Present Tense

47

LUNCH HAD BEEN BAD ENOUGH, BECAUSE EVERYONE HAD WANTED TO talk about the war news—rumors were floating around Greyfriars that Passchendaele had fallen—but whenever anyone had mentioned it, someone else had changed the subject. Mustn't upset our hero in case he starts weeping!

That had been bad enough, but after Alice and Exeter departed on the bikes, Smedley found himself alone with Ginger Jones and Mrs. Bodgley, the three of them fighting their way through conversational swamps—nothing safe to take a stand on, nothing safe to talk about.

He went outside to try gardening, not that he could do much good. Black Dog really hounded him then. His hand hurt. His leg throbbed. He thought of challenging Ginger to a game of one-handed croquet, and that brought on visions of one-handed golf, one-handed grouse shooting, one-handed cricket, and one-handed loving ... as if he would ever find a gal interested in a cripple. One-handed car driving?

He went for a walk, but it did no good.

He came back to the Dower House, flopped down on one of the garden benches, and wondered why he had ever been crazy enough to let himself become involved in Exeter's affairs and how he was going to extricate himself. There was no decent alternative in sight, either, just the family mausoleum in Chichester. The last meeting with the guv'nor had ended in both of them yelling and Julian sobbing at the same time. Thousands of aunts. Sunday was his birthday....

"Cut it out!” said a voice.

He whipped his head around and saw that Ginger Jones was sitting in a deck chair under a tree. He had a newspaper spread over his chest, as if he had been napping under it and just pulled it down.

"Beg pardon?"

The old man's glasses flashed in the sun. “You were never a moper, Julian Smedley. Don't be one now!"

"I'm not moping.” Smedley turned away.

"It's just another stage,” Ginger said. “I've seen dozens like you these last couple of years.” There was a rustle of paper and a grunt as he heaved himself out of the deck chair. “At first you're so relieved to be out of it that you don't care what it cost.” His voice came closer. “Then you begin to realize that you have the rest of your life to live and you are not as other men. You think it isn't fair. Of course it isn't fair.” He was right behind Smedley now.

"I'll try to do better next term, sir."

He might as well have saved his breath.

"I've seen dozens, I say! Lots of them would be delighted to give you a hand in exchange for what they've lost. Lungs, eyes, both legs ... There's one chap who was a fairly close chum of yours—I won't tell you his name—and he looks absolutely splendid. It's just that he isn't a real man anymore, at least not as he sees it. Care to swop with him?"

"Why don't you go and help Mrs. Bodgley knit some warm woolly undies for Our Brave Fighting Men?"

"Because I'd rather stay here and carp at you. I'm telling you that you were never a whiner and you won't be in future. It's just a stage. It will pass. Soon the real Julian Smedley will surface again."

"I really can't tell you how much I look forward to that."

"And then you will start to do what we all have to do, which is play the cards we are dealt. I should have had Exeter give you this lecture. He's better at it than I am. He says he will get you to Nextdoor if you want to go."

"What!?"

Ginger shuffled to the other bench and sat down, moving as if his back hurt. “I asked him before lunch. He'll do anything for you, Captain, because of what you did at Staffles. If Nextdoor's what you want, he says, then he'll help. He thinks you would do well there. The Service will take you at his word, he thinks. But is that really what you want?"

Smedley was, for a moment, speechless. Then, “Do you believe him?"

"Yes, I do. Don't you?"

"I don't know. It all fits ... but it's fantasy, Ginger! Ravings! Opium dreams."

"I believe him."

"You're not just saying that to cheer me up?"

Jones shook his head. “You knew him when he was a caterpillar. You were chrysalises together and now you're both butterflies. You know him as well as anyone will ever know him. You shared adolescence. You will never know any man better than you know him. Is there anyone, anyone at all, whose word you would take over the word of Edward Exeter?"

Smedley considered the question seriously. He had to. After a while he said, “Probably not."

"Me too. Now come indoors with me, because I want to take a look at that leg of yours. Have you changed the bandages today?"

The gashes were swollen and inflamed. Ginger wanted to phone for a doctor and only agreed not to when Smedley promised to do so the next day if things got any worse.

Then they went downstairs for tea.

It was cooler in the sitting room than in the garden, Mrs. Bodgley said, because it faced east. Smedley thought it gloomy, unlived-in, lonesome. The crumpets were from Thorndyke's, Mrs. Bodgley said, and Wilfred was an even better baker than his grandfather had been, although of course nobody would ever tell the old man so. The jam, Mrs. Bodgley said, had come from the county craft fair and she thought it must be Mrs. Haddock's recipe. The gentlemen agreed it was excellent jam.

Mrs. Bodgley then narrated several tales of events that had happened when she was in India. The viceroy's court in New Delhi, some jolly times up in the hills in Simla. Something about her visit to Borneo ... the Raffles Hotel in Singapore...

The Empire on which the sun never sets.

Smedley laughed at the jokes, taking his cue from Ginger.

But his mind was on Nextdoor, a whole new world. Civilizing the natives, a worthy cause. His missing hand wouldn't matter there, because he would be Tyika Smedley and have house servants. The war would never be mentioned. He would dress for dinner and the entyikank would wear long gowns. He would do good for the people. He would live forever. He would gain mana and get his hand back.

Dream.

Gravel scrunched.

A car?

Mrs. Bodgley frowned. “That sounds like a car."

Inexplicably, the muscles in Smedley's abdomen all tightened up like wire cables. He remembered the bombardment at Verdun.

The doorbell jangled.

Mrs. Bodgley rose. “I am not expecting visitors. Do you wish me to introduce you by an assumed name, Captain Smedley?"

"No,” he said. “If that is necessary, then it will do no good."

Which made no sense, but his hostess nodded her chins and sailed from the room. He glanced at Ginger, who was scratching his beard, light reflecting inscrutably on his pince-nez. Neither of them spoke.

Voices in the hall...

"...the year Gilbert was elected chairman,” Mrs. Bodgley was booming. “I was probably more nervous than you were!"

They both rose to their feet as she cruised in again, followed by a man. A man with fishy, protuberant eyes—eyes with a jubilant gleam in them.

"Of course the captain and I have met.” He extended his left hand. “And Mr. Jones! Or may I call you Ginger now, as we always did before, behind your back?"

"If I may call you Short Stringer, as we always did behind your back. Oh, blast!” Ginger's pince-nez fell to the floor.

Stringer reached it before he did, wiped it on his sleeve, and returned it. “Yes, thank you, tea would be wonderful. Driving is dusty work."

Smedley felt ill.

Ginger had lost the ruddy glow that the sunny afternoon had given him. He pawed at his beard.

Mrs. Bodgley seemed quite unconcerned, happy to welcome an old acquaintance, one of her uncountable honorary godchildren. Perhaps she really was unconcerned—had anyone ever given her the Staffles part of the story? Did she realize how impossible this situation was, how deadly? She went to the china cabinet with a hesitant glance at the open door. “Do be seated, please, all of you. Your friend...?"

"I'm sure she will find us,” Stringer said blandly, selecting a chair. The gleam was back in his eyes again. His flannels and blazer were immaculate, but he seemed weary—as he should if he had driven across the width of England.

"Just freshening up,” Mrs. Bodgley murmured quietly. “One lump or two, Mr. Stringer? Or would you rather I also called you Short?"

"Not unless you wish to be challenged to pistols at dawn. My friends all call me Nat. Only a few old Fallovians call me Shorty. Captain Smedley, I fancy, calls me an impossible coincidence."

"I might call you other things were Mrs. Bodgley not present,” Smedley said, crossing his legs. His fist was clenched. Both fists were clenched. He consciously relaxed the visible one. The other he could do nothing about.

A teacup rattled on its saucer. He had shocked Mrs. Bodgley. Alerted to the conflict, she glanced from face to face in bewilderment.

"Nothing to what we were calling you two nights ago,” Stringer said with asperity. “That was hardly pukka, what you did, Captain Smedley."

"You were long past due for a fire drill. Your presence here demonstrates that my suspicions were well-founded.” Julian toyed with the idea of blacking one of those piscine eyes, and it tasted good. He was shaking, but that was only anger and all right.

"Well-founded but misdirected. Ah!"

A woman marched into the room and stopped, raking it with a glower like a burst of fire from a Hun machine-gun nest. She was tall, angular, unattractive. She wore a cheap-looking brown dress and carried a cumbersome handbag. Her hair was bound high in a bun. Smedley had last seen her behind a desk outside Stringer's office at Staffles.

The men started to rise again. Mrs. Bodgley said, “Ah, there you are. May I intro—"

"Where is she?” Miss Pimm demanded harshly. “Where is Alice Prescott? Is she with him?” She glared at Smedley.

He had nodded before he realized.

"Who?” Ginger said loudly.

She did not look at him, as if his effort to deceive was beneath contempt. “The Opposition has a mark on Alice Prescott, has had for the last three years. She went to Harrow Hill with him?"

Mrs. Bodgley made a choking noise and sank back in her chair.

"Where?” Ginger said.

"Oh, don't be childish!” Miss Pimm snapped. “I can tell that Exeter is a few miles southwest of us. We have a mark on him! I assume he went to Harrow Hill to consult the presence again. If his cousin is with him, then he is in deadly danger."

"How do we know,” Smedley's voice said from where he was sitting, “that you are not the Opposition?"

"You don't. But it makes no difference. You will cooperate anyway."

"Mana!” Ginger said, and sat down hurriedly. “You have this mana he talks about!"

She looked at him seriously for the first time. She was the only one standing; the others sat and stared like children in a classroom.

"Yes, I am with Head Office, although you will have to take my word for that."

"I don't think I understand,” Mrs. Bodgley muttered faintly. Had her self-possession ever failed her before? “Will you sit down and have a cup of tea, Miss Pimm?"

"No. There is no time. Mr. Stringer, we must hurry."

The famous surgeon sighed and drained his cup. He muttered, “You're sacked!” half under his breath.

Smedley and Ginger exchanged glances of panic.

