter how big they grew.”

“I suppose that makes sense,” Alea said doubtfully, “but I suppose I’ve grown too hard in my heart to believe people do things only out of love, or a determination not to return cruelty for cruelty. Couldn’t there have been a more practical reason?”

“Of course there could.” Gar’s eyes warmed again.

Alea kept her eyes turned resolutely ahead. Then she realized with a bit of a shock that they were walking side by side, and she hadn’t even thought of being afraid. How long had that been going on?

“Perhaps it has something to do with the constant danger of those early years of exile,” Gar suggested.

“With wild pigs and bandits and wild dogs about?” Alea nodded. “Yes, I can see that people so small would have lived in constant fear. Their only protection would have been banding together, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes,” Gar said, “and every dwarf lost would make the group that much less able to protect itself. Life probably became very, very precious to them.”

“So precious that they cherished every single child,” Alea finished. “Perhaps that’s also how the male dwarves came to respect their women so well.”

“They certainly needed every single pair of hands to be stay alive,” Gar agreed. “Gender would have mattered less than number and social skills. Interesting how much stronger and more important the goddesses were in their version of the Ring of the Niebelung, wasn’t it?”

So, chatting about safe topics, they made their way off the road, through the trees, and finally to the meadow where the wild pigs had attacked them.

There, Alea halted, staring in amazement and fear, for the clearing was filled.

It was huge, it was golden, and it filled the clearing all by itself. It was, Alea thought, like a huge wagon wheel with a great soup bowl upside down to cover the spokes and the hub, and another beneath it. There seemed to be windows up high, there toward the center, and strange lumpy things with holes in them here and there—but what attracted her attention most was the ramp that led up into the doorway that opened in its underside.

Finally she found her voice. “Was this what you knew was here?”

“Yes,” Gar told her. “It’s a ship for sailing between the stars.”

The implications hit her like a hammer blow, but they roused too much fear. She would have to get used to them. For the moment, to hide that fear, she thrust them aside and concentrated only on the anger, the very rightly deserved anger. “Why didn’t you warn me?”

Gar was silent.

“Because you wanted to scare me,” Alea said, letting the anger show, letting more of it show as she turned to face him. “You wanted me to be afraid, wanted me to run screaming away. Didn’t you?”

“I knew you wouldn’t run,” Gar said. “You’ve proved your courage time and again. But if you were going to be afraid of me, of what I am, this was the time to learn that. If you were going to turn away from me in disgust and loathing, this was the time to learn that, too.”

He was trying to hide it, anyone else would have seen only a granite face, but Alea had been traveling with him too long to be deceived by that basilisk countenance. She frowned, looking more closely, her own fear and anger receding as she stared into his eyes, saw the bitter determination there, the courage to face the truth. Compassion flooded her, and for the very first time, she reached up toward his cheek, almost touched it, held her hand a hair’s breadth away. “Why would I loathe you? You, who have fought to defend me, listened to my grief, offered more comfort than I was willing to take! How could that disgust me?”

Relief lightened his eyes, but he was still braced, still cautious, even though he smiled. “Let’s go inside, then.”

He started up the ramp, but she stared at him, appalled. “Can you just walk away from it? Can you talk to these people about peace and harmony, can you tell me you’ll free the slaves, and just walk away and not do it?”

“It has begun,” Gar told her, “but it will take a hundred years or more to complete. Come inside, and look and listen at what is happening in your world.”

But Alea stood rigid as the implications of that ship came crashing back in on her, no longer to be ignored. “How do you know what is happening?”

Gar turned back, gazing down at her gravely. “Because the dwarves weren’t the only ones to dream last night. The slaves in Midgard dreamed of the Wizard too, and he told them to band together, fight their way free if they had to, and flee to the dwarves or the giants, whichever was closer.”

“How do you know this?” Alea asked in a harsh whisper. Gar only gazed down at her, his face drawn, his eyes bleak. “Because you are the Wizard!” she hissed. “You really can do magic, and you planted that dream in everyone’s mind!”

“One for the giants, one for the bandits, one for the dwarves, one for the slaves, and one for the Midgarders,” Gar confirmed. “The Midgarders alone refused to believe any of it, or to talk to their neighbors about it. They will, though. They’ll remember, and when things start to change, they’ll begin to believe. At the very least, they’ll tell it to their children as a fairy tale—and the children will remember it when they’re grown, when they need it.”