"Perhaps you could explain?” Mrs. Bodgley said with an effort.

Miss Pimm slung the strap of her bag over her shoulder. “I repeat, there is no time. Nine years ago, I promised Cameron Exeter that I would guard his son. I almost failed. The boy is back again, and I still have some residual obligations to fulfil. I don't believe the rest of you are in any danger now. I shall intercept Exeter before he returns here. Even if the agent the Opposition has sent is a vindictive type, he will have no reason to vent his spite on you. Come, Stringer!"

"Wait!” Smedley barked. “What exactly are you planning to do?"

She stopped in the doorway and turned as if to give battle. “I am going to do what I was planning to do at Staffles before you stuck your oar in and disrupted everything, Captain Smedley. It was your blundering intervention that alerted the Opposition."

"The Blighters, you mean?"

"We sometimes call them that. Stringer?"

"Exeter says he will never go back!” Smedley shouted.

"I fail to see that it is any business of yours."

"I do. I want to go."

He had said it. He was shocked to hear it.

But he had said it, so he must mean it.

With the reluctance of a frozen pond melting, the formidable Miss Pimm's pale lips thinned into a faint hint of a smile. “After all the trouble you have caused me, you demand favors? Talk about brass! I know you are a man of initiative and fast decisions, Captain Smedley, but do you know what is involved? Do you understand that it means considerable danger and to all intents and purposes is irrevocable? It means loss of family and home and friends. It is a leap beyond the bounds of imagination."

He nodded. His heart was beating a mad tattoo. Damn Chichester and the old man! Damn the aunts! Sunday was his birthday—twenty-one, key of the door. He smiled, to see if he still could. “Just show me."

"You are ready to come now? Immediately?"

"Yes."

"Then you impress. Very well. Come along and we'll see if it is possible. I make no promises.” Miss Pimm summoned Stringer with a flick of her head and stalked from the room.

Everyone stood up again.

"La Belle Dame Sans Merci!” the surgeon growled, following her. “Thanks awfully for the tea, dear lady. I have so much enjoyed our long chat this afternoon. Don't bother to see us out. We really must do this more often. Get the lead out, Captain! She won't wait for you.” He disappeared into the hallway.

Smedley was shivering like a dog in the starting gate. He looked to the others. “Anyone else feeling suicidal this afternoon?"

Neither had any close family. They were both aging. Ginger at least believed the tales of Elfenland—Smedley wasn't sure if Mrs. Bodgley did. Get away from the war! Live forever! Be restored to youth and health! How could anyone refuse the chance, no matter how long the odds?

Ginger removed his pince-nez and rubbed it vigorously on his sleeve. Then he replaced it and sighed. “No. I think not. Not me."

Outside, the car engine rumbled into life.

"Mrs. Bodgley?"

The lady was pale. She bit her lip. Her hesitation was longer, but then she shook her head. “No. At my age ... no. My memories are here."

"Then I must run. Thank you, Mrs. B. Thank you both for ... everything.” Oh, God! His eyes were flooding. He grabbed her and kissed her cheek. He clutched Ginger's outstretched hand awkwardly and pumped it, thumping the man's shoulder with his stump.

"Bye!” he shouted, and ran out of the room. He blundered into the umbrella stand, ricocheted off it, raced along the hall and out the front door. The great silver Rolls was just starting to move along the driveway. He sprinted after it, and a door swung open for him.

48

THE ROAD WAS NARROW BETWEEN TALL HEDGES. IT WAS CANOPIED by branches of great trees and full of fragrant green coolness. But it was steep. Alice gasped a final, “Whoof!” and gave up. She put her foot down and wiped her forehead.

"From here I walk!” she said. “How much farther?"

Edward halted at her side. “Just around this corner, I think."

She dismounted, pulled her skirts clear, and began to push the bike.

He took it from her, pushing both. “Look on the bright side. We can freewheel on the way back!” He was grinning, quite unwinded. He was in much better shape than she was.

"Mmph! Well, you can do the talking on the way up. You have never told me how you found Olympus."

"There isn't much to tell. You've heard all the exciting bits. How far had I got? Karzon? Well, he dumped us on a band of Tinkerfolk—"

"Why? I mean, I thought he was the Man, and Zath was one of his."

"Ah! Zath's supposed to be, but he hasn't been for quite a while. There had never been an actual god of death before him. Who would want to be? There are several fictitious deities like that, just a temple or shrine with no stranger behind them. People worship there just the same. In every case, a member of the Pentatheon will claim suzerainty, so not all the mana is lost. I think Death was merely an abstract notion until some minion of Karzon's asked for the title and Karzon let him take it. What his real name was, I don't know and it doesn't matter.

"Anyway, Karzon had made a bad mistake. Zath founded his own cult, bestowed the Black Scriptures on it, sent out the reapers. Human sacrifice is an enormously potent source of mana. Even though the murders were not committed on his node, he gained power from every death. By the time the Pentatheon realized what he was up to—and that probably took half a century or so—none of them dared challenge him."

"They couldn't combine against him?"

Edward guffawed. “Combine? After thousands of years of playing the Great Game? No, they can't think like that. They let Zath continue on his jolly way, all trying to get on his team. About fifty years ago, he arranged for a new temple in Tharg, with himself as co-deity. The Five, in effect, have become six."

"I think I get the gist. So Karzon supports the Liberator and the Filoby Testament!"

"Enthusiastically! He daren't let Zath know that, of course. He was hoping that little old me would achieve what all the gods of the world were scared to try. Well, I won't!"

Alice groaned. They had rounded the corner. The road ahead was straight—and straight up.

"Oh, I remember this bit,” Edward said. “The gate's at the top."

"I hope my heart will stand it. Do you think we ought to be roped?"

They began to climb. Edward continued to push both bikes, yet he still had enough wind to talk.

"Karzon shipped us out of the city, disguised as Tinkerfolk. They're very much like our Gypsies, only more primitive, because the whole culture is more primitive. They wander all over the Vales, trading, stealing, spying. They're all blond as Scandinavians. It's said they abandon any baby who isn't, in the belief that it must be a half-breed. I wouldn't put it past them. Dosh was borderline, only just blond enough. He probably had a rough childhood because of that.

"By the time I woke up, he'd already been in a fight. He'd killed one, wounded three others, and was just about a goner from lack of blood himself. I still had some of the mana the army had given me, and I used it to revive him instead of curing my own headache, which at the time felt very altruistic, believe me! They were a rough-and-ready bunch of scoundrels."

Obviously! Alice had no breath to comment.

Edward chuckled. “But I had an interesting summer, that year! We crossed a pass into Sitalvale, then another into Thovale, and eventually wandered over into Randorvale. I passed very close to Olympus, although of course I didn't know that, and in any case Karzon's warning to stay away from it made good sense. Dosh disappeared in Thovale. By killing a man of the tribe, he'd acquired a wife, and she was a genuine, steam-powered firecat. Or perhaps it was just the primitive living conditions he didn't like. I don't know where he went, but I'm sure Dosh will survive. He's incredible."

"How?” She panted. Running with Gypsies! She wondered what Julian Smedley would think of this confession if he knew. Or the masters at Fallow.

"Just tough! All the Tinkerfolk are, but he could out-tough most of them any day. As for morals...” Edward fell silent for a dozen paces, and apparently decided not to discuss morals. “At first they treated me as a baby, but they had accepted gold and sworn oaths to cherish me, and they kept their word. They didn't know the man who had hired them was Karzon, but they knew he was somebody to fear. I wanted to earn my keep, so I became an expert in livestock trading. Every vale seems to have a different collection of herdbeasts, none of which look anything like our horses and cattle, but they're all traded in much the same way. Charisma came in very useful there, and I cheated outrageously—a stranger can be so plausible! I could extract more money for a worn-out useless runt than even old Birfair himself could, or buy a champion for less. Eventually they came to accept me as useful, a real man."

Alice decided that her cousin had depths she had not suspected and would prefer not to know about. Julian's hair would turn white if he heard this, an English gentleman going to the dogs, becoming a vagrant huckster.

"By autumn, though, I'd had enough of rags and dirt and hunger. Ysian was pining. We were in Lappinvale by then, which at the moment is a Thargian colony. And one day I saw a man I knew."

Alice stopped to catch her breath. He looked at her with concern.

"I'm all right,” she said. “What man?"

"You can wait here while I go and see Mr. Goodfellow."

She shook her head. She wouldn't mind being winded were Edward not so confoundedly cool looking and relaxed. He turned to stare up at the hill ahead, and then peered around at the distance they had come, but his mind was away on another world. He smiled in secret amusement.

"I had never met him, but I had been told of him. In the higher, cooler vales, they have a riding beast they call ... Well, there are a lot of different names for it. It's the Rolls-Royce of Nextdoor. It's enormous, big as a rhino. It's pretty much a mammal, but it looks like a cross between a stegosaurus—that's one of the dinosaurs in The Lost World with a row of bony plates down the middle of its back.... It's a bit like that and also like a Chinese dragon. It has scales, yet it's warm-blooded. It eats grass, and it's a wonderful steed—gentle, intelligent, willing, the only thing better than a terrestrial horse. I thought of them as dragons, so that name will do.

"One day I saw a herd of them just outside a village we had been cadging off. There were tents there, and I guessed soon enough that this was the encampment of a man who traded in them. I sauntered over to take a closer look.

"I got shouted at, of course. I was a tinker. I had bleached hair and blue eyes and my clothes were mostly holes held together by hope. I would have made a scarecrow look like a lord. The wranglers tried to chase me away, because I must be a thief and a ne'er-do-well. Most of them had a little gold circle in their left earlobe, and they all wore black turbans. That told me this was the outfit Eleal had described. Ready?"

"Think so.” She began plodding again. He sauntered along at her side, still pushing a bike with each hand.

"So I withdrew to a safe distance and squatted down by some bushes and waited. After an hour or two, the man I wanted came marching back from the village. He was very big, and he had an enormous copper-colored beard. You know the legend of the sailor who has a girl in every port? Well, this fellow has one in every village.... I assume that's where he'd been, but perhaps I'm doing him an injustice. He may have been there on business. I doubt it. Anyway, I cut him off before he reached his tents.

"He barked an obscenity and tried to go round me.

"I said, ‘T'lin Dragontrader? We almost met, once.’ That stopped him!

"He scowled at me and said something I won't repeat.

"I said, ‘How are things with the Service these days?'

"He went back two steps with his eyes almost popping out of his head. I knew that he was an agent of the Service, you see, because Eleal had told me. He's a native, not a stranger, and he spies for the political branch. He threw some sort of password at me then—'The grass grows softer when the rain is cool,’ or some such gibberish.

"I said, ‘Frightfully sorry, but I don't know the answer.’ I gave him another code that I'd been told once. He recognized it, although he didn't know the answer, because it was for the religious branch and he's political. In the end I just said, ‘I am D'ward Liberator.'

"I thought he was going to faint. We sat down beside the bushes, and we had a long chat. He admitted that the Service was hunting for me—they'd heard of the fall of Lemod, too, of course, and realized I was still alive. He knew they were not the only ones after me. I asked him to pass the word. Then I remembered Ysian and decided that being a dragon trader would be nicer than being a tinker. So I informed T'lin that he had just acquired two more hands.

"He didn't argue, actually. He's a very loyal follower of the Undivided—a likable rogue, very shrewd. I went and got Ysian. Old Birfair and the gang were genuinely sorry to lose us, and I had to write a note to Karzon, testifying that they had fulfilled their side of the bargain. I doubt if any of them could read, but they were grateful for the insurance. Then we went to T'lin's camp and put on some respectable clothes and became dragon traders. Look out."

They moved to the side of the road as a car came growling up the hill to pass them. It was a bright red roadster, puffing stinking clouds of exhaust. The driver wore goggles and a sporty cap.

"May his radiator boil and his tires all burst!” Edward said cheerfully as he strode out again. “Only a real bounder would drive a motor that color. We wandered around the Vales a bit, and settled down in little Mapvale for the winter. By then I'd been almost two years on Nextdoor and was getting pretty desperate, but we got no word back from Olympus before the passes closed. I loved the dragons, though."

They walked for a while in silence. They were past the worst. The gate must be just around the corner, set back in the hedge, probably.

"Did you meet Eleal again?"

"No, never. T'lin had changed his schedule, and he had not run into the troupe since the reaper almost got him in Sussvale. He thought they were still in business."

"And Olympus?"

"Ah! One morning, early in the spring, I was exercising a couple of bulls—boars—stallions? What the deuce do you call a male dragon in English? Anyway, I ran into a chappie riding a beautiful young female, of the color they call Osby slate. Of course we stopped to admire each other's stock, and of course I asked him if he would like to sell or trade.

"He was a lanky, rangy youngster with sandy hair and a notably big nose. Well fitted out. He admitted he would consider an offer...."

Something funny was coming, judging by the grin.

"We must have stood there and haggled for two solid hours. I tried every trick I knew. I really wanted that filly! I blew my charisma to white heat. I argued and wheedled. I kept going up and up, and he wouldn't come down one copper mark. I was completely flummoxed. And finally he held out a hand and drawled in perfect English, ‘I don't believe I want to part with her after all, old man. I'm Jumbo Watson. I was a chum of your father's.’”

Alice chuckled at Edward's infectious glee. “Nicely done?"

"Oh, beautifully! I wanted to melt and soak into the sand.” He laughed aloud. “You should hear Jumbo tell the story! He puts on this incredible Tinkerfolk accent, although we'd been speaking Joalian. I have died a thousand deaths at dinner tables over that episode. But that's Jumbo."

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing. I took to him right away. We got along like a house on fire. We rode dragons over the ranges to Olympus, which was a corker of a trip at that time of year, and he was absolutely solid. He was gracious to Ysian, which is more than can be said of some.... He has the most marvelous dry humor, a regular brick.

"There you are—that's how I got to Olympus. It's a charming spot, very scenic, a little glen tucked away between Thovale, Narshvale, and Randorvale. Didn't dare stay more than four or five fort ... about a couple of months.” He fell silent for a moment, and then seemed to discard what he had been about to say. His smile had gone.

"I'd been two years on Nextdoor, and that was the first time I'd had any news of Home. I was horrified to hear that the war was still on and at the same time glad that I hadn't missed it all and would still be able to do my bit. I sat around for a few days, bringing them up to date on what I'd been doing and learning about the Service and so on. Then I politely asked for the first boat Home. That's when the wicket got sticky.

"The Service is badly split over the Liberator prophecies, you see, and always has been. The guv'nor had never gone for them. Once I got to Olympus and learned all the ins and outs of the business, then I was thoroughly against it, too. Break the chain and be done with it! Jumbo was pretty much leader of the anti faction, and I agreed with him wholeheartedly. Killing Zath would only lead to worse trouble. I wanted to come Home and enlist.

"Creighton, incidentally, had been one of the pro-Liberator group. In spite of what he told me, he came Home in 1914 specifically to make sure I crossed over on schedule. Much good it did him personally! But the pro-Liberator forces were in a majority, and they kept me dangling, on one pretext after another."

They were almost at the summit, and Alice decided she could cycle again. Before she could say so, she saw that Edward's mind was very far off.

"And what happened?"

"Mm? Oh, well, I did come back, didn't I? Eventually. And here I am. It's a beautiful day and I'm Home and I want to enjoy every minute of it."

She sensed evasion there and went after it—instinct, she thought, like a dog chasing anything that runs. “How, Edward? How did you come back?"

Long pause ... Then he shrugged. “That was Jumbo's doing, too. One day he turned up at the chapel where I was massaging the heathens’ souls for the Undivided and more or less said, ‘If you wait for a flag from those blokes on the Committee, you'll wait a thousand years. I can fix it up for you.’ He took me to another node and taught me a key to get me Home, and he swore that there would be people waiting at this end to help."

"What! You mean he deliberately dropped you on that battlefield in Flanders? He's the traitor you've been talking about! Jumbo tried to kill you?"

Edward nodded. He stared at the road ahead with eyes as hard and cold as sapphires. With a shock, she remembered that her young cousin could be dangerous. He was a sacker of cities.

"You see why I need to send word back?” he said. “And it may be worse than that, even. Five years ago, when the coming of the Liberator was almost due, the Service sent a couple of men Home to talk to the guv'nor, to see if he still felt the same way about matters. They wanted to meet me, too. I was sixteen by then, and they thought they should be allowed to inspect me. The guv'nor forbade that, although the only one who ever learned his reaction was Soapy Maclean. Jumbo came straight to England. Soapy went to Africa."

She took her bike from him. “And died at Nyagatha!"

Again Edward nodded. “The Blighters roused the Meru outlaws. But who tipped off the Blighters? Who told them where Cameron Exeter was? I think that must have been Jumbo, too. I think he was working for the Chamber even then. He killed our—"

She looked where he was looking. They had come to the gate. It was no farmer's gate. It was a steel gate, with a padlock. It bore a sign that said, WAR DEPARTMENT and POSITIVELY NO ADMITTANCE EXCEPT ON HIS MAJESTY'S SERVICE and other stern things. Beyond it, a freshly paved road climbed across the field to the crest of the hill—once, she assumed, crowned with a copse of oaks and a few immemorially ancient standing stones. Now it was surrounded by yet another fence and a gate with a sentry box. The woods had gone. In their place was an antiaircraft battery, a twentieth-century obscenity of iron sheds and repulsive ordnance.

"Puck!” Edward said with cold fury. “They've despoiled his grove! It's all gone. They drove him away."

First Stonehenge, now this. Another of the roads back to Nextdoor had just closed. But obviously that was not what was distressing him. He had just stumbled on a friend's grave.

Alice fumbled for words of comfort. “He had lived beyond his time, Edward. All things pass."

"But he was such a likable old ruin! Harmless! He helped me—a kid who meant nothing to him at all but was in serious trouble. He wouldn't have hurt a fly!"

"On the contrary, Mr. Exeter,” said a voice from the other side of the road, “he was a meddler, and for that he had to pay."

49

IT WAS THE MOTORIST WHOM EDWARD HAD CALLED A BOUNDER. HE was short and thick, standing in the weedy grass of the verge, half hidden in the hedge. He wore his floppy cap at a cocky angle above a haircut short enough to be called a shave; his brown tweed suit looked absurdly hot for the weather. He had removed his goggles. Despite his breadth, his features were not flabby. They were hard, and his eyes were a peculiar shade of violet.

He was smiling and he had his hands in his pockets, yet Alice had an inexplicable feeling that he was pointing a gun at her.

"Should I know you?” Edward drawled.

"If you believe in knowing your enemy. I have been waiting for this meeting for a long time, Exeter. The prophecy has run out of mana at last."

Fighting to quench panic, Alice wondered why she did not turn around to face this threat. She had not moved her feet, and neither had Edward. They were both standing in an awkward, twisted position, holding their bikes; they had not moved their feet.

"You needn't worry about the prophecy,” Edward said calmly. “I will never go back. I will never become the Liberator. You have my word on it."

"Ah! The word of an English gentleman!” The bounder sighed dramatically. He ought to be an artesian well of perspiration in those tweeds on a day like this, but his face was pale and dry. “So you say now. Forgive my doubts. I had rather make sure.” She could not place his accent.

"Then let Miss Prescott leave. She is not involved in this."

"I think it will be neater to include both of you. Turn your bicycles around, please, and prepare to mount."

Alice did as she was bid, and so did Edward. Why had she not refused? Why did she not simply climb on the saddle and pedal away? Why didn't Edward? Of course the nasty red roadster was parked just over there, so the bounder could run them down, but why should they not at least try to make a break for it?

Rabbits hypnotized by snakes?

Oh, that was absurd!

Then why not just go? Why not just scarper?

"What are you going to do?” she demanded, and was disgusted by the shrillness in her voice.