But Alea’s mind had jumped to the next conclusion. “If you can push dreams into people’s minds, you’ can pull thoughts out! You really are a mindreader, a genuine mindreader!”

“Yes,” Gar said gravely.

“That’s how you escaped, isn’t it? That’s why the bandits ran, all except Zimu! That’s why we were able to fight off the dogs, why they ran in fear! That’s how you were sure we could beat off the pigs!”

“Yes,” Gar said again.

“That’s how you knew when hunters were coming! You could read their thoughts a mile away!”

“Yes.”

“And that’s how you calmed me when we met! That’s how you knew what to say! You’ve been reading my thoughts, too!”

“Only when we met,” Gar said, “and only surface thoughts, the things you would have spoken aloud. I did that because I felt sure you would have wanted me to, if you had known me, known that I wanted to help you.”

“Never since then?” Alea asked, with ferocious intensity. “Never since,” Gar repeated, very firmly. “I don’t read friends’ minds—unless they want me to, or would want me to if they knew the need. I don’t even read enemies’ minds unless there’s a good reason.”

“How can you say that, when you always knew exactly what to say, how to reassure me, how to comfort me?”

“Because other people have been hurt as badly as you,” Gar said, “and wise people have taught me how to care for the wounded heart.”

Alea started another denunciation, but caught herself and looked more closely at his eyes. She bit back the retort—that he was one of the wounded ones, too, that he had known how to treat her because he had needed the same care as she, perhaps still did.

But no one had given it to him…

She vowed that she would, that she would think of what she needed and give the same care and compassion to him that he had shown her. The anger vanished, but she remembered something else. “You said I could learn to work magic, too.” Her voice quavered.

“You can,” Gar assured her. “It will take hard work, and a lot of it, but you have the talent. You can learn it.”

To read other people’s minds! For a moment, Alea went dizzy with the thought, so dizzy that she stumbled, leaned against something hard. That made her push the dizziness aside, and she looked up to see that the hard thing was Gar’s side, and his arm was around her shoulders, his face anxious. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I should have warned you.”

She looked up into his eyes, feeling both drained and filled at once, knew her own eyes were wide as she said, “No. You shouldn’t have. You did have to know if I would turn away.”

She gathered her nerve and pushed past him, on up the ramp. “Come, then. Let’s see these wonders that you say are happening all over the world.”

She felt his eyes on her back, felt the heat of his admiration, the depth of his gratitude, but told herself it was just her imagination, that she couldn’t be reading his mind yet, he hadn’t told her a thing about how to do it, and she went on up into the doorway.

She emerged into luxury she could not believe.

The room was circular, thirty feet across, with one huge window and several smaller ones. Her feet sank into a thick rug that almost seemed to embrace them. It was a deep wine-red, and the more satin on the walls was rose. The ceiling was an even darker red, almost black, pierced by holes that bathed the individual pieces of furniture in soft, mellow light, but left the spaces between them dim. There were two chairs with reading lamps next to them on small tables, lamps that wore flat, circular hats with holes in the tops to let the light out above as well as below—but no smoke arose from them! Alea wondered what kind of oil they burned.

The furniture was all large and padded, far more heavily than any she had ever seen. In fact, the whole piece was padded, not just the seat or the back! There were five of them, and another that was long enough to seat three people at once without crowding. Every chair had a table beside it, and a long low table stood in front of the long chair.

There were pictures on the walls, actual oils by the look of them—but even as she watched, one of them changed. It was a landscape of autumn woods, but the leaves were falling from the trees. She could actually see them flutter down, and wondered if, when the branches were bare, there would be snow.

She stood at the doorway, frozen by both the richness of the place and the magic of it.

“Don’t be afraid,” Gar said at her shoulder. “It isn’t magic, not really, and it’s certainly something you can learn to understand in a few days.”

Alea looked about her and saw that the other pictures were moving, too. One showed fish swimming by, another showed a shepherd watching his flock in a summer meadow !and the sheep were moving as they grazed), and a fourth showed brightly costumed people moving about among huge buildings covered with marvelous and colorful decorations. A boat drifted in the foreground, and the city seemed to have rivers instead of streets.

“It’s beautiful,” she said.