"Very little.” The bounder shrugged his broad shoulders. “I've already done it, actually. I just have to say the word. An Army lorry is starting up the hill. You and Mr. Exeter are going to pedal down. You will pedal as hard as you can, both of you. When you reach that bend down there, you will cut the corner, over to the wrong side of the road."

"Humor him, darling,” Edward said. “He's funnier as Lady Hamilton, but that's on Tuesdays. His keeper gets Fridays off."

"Ah, the impeccably stiff upper lip!” the man agreed in the same dry tone. “Toujours le sang-froid! I estimate you will be doing between forty-four and forty-seven miles an hour when you stop. That is quite adequate to remove most of the rigidity from your ossiferous framework, if you will pardon the euphemism."

"Never,” Edward said. “I had better warn you, I suppose. You have overlooked something. The Testament is a self-fulfilling prophecy. Every time someone tries to break the chain, he just strengthens it!"

"A few more minutes,” the bounder said casually.

"You don't believe me? Then consider: If Zath had simply ignored the whole damned rigmarole, then nothing would have happened. But he tried to kill my father to prevent my being born. The attempt failed, and it alerted the guv'nor to the prophecy. The guv'nor left Nextdoor in case Zath tried again, but that meant he met the mater in New Zealand and got married and I transpired. If he'd stayed on Nextdoor, then any son he might have had would be a native, and harmless. Don't you see?"

"Ingenious. But not convincing."

Leave! Alice thought. Just perch on the saddle and pedal away. Freewheel sedately down the hill, staying safely on the left side of the road, and this whole insane conversation will fade away like moonbeams. Why did she not do that?

"It goes on and on.” Edward was still speaking quietly, but faster. “The massacre at Nyagatha was supposed to kill me, but it killed my parents instead. If my father had lived he would have told me the whole story and I would never have crossed over! I would have taken his advice. I worshipped him and would never have gone against his wishes. So you out-smarted yourselves again. Then you tried to kill me in Greyfriars, and the result of that was that I did cross over and the prophecy was fulfilled. If you'd left me alone, I'd have enlisted and probably died last year on the Somme!"

The bounder had barely moved since Alice first set eyes on him, but now he raised a hand to smother a yawn. “Sorry to drag it out like this. Another minute or so and you can be on your way."

"I'm warning you!” Edward said, louder. “The same thing happened in Thargvale. Zath tried so hard to snare me that he let the whole army escape, and me too. By trying to break the chain, you will only strengthen it. Don't, please! I'm on your side! I want out. I want my own life. I don't want this damned prophecy coiling around me like a serpent all the time. Just ignore it and it will go away. It will wither. I want to stay here on Earth and serve my King. I do not want to be the Liberator!"

"You won't. We are about to make quite sure of that."

"Then leave Miss Prescott out of it!"

The bounder chuckled, but his ugly purple eyes did not smile. “If you believed your theories, you would not ask that."

"Bystanders get hurt! That's why you should listen to me. You may get caught in the backlash yourself. Dozens died at Nyagatha, thousands at Lemod. I sail through unscathed, and the innocents get mowed down!"

"You won't sail through this time,” said the bounder. “Pedal as hard as you can and cut the corner at the bottom. No braking! It won't hurt."

"Let Alice go!” Edward shouted.

"You both go. Ready? Now!"

Alice swung up on the saddle and began to pedal as if her life depended on it. She was just trying to deceive the man. She would stop pedaling in a couple of minutes, as soon as she was safely away. They could freewheel almost all the way to Vicarsdown from here, and perhaps even have another cup of tea in the Tea Shoppe.

Edward went by her, head down, legs going like aeroplane propeller blades.

How dare he! Show-off brat! She forced her legs to move even faster. The wind was whistling by her. Never had she known such a sensation of speed. The hill unrolled below her like a death warrant. The hedges on either hand streaked past in green blurs. Wind caught her hat and snatched it away. Faster, faster! Harder, harder! Steeper, steeper! Edward was still gaining, his long legs giving him an unfair advantage, his jacket flailing behind him like Dracula's cloak.

She could no longer move her feet fast enough to do any good. Her hair was unravelling. Her eyes were full of icy tears, and she could hardly see. The bike hammered so hard she could barely hang on to the handlebars. The corner was rushing up at her.

Edward was there already. He leaned into the curve, cutting across to the inside—and vanished behind the hedge. She struggled to stay on her own side of the road, but at that speed she dare not. Despite all her efforts, she was turning to follow exactly where he had gone. The lorry leaped into view, growling up the hill, dead in her path, filling the road. Alongside it, cutting out to overtake it blind, came a huge silver-gray Rolls-Royce. There was no sign of Edward at all and she closed her eyes.

50

IN ONE CORNER OF THE BACK SEAT, MISS PIMM SNAPPED COMMANDS: “Faster! Cut this corner! Go faster!” Her voice was soft and yet it carried the authority of a sergeant major's. In the driver's seat, Stringer was howling in terror, but apparently doing exactly what she wanted, like a puppet on strings. The big car swung around the bends, trees and hedgerows streaming past in an impossible blur. Thank the gods there was no other traffic ... so far.

In the other corner of the back seat, Smedley had clenched his real fist until the nails dug into his palm, and he could not feel his imaginary one at all, just when he needed it. This was downright maniacal! A country lane like this was only safe at about twenty miles an hour, and they must be doing seventy at least. And uphill at that! The engine would boil. Even a Rolls made a din at this speed.

"Prepare to overtake!” Miss Pimm said. She seemed quite relaxed, holding her oversized handbag on her lap. “There is a lorry ahead."

God in heaven! What had got into the crazy old bat? She had been perfectly sane until about fifteen minutes ago. And then ... well, they had gone through Vicarsdown like a Sopwith Camel. A miracle they hadn't killed someone. When he had expostulated, she had told him to stuff a sock in it.

"Pull over—now!"

The Rolls seemed to tilt almost onto two wheels as it hurtled around the corner on the outside. The back of an Army lorry swelled instantly from nowhere to fill the gap from hedge to hedge. Stringer shrieked and somehow shot the Rolls into the slit on the right. Branches snapped and whipped along the coachwork.

"Stay on this side!"

Straight ahead! A cyclist! Smedley yelled, “Look out!” Stringer screamed at the top of his lungs. There was a momentary image of an impending disaster, a loud impact of metal against metal, and Edward Exeter was sitting alongside Mr. Stringer in the front. Then another! More noise ... something like a wheel whistled past the window ... and Alice Prescott was on the back seat between Smedley and Miss Pimm. “Stay on this side!” Miss Pimm repeated. A bright red roadster rushed straight at the windscreen, veered at the last second, missed the lorry by inches, and plunged headlong into the woods with a noise like an artillery barrage at close range. Smedley caught a glimpse of its wheels and chassis as it reared vertically, plastering itself against a tree. Then the Rolls was around the bend and humming up a long, straight hill on a peaceful, sunny afternoon.

"I think that went well, don't you?” Miss Pimm said, in the tones of one who had just pulled off a daring finesse in a game of auction bridge. “You may pull over to the left now, Mr. Stringer, and reduce speed."

Alice opened her eyes. Exeter said something in a harsh foreign tongue and twisted around to look at her. They were both brightly flushed and apparently out of breath. He studied Alice, then Smedley, and finally Miss Pimm.

"Is it legal to enter a car at that speed?” Smedley inquired weakly. His heart was doing a thousand revs. If he had been skeptical of magic before, he must certainly believe now. Those two had been outside, on bicycles, and boring straight into the lorry like howitzers and here they were quietly sitting...

"Mr. Stringer, why are you stopping?” Miss Pimm demanded sharply.

"I'm a doctor! There has been an accident. And, by heaven, the police are going to ask some—"

"Drive on! We need not worry about the law. Unfortunately, nobody was injured. The soldiers will discover that the other car had no driver, whatever they may have thought they saw before the crash. They will not be able to explain the bicycle debris either, but that is not our concern. Pray continue.” The class will now hand in its dictation.

"I'm alive?” Alice whispered.

"Only just!” Miss Pimm said. “I apologize for my tardy arrival and the unruly procedure."

Exeter squirmed around to kneel on the seat, leaning over the back. “I saw you at Staffles!"

"Being a guardian dragon? And now I am the deus ex machina."

His eyes gleamed with delight. “Dea, surely? And in machina, not ex?"

How could he possibly be capable of making jokes already? Alice was still paralyzed. Smedley had just discovered that he had bitten his tongue.

Miss Pimm smiled her barely visible, thin-lipped smile in appreciation. “At the moment I am going by the name of Miss Pimm."

"But when I was at Fallow, I used to address you as Jonathan Oldcastle, Esq?"

"You did indeed! Well done.” Move to the top of the class. “I don't suppose your handwriting has improved at all, has it?"

Exeter was grinning as if all this insanity were just enormous fun. “Unlikely. Colonel Creighton said you were a committee."

A faint spasm of annoyance crossed her face. “I was chairwoman."

"Was it the pillar-box? You had a spell on it?"

"No, Edward. It was your fountain pen. Turn left at the intersection, Mr. Stringer."

"You read my diary?"

"No. It was excessively uninteresting."

Exeter scowled and looked at Alice. “You all right?” He reached out a hand, but the car was too big for him to reach her.

She let out a long sigh. “Yes, I think so. I need an explanation!"

"We have time for that!” Miss Pimm adjusted her handbag on her lap. “The real credit goes to Mr. Stringer's brother, the brigadier. He recognized Edward. He guessed that whatever had happened was beyond the scope of normal military procedures and very gallantly took the risk of shipping him home, notifying—"

"Dumping the whole mess on me!” Stringer snarled, turning left at the intersection. “I will kill him! Where are we going?"

Nextdoor! Smedley thought. Olympus!

"Straight on until I say otherwise. I became aware of your cousin's return when he reached England, Miss Prescott. I placed a mark on him many years ago. It is not operative outside this world, and even here its range is limited. I investigated. I decided he was in no immediate danger. It took me a few days to make arrangements—"

"My secretary eloped with a sailor!” Stringer growled.