“Thank you,” Gar said gravely. He stepped past her, set his heels one by one in a boot jack and yanked off his boots, then slipped his feet into soft, backless slippers and went to stand by one of the armchairs. “Come, rest yourself.”

“I’m not that tired.” But Alea did kick off her own boots and came in slowly, looking about her wide-eyed. She did sit, slowly and at length.

“The chair will adjust to fit you,” Gar told her. “Don’t be alarmed.”

She squealed, for the chair felt like a living thing as it moved under and about her. Then she laughed with delight and stroked the arm. “Is it a pet? Does it have a name?”

“No, it’s not alive.” Gar grinned. Then that grin vanished and he said, quite seriously, “But this ship does have a name, and a sort of guardian spirit to go with it.”

Alea went rigid.

“It isn’t really a spirit,” Gar said quickly, “only a machine, like the computers you saw the dwarves building, though much, much more complex. But it does take care of us, and watches over us.”

“What is its name?” Alea asked through stiff lips. “Herkimer,” Gar told her, then lifted his head. “Herkimer, may I introduce you to Alea Larsdatter.”

“I am pleased to meet you, Miz Larsdatter,” the voice said, from everywhere and nowhere.

Alea jumped, then grew angry with herself and tried not to let either the fear or anger show. She said, very evenly, “And I am pleased to meet you, Herkimer. Are you really the spirit of this … it seems so strange to call such a thing as this a ship!”

“It is like a ship, at least,” Herkimer told her, “for it flies between planets—worlds—as a ship sails between islands. As Magnus told you, I am not really a spirit, only the computer that sails the ship for him.”

“And cooks my breakfast, and keeps the ship warm inside, and does the laundry and the dusting.” Gar smiled, amused. “But I will not pick up after you, Magnus,” the ship reproved. “I wouldn’t know what to keep and what to throw away, after all.”

“Magnus?” Alea stared at him. “Is your name really Magnus?”

“It is,” Gar told her. “I apologize for having introduced myself to you as Gar Pike—but when I step onto the surface of a world, I use the nickname someone else gave me.”

Alea gave him a stony look. “Gar you were when I met you, and Gar you will remain, at least to me. Why bother using a false name, anyway?”

“Enemies who know my real name may be watching for me.”

“But you hadn’t been to our world when you first used that name, had you?” Alea said suspiciously. “After all, you said you use it whenever you set foot on a new world.”

“Even if I hadn’t been there before, enemies might have come before me,” Gar explained.

Alea felt a twinge of alarm. “Have you so many enemies, then?”

“Anyone who tries to free slaves and raise up the downtrodden makes enemies,” Magnus answered. He sat down in a chair near hers and pointed at the huge window in front of them. “That isn’t really a picture.”

Alea looked at it. It showed a huge blue and green ball with swirls of white covering most of its surface. “What is it, then?”

“A view of your world, as seen by a sort of magical eye Herkimer left high above us,” Magnus said.

Alea stared, completely astounded. Magnus waited.

Finally Alea asked, “Is it a ball, then? The Midgarders teach their children that the world is a plate, and the sky is a bowl turned upside-down over it!”

“No, it’s a ball,” Magnus said. “I don’t think that’s a deliberate lie. Let’s call the picture by a magician’s word, though, ‘electronic’ instead of ‘magical.’ We can look at any part of the three nations with it. We can also listen to their radio messages. Herkimer, may we hear the Midgarders?”

Voices cascaded from the screen, sounding tinny and distant. “The giants have formed a wedge! They’re smashing through our army as though we were made of paper! In the name of Wotan, send whatever help you can!”

“I apologize for the quality of the sound,” Herkimer said; then with a note of disdain, “Their equipment is inferior.”

“Forget the quality!” Alea sat galvanized. “Can we see what they’re talking about?”

“Of course.” The picture of the world went cloudy, then cleared to show a view that made no sense.

“What’s that?” Alea cried.

“We’re looking down on them,” Gar explained, “as though we were one of Wotan’s ravens, flying overhead.”

The whole picture made sense then. She was seeing a town, and the roadway that led to it. Hundreds of Midgarder warriors stood blocking the road, but the giants had simply swerved around them, and the warriors were running to intercept them. Their swords and battleaxes only bounced off the giants’ legs, though, and they kicked the smaller men aside without even breaking stride.

“They seem to be wearing chainmail leggins,” Gar noted. Alea stared. “They have never done that before!”