"Quite so. Love at first sight. The very morning I took up my new duties—"

"Excuse the interruption,” Exeter said softly. “But what do you do when you are not being my nursemaid?"

"Many things. I am with the organization you refer to as Head Office, of course. My portfolio is the British Imperial Government, excluding the Government of India. Mostly I burrow around Whitehall like an invisible mole, arranging this and that. For example, it was I who was responsible for your father being appointed D.O. at Nyagatha. That was an interesting challenge, as he was twenty-five years old, with thirty years’ experience."

She smiled her schoolmistress smile again—Smedley wondered what age she was. He realized that he could not tell. At times she seemed quite young, and at other times quite old. Dowdy and unattractive, she was yet lording it over all of them. Charismatic?

"We wanted to see if we could demonstrate the advantages of nondisruptive techniques in elevating the social systems of subject races. But I digress. As I said, that very first morning Captain Smedley came blundering in."

Exeter looked at Smedley and smiled fondly. “Bless him!"

"He turned out to be a confounded nuisance,” Miss Pimm said sharply. “But he has named his reward, and we shall see what he does with it."

Exeter's smile widened. “What did he do wrong?"

"He involved Miss Prescott. The Blighters have a mark on her. When she suddenly left London on a weekday, they were alerted. The rest, I think, you can work out. Right at the junction, Mr. Stringer."

The surgeon snorted. “You haven't asked me what reward I want!"

"I catch images of myself being burned at the stake,” Miss Pimm retorted, “so I shall not inquire about the details. Try to concentrate on the interesting weekend you are having."

"We must need petrol."

"No, we don't. We have a fair distance to go, and the Opposition will be after us. Did you get a good look at their agent?"

Exeter scowled. “If you mean that joker driving the fire engine, then I think so, yes. He had mauve eyes."

"Ah! Then it was Schneider himself. I thought as much."

"He's dead now?"

"Not at all. And as soon as a suitable vehicle comes within his reach, he will be on our heels. He has probably summoned reinforcements. You have bruised his vanity too often, Edward."

"I did warn him!” Exeter glanced at Alice. “And that is not all I should like to bruise."

"But you are a native here, so you have no chance whatsoever of doing so. You must leave him to us. Now I have to teach you all the key to the portal—"

"Not so fast! You want to cross over, Smedley?"

"All three of you will cross over!” Miss Pimm said sharply. “It is the only way to put you out of the Blighters’ reach. I have better things to do than guard you twenty-four hours a day, Edward."

"Not me! My duty is to enlist. I will not return to Nextdoor."

Miss Pimm's eyes narrowed dangerously, as if she considered ordering him to wash out his mouth with soap. “Then why did you go to Harrow Hill?"

Exeter was looking dangerous himself, or at least implacably stubborn. “I have a message to send, that is all. There is a traitor in Olympus, but if Julian is going, then he can tell them for me."

"Who?” she demanded.

"Jumbo Watson!"

"Absolute rubbish! I have known Mr. Watson for—for more years than you would believe."

Exeter sighed and shook his head. “I would very much like to agree with you, ma'am. I like Jumbo personally, like him a lot. But remember he was Home in 1912? Somebody tipped off the Blighters where the guv'nor was hiding."

"No, they didn't. Soapy Maclean came over by way of the Valley of the Kings. That portal had been compromised. We did not confirm that until much later. The only person to use it since was Colonel Creighton, in 1914, and there was so much confusion that summer that he managed to shake off the followers he had acquired."

"Really?” There was an oddly pleading expression on Exeter's face.

"Certainly. Jumbo was confident that your father would still oppose the Liberator prophecies and would try to prevent your fulfilling them—he had no motive to kill Cameron and Rona Exeter. Furthermore, the Blighters obviously believed that they had caught you in the massacre. They ignored you for two years after that. Jumbo knew you were at school in England, although I would not tell him where. You cannot blame Nyagatha on Jumbo, Edward."

Exeter sighed. “I'm glad! But he was the one who dumped me on the battlefield. It was a deliberate attempt to kill me, and it was certainly Jumbo who did that. Even if he wasn't the rat at Nyagatha, he's a rat now."

Miss Pimm frowned and bit her lip. After a moment she said, “I cannot recall anyone from Nextdoor ever crossing over by way of Belgium. That is not a portal known to the Service. So who told Jumbo about it?"

"Zath, I expect. The Chamber."

"Of course. Cannot we go a little faster, Mr. Stringer? We have a long way to go."

"I am a nervous wreck!"

"You will be a physical one also, if you try to resist me now."

Exeter caught Smedley's eye and grinned. Miss Pimm was a most formidable lady.

"Faster!” she said. “Undoubtedly the Chamber informed Jumbo, Edward. But how? They must have an agent within the Service, but who? If Jumbo were here, we could ask him who told him about that portal. We could ask him who taught him the key, and who assured him that there was a tended node at this end—which I assume he told you was the case? You were deceived by someone you trusted, but perhaps that person had been deceived also?"

Exeter was nodding.

"You are making charges of the most serious nature,” she continued. “Undoubtedly, the Service will bring whoever is responsible to trial and impose the death penalty if he is convicted."

"I will drink to that."

"But is Jumbo the culprit, or was he duped? Captain Smedley is an unknown on Nextdoor. He is also—forgive me, Captain—a man who has recently undergone a grave ordeal. If he turns up unannounced in Olympus mouthing accusations of treason against one of the Service's oldest and most senior officers, then he is not likely to receive a serious hearing. At the very least, the individual responsible will have enough warning to make his escape. If you want revenge, Edward, if you want justice, then you must deliver the message yourself. An accused person has the right to face his accusers."

Now that was telling him, Smedley decided joyfully. Exeter obviously agreed, for his frown was thunderous.

Alice was smiling. She was pretty when she smiled, not at all horsey.

Exeter said quietly. “My duty is to enlist."

A shadow of exasperation passed over Miss Pimm's crabby face. “Spoken like a true Englishman,” she said cryptically. “But to do so here would be rank stupidity. I cannot guarantee that I shall always be available to pull you out of the wreckage. I will make you a much better proposition. Do you know the sacred grove of Olipain?"

"In Randorvale? I know where it is."

"And you can get there from Olympus?"

"It's not far. Three or four days’ walk."

"Very well. I shall teach you the key to it. It leads to a tended portal in New Zealand. In fact, that was how your father came Home in ninety. Your mother was born not far from there."

She paused, but Exeter just waited for her to finish, eyes steady and unreadable.

"You will return to Olympus this evening, taking Miss Prescott and Captain Smedley. When you have laid your charges and given your evidence—when honor is satisfied, and I know I can trust your judgment on that—then you can make your own way to the grove of Olipain. You will not need to ask the Committee's permission, fair enough? That key requires no additional drummer. You will enlist in New Zealand. The Dominion forces are playing a noble part in this war. The chances of your ever being recognized in their theaters of operation are remote. That is a reasonable compromise, is it not?"

"I have no intention,” Exeter said icily, “of sitting out this war guarding some bloody sheep farm on the wrong side of the—"

Smedley exploded. After he had outlined the Gallipoli Campaign and the reputation Anzac forces had earned on the Western Front, he subsided as suddenly as he began. He apologized to the ladies for his language. He had rather surprised himself, and he had certainly astonished Exeter.

"I didn't know!” He swallowed. “I'll have to swot up on all this! But I apologize. I accept your generous offer, ma'am."

"That is settled then!"

"Not me!” Alice roused herself for the first time, sitting up straight and seeming to pull herself together. “I stay here."

"Alice!” Exeter said.

Smedley wanted to tell him that he was being a fool. She kept a man's dressing gown in her flat. A woman had greater loyalties than cousins. For a moment nobody spoke.

At last Alice said, “No, Edward. I warned you. I have my reasons, Miss Pimm."

Miss Pimm nodded.

Exeter moaned. “Alice? Please? The Blighters may come after you!"

"No, Edward. If they are using me as a Judas goat, then I think I will be more valuable to them alive than dead. Correct, Miss Pimm?"

"I hope so. One cannot tell, but it may be so. You must go faster, Mr. Stringer. I shall warn you if there is any traffic coming."

"There is a car behind us. It has been there for some time, a Bentley, I think. Is it a threat?"

She closed her eyes for a moment. “Nobody I recognize. I shall watch them, though. Carry on. Now, do not be tiresome, Edward. Your cousin is quite old enough to make her own decisions."

"But—"

"No buts. Attend carefully, please, Captain Smedley. All portal keys are very ancient and very complicated. They involve rhythm, words, and a dance pattern. They arouse primitive emotions to attune the mind to the virtuality. Think of that as sanctity."

"Exeter described them.” Smedley had begun to feel excited again. “He mentioned beating drums, though, and I'm short a few fingers now."

"I don't think that will matter, as long as someone is drumming for you. Have you ever felt a sense of uplift in church, when the anthem soars?"

"Um. Yes, I suppose so."

"You are not tone-deaf, I hope? You can dance?"

"No and yes, respectively.” His leg was throbbing like the dickens, but he could move it.

"Then I foresee no difficulty. Your wrist has healed sufficiently that it will not open if the sutures are lost. We shall begin with the words."

51

The gibberish ran round and round in Smedley's head. Fortunately there were only three verses to that key, each ending in the same shout of Hosagil! He thought he had the words, but the beat was nastily complex and contrapuntal, and of course the steps and gestures would have to wait until they arrived at St. Gall's. Even a Rolls was not spacious enough for dancing.

Ombay fala ... Screw Hosagil, whoever he was.

Exeter ought to be in worse shape, because he was having to memorize two keys. Smedley could not imagine how he would manage that without mixing them up, but he had not changed a bit from their schooldays—cool, calm, and accomplished. He caught on to the rhythms right away, claiming a knack acquired during his Africa childhood, and he had always been a whiz at languages, which must help with the words. He would probably come first in the exam. Just like old times! In fact, Edward Exeter would be a downright pill if he wasn't always so straight and square, such a brick. No one could ever dislike him.