“They have never really raided before,” Gar explained, “only fought off the Midgarders’ raids. Now and then they may have smashed through to free some prisoners, but I don’t think the Midgarders were able to take many giants home with them.”

“No.” Alea’s face hardened. “They killed them where they lay.”

“Is this what is happening now, Herkimer?” Gar asked. “No, Magnus,” the voice said. “I showed you the recent past, so you would understand the radio messages.”

The radio voices were still squawking at one another in alarm and dismay. The picture seemed to jump, then showed two giants smashing in the side of a slave barracks. The slaves came running out, and the two giants herded them off to the road, where other giants were driving in their own packs of slaves. They assembled all the village owned in a matter of minutes, then turned and strode back the way they had come, the slaves running to keep up, afraid of being stepped on by the giants behind them.

“They’re stealing slaves!” Alea cried.

“Of course,” Gar said. “Didn’t your childhood stories tell you that those greedy giants are always trying to steal everything you own?”

“But that’s all they’re stealing! Just slaves!”

“Well, after all,” Gar said, “from what you’ve told me, most of the slaves don’t dare try to escape. They’re sure they’ll be caught, and the punishments are harrowing—and very public.”

The Midgarders formed up across the road and to the sides, but they were only two ranks deep, and the giants simply smashed through them, kicking and laying about them with clubs. One Midgarder hurled a spear that stuck in a giant’s chest; she stumbled, but her fellows to either side caught her arms and helped her to keep striding.

“Body armor,” Gar explained.

The giants were past the Midgarders and striding away, too fast for the army to catch up. The slaves began to stumble and fall, so giants caught up half a dozen each and carried them away.

“They stole all our slaves!” the radio yammered. “Who’s going to grow our food now? Who’s going to tend the cattle and cook and clean?”

“We’ll send you enough slaves to get you by,” another voice snapped. “There are always more being born, you’ll replace them soon enough. Warriors are another matter. How many of you died?”

“Only six, praise Thor! But we have fifty wounded.”

“How many giants?”

“None dead.” The voice sounded sheepish. “We might have wounded three or four.”

“None dead? If this catches on, they’ll wipe us out! Tell us everything about the battle! We have to figure out a way to stop them!”

The voice began an account of the raid in hesitant tones. Alea cried, “They could have done this all along! They never had to lose a single giant!”

“No,” Gar agreed. “As long as the Midgarders were doing the raiding, they could choose the place and be ready for the enemy, so they could throw spears down from ambush, and giants did die. But the giants were only worrying about protecting their own villages. When the giants do the raiding, they choose the time and place, and nothing can stop them.”

“Then they could have been safe for hundreds of years, simply by raiding Midgard so often that we couldn’t recover enough to attack them!”

“That’s not the giants’ way,” Gar told her. “You know that as well as I.”

“Yes, I do.” Alea stared at the picture, her opinion of her own people sinking even further, and her opinion of the giants rising.

“Let’s hear AM,” Gar said. “What are the giants and dwarves talking about?”

The tinny voices shifted pitch and timbre to those of the dwarves. “Three wheels out first! Hold the tunnel while we gather the slaves!”

“Can you center on them?” Gar asked.

“Playing back,” Herkimer said.

“How can he show us what happened in the past?” Alea protested.

“It’s like memory,” Gar told her, “electronic memory.” The picture jumped, and she saw the earth erupting in the center of a farmyard. It formed a hole four feet across, and armored dwarves poured out of it to take up station around the edges. Taller dwarves, as big as Midgarders and dressed just like them, leaped out and went running to the slave barracks. Others went running to the kitchens. Midgarder warriors came pelting out, pulling on their armor. Dwarven crossbow bolts struck them down before they could come close enough to swing an axe. Then the big “dwarves” came running, shooing slaves before them, seeming to threaten them with their bows. The slaves leaped down into the hole.

More Midgarder warriors came, but stopped well back from the hole and raised bows, loosing arrows of their own. Spears flew, and a few dwarves fell, transfixed—but the crossbows spewed death, piercing Midgarder armor. The archers fled, unable to match the rate of fire or the penetrating power.

Then the dwarves were leaping back into the hole, all of them gone in a matter of minutes, taking their wounded with them. The Midgarders charged the hole, but skidded to a halt at its edge, then stood around nervously looking at one another. Finally, the oldest shook his head, and they turned away, leaving a dozen to guard the hole.