The sky was trying on pastel colors as evening approached. Stringer clung grimly to the wheel, rarely speaking. If Miss Pimm was not supporting her driver with spikes of magic, he must be well beyond the end of his tether. There had been no break for tea.

Now Exeter was prying information out of her, a process much like opening oysters with bare hands.

"And what is St. Gall's?"

"A church."

"Very old, of course?"

"Of course. There are,” she continued in an obvious diversion, “two standing stones remaining in the churchyard. It may well be that some of the keys we know date from megalithic—"

"Do you use this portal often?"

"Quite often,” she admitted with the reluctance of a biology mistress being asked to explain the function of reproductive organs.

"It leads directly to Olympus?"

"Yes."

"And back?"

She sighed. “Yes. We know keys for translation in both directions. That is rare."

"Then why are the Blighters not aware of it?"

"They are."

"They have sentries?"

"No resident stranger, no. No traps I cannot handle. Normally they don't care a fig about Nextdoor, remember! It was only the Chamber's appeal for help in destroying you that roused the Blighters’ interest. They care more who comes in than who goes out, in any case. Anyone departing who has not entered will be marked in some fashion."

"Will that Schneider man have guessed it is where we are going?"

"Oh, yes. He may have alerted others to intercept us there."

Cheerful thought!

The car wound down a steep hill. Now Stringer was being allowed to proceed at his own pace, for there were cyclists, horse traffic, and a few cars. With all the Ombay fala guff, Smedley had lost track of what county he was in, but the building stone was the right buff color for the Cotswolds, and the landscape was picturesque enough. A large plate of hash and a tankard of bitter would go down very well about now. Would there be such a thing as beer on Nextdoor?

Waves of unreality...

At times he believed. Then it felt like the night before a big push, with the barrage to begin before dawn. Then a man looked at his watch every half minute and wondered if he'd ever see another sunset. Not quite that bad, but his gut was tight and his palm damp. Aiba aiba nopa du ... Tonight he might meet the suspect Jumbo Watson face-to-face. Tomorrow go for a nice ride around on a dragon.

Other times he just couldn't. Then it all felt like an enormous leg-pull. Aiba, aiba, up your nose. Shamans and fakirs. Witch doctor dances moving people to other dimensions? What utter gullage that was! If such things were possible, then hundreds of people would have disappeared over the centuries.

But if they had, what evidence could there be? You couldn't prove it wasn't true!

Not in that direction, whispered his doubts, but when was the last time you read about a naked, shocked, bewildered foreigner stumbling out of the woods somewhere, unable to speak a word of the language? That ought to be easier to disprove, because at least you could demand to have a body produced. Habeas the bloody corpus!

"Sharp left at the end of this wall, Mr. Stringer,” Miss Pimm said. “There is room to park."

Smedley snapped out of his reverie, realizing that the spire he had seen over the trees a moment ago must be St. Gall's.

"The vicar is expecting us.” She did not deign to relate how she knew that. “But I ask both of you to be discreet in what you say to him. ‘Them as asks no questions isn't told no lies,’ or, ‘No names, no pack drill,’ as Captain Smedley is fond of remarking. This is a small parish, not well endowed. The Service supports his church with generous donations. He knows we use the building for unorthodox purposes, but it is easier for him if he can pretend to turn a blind eye. The current bishop is notoriously conservative in his views."

Exeter had twisted around to stare at her again. “You mean we are actually going to go through with this inside the church itself? Dancing around with no clothes on?"

Miss Pimm sniffed. “Would you prefer an audience? On a fine evening like this, the grounds are a favored locale for courting couples."

"Too many bodies in the graveyard,” Stringer remarked loudly. It was comforting to know that he was still conscious.

She ignored the comment completely. “The node overlaps the building itself, especially to the east, so we could perform our ceremonies outside. However the center of the virtuality is just in front of the altar. That is where in-comers materialize, and you will translate more easily from there."

There was a stunned pause, and it was Alice who sniggered first. “Do they ever drop in on Sunday mornings?"

The old bag did not crack even a hint of a smile. “Olympus keeps careful track of the clock, naturally, and times its deliveries for the small hours of the morning. The vicar is accustomed to receiving unexpected visitors."

Stringer was braking. Smedley caught a brief glimpse of some houses about a half mile away, then the car turned into a narrow lane, lurching to a stop beside an iron gate set in a high stone wall. With a long sigh like a deflating tire, Stringer sprawled limply over the steering wheel. Miss Pimm uttered a snort of disbelief. About to say something cheerful to Exeter, Smedley took a second look at his expression, then at Alice's, and didn't. Instead he opened the door and clambered down. There would have to be an awkward farewell here. He had no taste for public sentiment.... She kept a man's dressing gown in her flat, dammit! He hurried around to open the door for Miss Pimm.

Someone had beaten him to it. As that someone was wearing a cassock, it would not be unreasonable to assume he was the vicar. He was short and plump, elderly and fatherly, white-haired and rubicund, obviously not a stranger but a native. Smedley's heart did a little jump at that thought. It meant that he really did believe.

Ombay fala, inkuthin...

He fumbled shakily for cigarettes and matches.

All five of the occupants had emerged from the car. Edward hovered very close to Alice, Stringer was stretching and rubbing his eyes. Miss Pimm and the vicar had obviously met before. They exchanged congratulations on the weather. She did not introduce her companions and he ignored them—extremely odd behavior for a cleric—then they all converged on the gate, with Miss Pimm and the vicar in the lead. Smedley found himself being squired by the surgeon, crunching along a gravel path. He could not hear Alice and Exeter following.

The churchyard was dark and rather spooky, overhung with gigantic yews and studded with headstones, half of them weathered to shapeless boulders. Rhododendrons had taken over much of it, while the straggly grass in the remainder badly needed cutting. Someone had made a start on that, and then abandoned the lawn mower in its tracks. There seemed to be no lovers dallying amid the shrubbery or skulking in the shadows, but the vicar's sudden conversion to gardening would have blighted the romantic atmosphere of the evening.

The church itself was small and extremely old, or at least the west front was, because the door was set in a rounded arch. “Norman, I see!” That was about the limit of Smedley's architectural expertise.

But not Stringer's. “More likely Saxon. That transept is younger, Early Gothic. Middle thirteenth century, probably. The spire can't be older than fourteenth."

"And the railway station beyond the far wall? Late Victorian?"

"That's probably the vicarage."

Gam! “Or the county jail."

"Ah, yes. By the way, Captain, I congratulate you on the way you spirited your friend out of Staffles. Adroitly done!” The surgeon's hearty tone was belied by his fishy eyes, which were friendly as barracudas'. “You did not limp on Wednesday."

"I scratched my leg going over the wall."

"We wondered which of you that was. Have you had it seen to?"

"I plan to have it cured by magic in another world."

Stringer snorted. He walked on in silence for a long minute, then sighed. “I think I need a holiday."

Yes, the war was tough, wasn't it?

Four of them had reached the steps. Alice and Exeter still loitered by the gate, staring into each other's eyes and whispering earnestly. He must still be trying to talk her into coming. Why could he not understand that the lady hankered after what came wrapped in that dressing gown?

"Hurry, please!” Miss Pimm called. “Reverend, we have had no chance for a meal and some of us have a long drive ahead of us yet. Would there be any shops still open in the village to buy something we could eat on the road?"

The little man looked alarmed at being required to make such a decision. “Not shops. I have some ham ... or you could inquire at the Bull. Mrs. Daventry might run up some sandwiches for you."

Smedley suppressed images of a buxom lady climbing a mountain of sandwiches. He must be windier than he had realized. He took a long draw on his fag.

"You could pick me up back here in half an hour or so,” Miss Pimm informed Stringer with a meaningful look.

He frowned at this cavalier dismissal, but obviously he had learned not to argue with his new secretary. He offered his left hand to Smedley. “Thank you for a most interesting few days, Captain. Do drop in if you're ever in my neighborhood, won't you?"

"And you likewise,” Smedley said.

Alice and Edward arrived hand in hand, very tense about the eyes.

"I will send you a postcard as soon as I, ah, return,” he told her.

"No, you won't!” Miss Pimm snapped. “That would be insanely unwise. I shall see she is informed of your whereabouts. For goodness sake, kiss her and go inside! Thank you for your help, Reverend."

"Oh, very welcome, I'm sure, Mrs.—er ... If you need me, I shall be cutting the grass out here."

Better than trying to cut the grass in there, Smedley thought. Lord, he was getting hysterical! He pecked a kiss on Alice's cheek, nodded politely at the vicar, who jumped and returned a nervous smile.

He stamped out his cigarette. Then he followed Miss Pimm up the steps and into the cold gloom of the church. Edward came trotting after them and closed the heavy door with a slam. It echoed like a knell of doom.

52

SMEDLEY TOSSED HIS SHIRT INTO THE CHEST. THERE WAS A STRANGE assortment of clothes in there already, male and female both, plus a couple of small drums. He sat on a chair to remove his shoes and socks. The floor was icy.

Damn it all! No matter what she had said, he would not remove his pants! Not yet.

He limped out into the nave. He could hear the rattle of the vicar's lawn mower outside, very faint and distant. With a drum slung around her neck, Miss Pimm was poised on one foot, left arm raised and head thrown back. “Ogtha!” she proclaimed, and brought her hand down to the drum, and raising the other. “Ispal!” She was teaching Exeter the gestures for the key that would take him to New Zealand. He was watching intently, showing no sign of discomfort at being stark naked.

Writhing with embarrassment, Smedley slipped by them. He wandered along the aisle, studying the pictures in the stained glass windows and the nosegays of color they shed. The arches at the east end were rounded, then they became pointed, Gothic. Either the original church had been extended, or a new generation of builders had taken over at that point. The oaken pews displayed prayer books and hymnals, laid out at even spacing, ready for the next day's service. The pulpit was modern and grandiose, perhaps a result of the Service's generous contributions, and too big for the church.