“A party of women is coming!” the radio barked. “Bandit women, by the look of them!”

“This is the past,” Herkimer told them, and the picture jumped again. Alea saw the broad grassland of the North Country, bordered by its scrubby woods. Twenty-odd women were hurrying across the plain with babies in their arms and children clutching their skirts.

“Dumi would turn away from any who did not help women,” a basso rumbled, “and Freya’s wrath would strike any who did not rescue mothers. We will send a score of giants to guard them. Tell us when their men come in sight.”

The screen jumped, and Herkimer’s voice said, “This is happening now.”

On the screen, the bandit women were running between the pairs of female giants in a line of a dozen, with the women standing two by two to reassure their smaller equivalents. The bandits came charging pell mell after them, then saw the giants and stopped dead. One giant stepped forward, hands up in a placating gesture, talking.

The voice of the sentry said, “Retsa is talking to them. She is explaining that their women still love them, but are no longer willing to be beaten, or to see their children knocked about, or be commanded to do all the drudgery while the men take their ease. She is telling them they can win back their wives if they learn to treat them well—and if they are willing to be married by a priestess of Freya.”

Alea clapped her hands in delight.

“A new source speaks,” Herkimer informed them, “with high power, low frequency, and long waves.”

Gar frowned. “That sounds like a broadcast designed to reach as far as possible—but how many people have radios in Midgard?”

“I shall search for signs of listeners, Magnus.”

“What’s the voice saying?” Alea asked.

“We will join it in progress,” Herkimer said.

A voice that sounded for all the world like a Midgarder spoke. “…walked across the Rainbow Bridge, and no one offered to stay him from his quest. Thus Thummaz came to Asgard, He strode into Valhalla and the women of the Aesir exclaimed to one another at his beauty, but the men began to speak bitterly in jealousy.”

“There,” Herkimer said, and the picture jumped again to show a knot of Midgarders, some very tall and others very short, all dressed in worn and ragged clothing, huddled together around a cooking fire, but there were no gestures, no signs of speech. All heads were bowed, all eyes on a small, flat, gray box that lay on the ground in their center.

“So Loki came up behind Thummaz, and struck him on the head,” the voice was saying. “He fell, and Tiw stepped forward with a war-axe, to hew…”

“That voice must be a giant’s child, Midgarder-sized,” Gar said quickly.

“Or a dwarf’s,” Herkimer responded.

They had meant well, but not quickly enough. Alea had heard the description, and felt a bit queasy. The speaker was making the tale far more detailed than Gar had.

In the picture, an overseer started toward the group of slaves. One of them looked up, spoke a single word, and a hand snaked out to make the radio disappear as the whole group burst into conversation.

“How did they get a radio?” Gar asked, staring.

“It has been three months since we visited the giants,” Alea reminded him.

“Shortly after your visit, the giants and dwarves began to discuss the plan by radio,” Herkimer told them. “It took me a while to decipher their code, to realize that a ‘toe of Thummaz’ was a slave and a ‘talisman’ was a radio receiver—but decipher it I did. The dwarves manufactured hundreds of receivers very quickly—apparently a much easier task than a transceiver—and gave some to merchants to take to the giants, but found ways to give others to slaves all along the western border of Midgard. They passed from hand to hand. Within a year, I suspect there will be at least one in every village.”

“Thus it has begun,” Gar said quietly.

“What? The peace between the three nations that your stories are supposed to bring us?” Alea rounded on him. “You’re foolish if you think that! At the most, the giants and the dwarves may manage to steal most of the slaves, but there will be more born, and more! Besides, their raids will only make the Midgarders’ hate burn hotter. They will set their minds to discovering new weapons and new strategies for fighting the giants, you may be sure of that! Then as dwarves and giants are killed in the fighting, they will begin to hate, too!”

“Dwarves and giants have always died fighting Midgarders,” Gar reminded her. “If they die in raids rather than in defense, they will at least be able to understand why. Then, when the Midgarders discover that enslaving new people draws giant raiding parties, they will finally begin to exile all instead of enslaving some. Slavery will die out, though it will take twenty years or more. Gradually, they will learn to do their own work, and will have less time to spare for raiding.”

“But they will hate more than ever!”