This was a very little church.

But it was a church, a recognizable C. of E. place of worship, and its like could be found all over the world. The sun never set on the Anglican Communion. It was all the things he had been brought up to revere, had taken for granted and respected all his life. His family went to church every Sunday. They almost never discussed religion. It was just there, part of a man, like breathing. Dancing around in the nude was not in the cards. It was uncivilized. Gentlemen did not do such things anywhere, least of all in a church.

"Umbathon!” said Miss Pimm in the background.

This was not going to work. This was a gigantic confidence trick. This was insanity.

Ombay fala, inkuthin...

He had not wept in days. Was he past that, now? Had he sunk to a whole new level of madness, with delusions of flying to other worlds and people leaping from bicycles into cars without actually moving through space? Was he, despite all the evidence of his senses, bound up in a straitjacket inside some padded cell?

He could feel his right hand again. It didn't exactly hurt, but he could feel it. He looked down at the bandage disbelievingly and tried to flex invisible fingers. He was in front of the altar rail already. This was the center of virtuality, she had said. Bunkum!

He shivered.

He turned away from the altar. Fresh yellow roses and chrysanthemums in brass vases. A fellow should not go mucking around in a church in a state of undress. Not proper! What in heaven would the guv'nor say? Or the mater, if she were alive—she would be truly shocked. Or the aunts, the monstrous regiment of aunts?

The other two were coming up the aisle. “Captain Smedley!” Miss Pimm's harsh voice took on a notable resonance in this old stone cave. “I asked you to remove your clothes."

"After the dress rehearsal."

"No, Captain—now! You will not achieve the correct state of mind if you are distracted by trivia. It will take you time to adjust. Off with them!"

He glared at her, then turned his back on her, pulling off his braces. But when he had everything off, he did not know what to do next. He could hardly leave bags and underwear for the congregation to find in the morning. He glanced over his shoulder. Miss Pimm was watching him with her arms folded. He could imagine her toe tapping.

"Give them to me,” she said impatiently. “I'll put them in the chest as I leave. Oh, Captain! I saw my first naked man several hundred years ago, and none of the equipment has changed since then."

He gave her the bundle.

"Thank you. And your bandages. Then we can begin."

The governess instructed her pupils in the proper ritual movements for Ombay fala. They took it in slow motion, gesture by gesture, and Smedley felt worse and worse as the farce progressed. His nerves were not going to take much more of this. Exeter, he was glad to notice, was starting to shiver. At least when they began to dance in earnest, they both should feel warmer. He was shivering too, and he did not think that temperature had very much to do with it in his case. It was funk.

Oddly, Miss Pimm seemed colder than either of them, and she was fully dressed. She was snappier than a vixen in heat, shouting at them when they got it wrong. She kept glancing at her watch.

For once, Smedley realized, he was picking up something faster than Edward Exeter. Exeter was distracted, thoroughly miserable. Pining for Cousin Alice? Had he just realized that he could never see her again? He could not even send her a postcard. The Blighters would never stop hunting him until he fulfilled the prophecy or died. Or was he just unwilling to cross over?

Miss Pimm made herself comfortable in the front pew and adjusted the drum on her lap.

"Now we'll try it with music. First verse. Ready? One, two—"

"Ombay fala,” Smedley chanted, lifting his left foot and raising his stump overhead, “inkuthin.” Exeter followed him around the circle. Surprisingly, they went right through the first verse without an error—at least it felt as if they got it right, and Sergeant Major Pimm did not interrupt.

"Not bad!” she admitted as they bellowed out the closing, Hosagil! “Edward, you forgot the words a time or two, didn't you? Captain, your timing is erratic. Is that leg going to be a problem?"

The scar on his wrist was blood red, but a neat piece of sewing. The trivial scratches on his leg looked much worse, ugly and swollen. He compared his two arms, wondering if the right one was already wasting away.

"Let's try again.” Miss Pimm stole another glance at her watch. “Smartly! I certainly don't want to have to fight my way out of here. Take it right through, now. Keep on going until something happens. Ready? Oh, I almost forgot ... bon voyage!"

It was the first real smile Smedley had seen on her face. It made her seem almost pretty, in a way he would never have guessed, but he was not in a mood to return smiles. He was expecting her to break into howls of laughter any minute, and start shouting April fool! “Thank you in anticipation,” he said coldly.

Exeter said, “Thank you for everything.” But he did not smile either, and Miss Pimm responded with a rolling tattoo of fingers on the drum.

Smedley shivered and waited for the rhythm to begin. This was all wrong! He had taken religion seriously as a child, because his parents had. Here it came.... Dum-de dum-de dum-dum-dum ... At Fallow he had done what all the others had done. “Ombay fala, inkuthin,” he chanted. In the senior forms he had joined the conventional rebellion into Buddhism, atheism, agnosticism, Unitarianism, or any esoteric-ism that had turned up. Right leg, left arm. Smedley himself had never been quite sure which of the -isms he favored. When he enlisted he had given his religion as C. of E. without thinking about it. “Indu maka, sasa du.” He had attended church parade on Sundays. In Flanders he had prayed his heart out a few times, screaming and sobbing to a merciful god, any god, any god at all. No atheists in foxholes ... Hop, bow, hop, bow. When the danger had passed, he had always felt ashamed of his cowardice, and less of a believer in consequence. What sort of merciful god would have allowed the war to start in the first place—and why? Just so some terrified sods would repent of their sins? “Aiba aiba nopa du.” What sins had he ever had a chance to commit?

But even so, a chap ought not to profane a holy place. Even a heathen temple deserved respect. Even if it was a mud hut, even if only one single curly-haired darkie thought it was sacred, then a fellow ought to have the grace not to mock it. Head back, elbows out. St. Gall's was a Christian church, the sort of place his ancestors had worshipped in for hundreds of years. It deserved better than this obscene posturing, these primitive antics. Echoes rolling back from the ancient stones. It was holy. He could almost smell the sanctity. Normans had worshipped here, maybe Angles and Saxons. “Aiba reeba mona kin.” That meant nine centuries of humble people bowing down and glorifying their God. Their worship alone made it sacred. The thought was suddenly terrifying. Light blazed. He screamed and stumbled and fell facedown in the grass. Hosagil!

Bewildered, not understanding, he raised his head and blinked at the painful brightness. He lay in the exact center of a circular lawn, about the size of his parents’ dining room, and the surrounding hedge was the color of a blue spruce, with the sheen of holly. He heard sounds of chirping, whistling, and hooting. He blinked harder to clear away tears. Beyond the hedge soared the most incredible snow-capped peak he had ever seen, blushing orange against a pale blue-gold sky. The air was tangy with a scent of wood smoke. It was evening or early morning.

He had done it! He had done it! He had done it! Yes! It was true. He had crossed over to another world. Grass. Odd, mint-scented grass. Day-light. The war, England, the guv'nor, the aunts, medals, the dead, the maimed—all gone. He had really done it. He wouldn't have to go to the Palace for his bloody gong after all. He had done it, really done it.

He laid his face on the back of his hand and started to sob.

53

IT WAS THE COLD THAT STOPPED HIM, THE UNPLEASANTNESS OF LYING on dewy grass at dawn. He sat up and rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand and almost laughed. He hadn't had a weep like that since Wednesday's lunch in the Black Dragon. Done him a world of good, it had! Two worlds of good. Now he needed to find some clothes before he caught pneumonia.

He had done it. He had done it.

Behind him stood a small kiosk of unpainted wood, like a summerhouse. Alongside it was the only break in the hedge, through which he could see only a gravel path and more hedge on the far side of that. Assuming this place was not somebody's idea of a joke, it must be a secluded, private aerodrome for travelers arriving in a state of undress—which was a reminder that Exeter would be dropping in any minute, and the exact center of the circle might become crowded.

Miss Pimm had issued somber warnings of the aftereffects of passing over, and especially a first trip. Cramps and nausea and despair, she had said, and Exeter had nodded grimly. Usually it would last only a few minutes, but it was as unpredictable as seasickness. Smedley felt none of those, unless his weeping fit qualified. He felt fine.

So he scrambled up and limped over to the gazebo. The orange fire had already faded from the mountain and the sky was brightening. There were several other peaks to admire as well, painted in blinding white and ice blue. The hedge was high enough to hide everything closer, except a trailing, lazy cloud of white smoke, which accounted for the tangy smell in the air. Someone was having a bonfire.

What could be keeping Exeter? It was jolly good to have pipped him like this, and him on his third trip, too.

The gazebo contained a comfortable chair with a book lying on it, and a wooden chest. Like the one in the vestry of St. Gall's, that chest probably held all sorts of Apparel Suitable for the Discerning Traveler. The book was heavy, leather-bound, and apparently written in Greek, but yet no Greek Smedley had ever seen. Odd! When he looked inside the chest, he found one shoe and three socks. He took two socks and put them on, but that hardly seemed adequate wear, no matter how temperate the climate.

Undoubtedly the little kiosk was a sentry box. Someone was supposed to be sitting here, reading that book, keeping watch in case visitors dropped in. The rotter had deserted his post. Having breakfast, likely.

What on Earth, real Earth, could be delaying Exeter? Had the effort of learning two keys at the same time confused him, mixing them up in his mind? Or was he so reluctant to leave Alice and return to Nextdoor that he could not summon up the correct mental attitude? Bother the man!

So what did Julian Smedley do now, poor thing?

He went to the gap in the hedge and—being extremely cautious not to expose too much of himself—peered around the edge. He looked straight into the face of a young man doing the same thing from the other side.

The other man yelled. They both jumped back in alarm.

Smedley broke into roars of laughter.

Slowly the newcomer edged into view around the hedge, one big, wide, green eye at a time. He was barefoot, wearing only a loincloth. His beard was close-cropped, while his hair hung down his back like a woman's. Both were a startling shade of copper, and his very fair skin's efforts to tan had coated him in several million freckles. He was one all-over freckle. He was also jumpy as a field full of grasshoppers, ready to flee at the slightest provocation.