“Yes.” Gar nodded heavily. “That will take two or three generations of telling new tales to eradicate—of tales, and of trading with the North Country for the ores and plants and dwarf-made goods that they can’t find in Midgard.”

“They have always gained such things, by raiding! Oh…” Alea frowned, turning her gaze away, thinking. “You really believe the Midgarders will stop raiding, don’t you?”

“They will be too busy defending against attacks by the giants and dwarves,” Gar agreed, “and within twenty years, they’ll have a new enemy, too.”

“A new enemy?” Alea looked up, frowning. Then her face cleared. “Of course! We have shown the North Country how to unite, haven’t we?”

“Yes, we have.” Gar’s eyes glowed at her. “The bandit women will never forget how the giants have helped them regain their self-respect, protecting them against their menfolk until the men learn to treat them as the giants treat their women. The mothers will tell that to their sons and daughters, and tell them the stories of Freya and Dumi and Thummaz…”

“And the children will grow up to think the giants and dwarves are their friends!” Alea cried.

Gar grinned, nodding. “Midgard may take a century or more to learn tolerance, but the separate limbs of Thummaz will be gathered in the North Country, and breathe new life into a new people who value all their offspring, no matter their size. Eventually, those stories will be told in Midgard, too—they will begin in Freya’s temples, I think. Give it enough time, and even Midgarders will begin to think of giants and dwarves as friends.”

“But will the other nations be ready to befriend them?” Alea countered.

“If they tell the tales we’ve left them and make up as many new ones as I think they will—yes.”

Alea leaped up. “Come! I want to go out and see if the world has changed already!”

Gar laughed, sharing her delight, and followed her back down the ramp.

The day had waned as they watched history being made in the big picture aboard the ship. They came out into moonlight and night, with insects shrilling all about them and the cool breeze filling the land with the odors of living.

Alea drew them in, breathing deeply. “It’s in the air already, new life and new ways!” she cried. “We must go out to help it be born!”

Gar saddened. “If you must, then of course you must. But I must go.”

Alea whirled, staring at him, feeling betrayed, and deeply. “Go? But why?”

“I’m a catalyst,” Gar explained, “something that starts a change but can’t really be a part of it. You can—this is your world—but I cannot.”

Alea searched his face, not understanding.

“What would I do if I stayed?” Gar asked with a touch of impatience. “Lead a band of giants? Why should they listen to my orders? Why should the dwarves? Oh, I could form an army of bandits, but what good would that do? They will manage their own armies without me, and I wish to bring less death, not more. No, your people can do all that needs to be done by themselves. They have no need of me. There’s nothing more I can do here.”

Alea caught the emphasis on the word. She repeated it with a hollow sound. “Here?”

“Out there, I can still do some good.” Gar looked up; sweeping a hand to take in all the sky. “There, where humanity has settled on sixty-odd worlds that we know about, and dozens more that we don’t. There are people living in oppression, being ground down so brutally that you would scarcely recognize them as human. There’s nothing more I can do here that you can’t do yourselves, but on another world, under another sun, there is work for me indeed.”

“But what will happen here?” Alea cried.

“The same things that will happen if I stay,” Gar told her. “It will take a hundred years or more with me or without me. I might save a few more lives, speed up the transformation by a dozen years—but I also might not. No, Alea, my work here is done.” The bleakness came to his face again as he said it.

That same emptiness settled in Alea’s heart. “And me?” she demanded. “What will happen to me? Will you leave me to become some bandit’s woman whether I want to or not, or to go to Saret or Garlon and live on their charity for the rest of my life, like a poor relation?”

Gar looked deeply into her eyes and said, “Wherever you go, you will rise to lead your people. You know how to fight now, so no bandit will be able to make you his property without more battle than he is willing to undergo. The dwarves would be glad of your strength, and you know it, and the giants would welcome you as a comrade, now that Gorlan and his kin have done so. You are an exceptional woman, Alea, a rare and remarkable human being, and no matter where you go, people will treasure you.”

His eyes glowed as he said it, and she could almost have believed that his mind was reaching out to touch hers. She stood mute, staring back at him, trying to deny the words he said, but feeling a flood of delight and gratitude to hear them spoken.

Finally she could speak again. “People. Maybe people. But can there be one person, one man alone who could treasure me, delight in my presence, cherish me?”

“It may happen,” Gar told her, “now.”

Her mind screamed, It already has, but she buried the words quickly in the darkest recesses of her heart and masked them with a bitter tone.

“It also may not! If you can’t do any good here, then neither can I! I haven’t belonged here since I turned fifteen and grew taller than the boys! I haven’t felt at home since then, not anywhere but in my parents’ house, and not even there, now that they’re dead!” She remembered the last sight of her old home and shuddered at what Birin Wentod had done to it. In a lower voice, she said, “I have no home anymore.”

Gar stared at her.

But Alea stood, feeling numb, listening to her own words echo inside her, and knew that she had finally acknowledged something that she had known as true for months, but had striven to deny.

Gar saw that recognition in her eyes and reached out a hand, smiling gently. But he didn’t even try to touch, only swept that hand back up toward the interior of the ship and said, “You have a new home, though, if you wish to take it.”

Alea stood frozen, unable to believe the fantastic good fortune that opened out before her. Her soul shied from it, she found that she feared the happiness it offered, the tearing away of all she had ever known and loved…

But that had been torn away already. “Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, I want to go with you.”

Gar’s eyes shone, and he took a step toward her, arms open in welcome.

She still stood like a statue, unable to take the answering step into his arms, the old dread clamoring within her. Be still, she told it furiously. She had nothing to fear that way now, and she knew it. There really was something wrong with him when it came to sex, but it was in his mind, and whatever it was, it kept her safe while she was with him—and she had developed an abhorrence for her own people, strengthened by her awareness that many, many Midgarders would want to use her as a target for revenge, once they knew how she had helped Gar turn their world upside down.

Did she really want to be safe that way? From him? For now, yes—and “for now” was all that mattered.

Still, she stood where she was, didn’t reach out, but said, “I’ll come. No matter where you’re going or what you’re doing, it has to be a better life than this.”

Now it was Gar who was struggling not to show delight, but she saw it in him, and her heart sang.

“I’m going to the stars,” he warned her. “You may not ever be able to come back.”

“I don’t intend to come back,” she said, trembling. “There will be danger,” Gar cautioned, “as great as any you’ve ever known here, possibly greater. There will be hunger and thirst, perhaps even torture. But if we live, we’ll free other people who have been ground down as badly as you were, perhaps worse.”

“It’s worth the chance,” she said, and knew she’d regret it someday. “How can it be worse? This world has become a torment for me already.” Worse, without you in it, she thought, but kept the words from her tongue and hoped he’d meant what he said, that he wouldn’t read her mind. But the thought of freeing other slaves fired her imagination, and she trembled as much with excitement as with fear.

“Don’t you dare,” she whispered, “don’t you dare try to go away and leave me here.”

Magnus grinned widely and said, “Now, that would be very foolish of me indeed.”

“Separate bedrooms,” she said, a touch of her old fear rising.

“Definitely,” Magnus agreed, “and separate sitting rooms, too. But we can meet in the lounge when you want to.”

“And you’ll have to keep teaching me how to fight!” Alea warned him.

“Oh, yes,” Magnus said softly, “I surely will.”

Alea stared at him, her only real friend, and wondered if he would ever be anything more, if she would ever want him to be anything more. He raised his arms again in welcome, and finally she managed to walk.

She walked right around him and on up the ramp, snapping, “What are you waiting for, then? If we’re going to leave this world, let’s leave!”

She was almost to the top of the ramp before she heard his answer, coming up behind her, filled with suppressed delight: “Yes. Let’s go.”

Alea stepped back into the wondrous, luxurious room, Gar stepped in behind her. Something whirred as the ramp slid up to close the doorway. She kicked off her boots, jammed her feet into her slippers, and marched across the thick yielding carpet to sit in her chair as though by right, like a queen on her throne. Gar sat opposite her and said quietly, “Lift off, Herkimer.”

“Lifting,” the disembodied voice said, and Alea stared at the picture before her, scarcely able to believe her eyes, as the trees grew smaller and smaller and the tundra swept in all about them, then shrank away to an expanse of silver in the moonlight with patches of darkness about it that were forest. She was barely able to see little lights that she knew must be villages before mist filled the screen. But it too dwindled, darkness began to show around the edges, darkness that swept in to fill more and more of the picture until the world was only a cloud-streaked ball again, and Alea knew with a certainty she couldn’t have explained that the great golden ship had risen into the sky and beyond it, to bear her away to her dreams.