He said something, but the only word Smedley caught was tyika?

"Sorry, old man! Don't speak the lingo. Got any English?"

The man nodded vigorously, still jittery, but apparently reassured. “I am speak English well, tyika!” He had a singsong accent. “My name is Dommi Basketmaker, but once Dommi Houseboy, and having hopes again to be so.” He was no older than Smedley himself, short and broad shouldered.

"I'm Captain Smedley. Dommi, you said? Weren't you bearer for, er, Tyika Exeter?"

A huge grin split Dommi's face into unequal halves, revealing a set of perfect white teeth. “Indeed I had that highly pleasurable honor a year ago, for a transitory time only. Tyika Kisster a most felicitous tyika to serve, a very benignly inclined tyika! I had been informed that his honor will be returning shortly and have had apprehension of perhaps being permitted again to serve him, which I would be most earnestly appreciative.” His joy wavered into sudden despondency. “But, alas—"

"Well, he's due any moment now.” Smedley wondered how that information could have reached Olympus ahead of him, though. “And he will be arriving in the same state of undress I am. And I am deucedly cold, to boot. Why don't you run off and dig up a couple of sets of clothes for us, soonest?"

"But...” Dommi's gaze wandered over Smedley, noting the missing hand and the gashes on his calf. “Of course, Tyika Kaptaan! At once, most imminent!” He spun around and vanished. Sounds of feet running on gravel faded into the distance. Bare feet? Ouch!

Well, that took care of clothes.

Exeter was taking a damnably long time! He had two translations to his credit already, so he ought to be able to manage another, surely. Had he changed his mind? Having seen Smedley cross first, was he going to rely on him to unmask the traitor, whether Jumbo or another? No, he would not go back on his word to Miss Pimm. Or had Schneider arrived at St. Gall's and queered the show? She had said: I don't want to have to fight my way out of here.

Smedley decided that there was nothing he could do about that. He had no idea of the return key, and he could have contributed nothing to the fight, if fight there was. He might never know what had happened after he left.

He might have to introduce himself to the Service, instead of being recommended by Edward Exeter, Liberator. Should have brought his curriculum vita. Damn! That could be unpleasant. He'd have to talk about the war. Well, one day at a time...

He should have asked Dommi to bring some breakfast. His mouth was watering. He sniffed. Mm. Yes, there were definite hints of meat in the all-pervading smoke. Perhaps someone was roasting an ox on that bonfire? Or frying bacon.

Curiosity took him back to the gap in the hedge. He peered again, and this time there was no other face advancing to meet his. As he had suspected, the other hedge was just a screen across the entrance, providing privacy. The gravel path curved out of sight and his view was blocked by shrubbery and tall trees. They were not English trees, but a tree was a tree anywhere. Some of the colors were a bit off.

He looked the other way.

A body sprawled on the path about twenty feet away, but there was no doubt that it was dead. It had been hacked to pieces. Hair and clothes were unrecognizable, black with dried blood, and he could not tell whether it had been a man or a woman. He could hear insectile buzzings even at that distance. A couple of things like feathered squirrels were chewing at it.

He looked beyond. Smoke drifted up from the remains of a house, a black field of ruin. He retched at the memory of the odors that had made his mouth water. In the background, amid the trees, other houses smoked, many other houses, all razed. Black specks on the ground might well be other bodies. Olympus had been sacked.

A few men were moving around, and although they were far off, he could see that they were not dressed like Englishmen. They were dressed like Dommi, meaning virtually undressed. The natives had risen against the tyikank. It was Nyagatha all over again.

Now one of the savages had learned that there was a tyika who had been missed. Dommi had not gone to fetch clothes, he had gone to fetch his friends, with assegais or machetes or whatever they used to kill white men ... tyikank ... Dommi was as white as Smedley, but he was a native, and there could be no doubt what had happened here yesterday, or perhaps the day before.

Smedley was alone, naked, penniless, and friendless on a strange world where he could not speak the language and the native population was out to kill him.

He really ought to have settled for Chichester.

He ought to disappear into the woods as fast as he could move.

But what if Exeter arrived as soon as he left?

How long until Dommi and his pals arrived?

Somebody screamed, but Smedley did not think it was him.

54

EDWARD EXETER WAS THRASHING LIKE A LANDED FISH IN THE MIDDLE of the grassy enclosure. He kept on screaming.

Smedley ran over to him and knelt down, having to ward off flailing arms and legs. He shouted a few times, but it did no good. In a few moments, though, the paroxysms grew quieter. Exeter subsided into a twitching heap. His muscles kept knotting and unknotting horribly, and he cried out every time.

"Exeter? It's me, Smedley. Anything I can do to help?"

Anything I can do to shut you up?

Exeter's eyes were closed. He was obviously trying not to move. “Julian?” he whispered. “Hold me."

Hold him? He was a man, dammit! And neither of them had any clothes on. With distaste, Smedley lay down behind him and tried to put an arm around him. All he did was set off another riot of cramps and spasms, and more shrieks of pain.

"Keep it down!” he hissed. “They'll hear you!"

"Hold me, damn you!"

Right. Smedley rose to his knees, took hold of Exeter's hair, and hauled him up into a sitting position. Exeter screamed. Smedley wrapped both arms around him and hung on as tightly as he could.

The fit passed. Exeter gasped and leaned his head back on Smedley's shoulder. After a moment he whispered, “Thanks! Just keep holding me."

That was all very well, but there was a band of headhunters on the way. This did not seem like the moment to explain that, though.

"What delayed you?"

"Dunno,” Exeter whispered. His eyes were closed, and he was barely breathing. “Just couldn't get it to work."

"I thought the Blighters had got you."

Exeter shook his head, and that small movement set him off again, thrashing and moaning. Damn! but he was loud. He was going to be sore for days after these cramps. He was knotted like a fishnet.

"I do believe we have run into a spot of trouble here,” Smedley said.

Footsteps on gravel! He looked around in alarm, bracing himself to face a murdering mob, but it was only Dommi, alone. He came hobbling in, clutching a bundle. He was covered with soot, streaked pink with sweat, and he had developed a severe limp.

"Tyika Kaptaan!” he cried. “I was as quickly as I could. And Tyika Kisster! It is most fortuitous to set eyes on your honor again, but at such a sad timing. I have brought the clothes, tyika, but I fear they are only the best I could find in the house of Tyika Dunlop, and many of them have singe marks upon them, and are soiled. It was the only house I was able to make entrance to."

Exeter's eyes opened wide.

"That's great, Dommi!” Smedley said hoarsely. “Could you hold Tyika Exeter for a moment for me?"

Muttering solicitously, Dommi knelt down and relieved Smedley of his burden. The exchange set off another round of cramps in Exeter, but he bit back his screams. Grateful, Smedley crawled away and rummaged through the bundle the bearer had dropped. He found typical tropical kit: shorts and shirts and sandals and long white socks. No underwear. As Dommi had said, the white cloth was scorched and soot stained. He began to dress.

Dommi was spilling out the horrible story between sobs. “It was a great madness, tyika! On Necknight, a great madness came upon us in the village. We gathered torches and all weapons which were at hand for us, and we marched in whole company upon the compound of the tyikank, singing hymns in the praise of Holy Karzon, whom our ancestors were ignorant to worship, but we know well to be the Demon Karzon and yet did not hail as such that night.” He was weeping like a fire hose. “There was terrible slaughter, tyika, and raping of the entyikank, and, oh, awful things were done. The houses were all been burned. I cannot explain this madness, tyika! There were others there, not belonging to us, not Carrots like us but strangers. They wore black, tyika, all black! I fear they were the dread reapers of whom our mother would frighten us when children we only were. It is most likely that they were the cause of our madness, Tyika Kisster, is it not? All of us Carrots are most humbly disposed toward the great tyikank who have done so much to educate us and civilize us, and we are very truly grateful for what you have done for us. It must have been the robed ones who provoked us."

The reason he had been limping was that he had a bloody great burn on his foot. He must have gone into one of those smoldering ruins to find the togs.

"There's a body just outside,” Smedley said. “The houses have been burned."

Exeter licked his lips. “Zath again,” he whispered. “It's all over now?"

"Indeed yes, tyika! We Carrots are remorseful in the most extreme about what we have done, but we could not help ourselves. I myself was one of them who did these terrible things. Now we are chagrined most deeply and wish to make amends. It is to be hoped that many of the tyikank and entyikank and domestic Carrots managed to escape out into the woods, tyika. We have been trying to count the bodies, but we also slew all the Carrots we found wearing the noble liveries you tyikank had so generously provided for us, and it is hard to tell who is among the dead and who is not there. Many escaped, I am hopeful..."

He choked down more sobs. “We even burned the library, tyika!"

Very gingerly, Exeter eased himself into a sitting position. Blood dribbled from his mouth, shockingly red against his pallor. “I am sure it was the reapers who were to blame."

"It had been reported that you would have imminent return.” Dommi whimpered. “I am most glad that your honor did not return sooner and so share in this unfortunate killing."

Exeter hugged his knees, staring blindly across at the hedge, not moving. “The house of the Tyika Murgatroyd? Was this attacked?"

"Indeed yes, tyika. No house escaped."

"The servants of Entyika Murgatroyd? Ysian, the cook?"

Dommi covered his face with his hands.

"Well?” Exeter demanded, not looking at him.

Ysian? Wasn't that the name of the girl Exeter had found hiding under a bed somewhere? How had she ever got to Olympus?

"No, tyika. She did not escape. I saw."

"How did she die?"

"Not to ask, tyika!"

Exeter's eyes were burning cold, but he was still gazing at the hedge, or through it. “Tell me, Dommi. Please tell me. I know it wasn't your fault."

"Tyika—there were awful things done. Please not to say them."

Exeter mumbled something that made no sense, but sounded vaguely like, “Oh, Vixen!"

"What? Smedley demanded.

"Nothing. Pass me those bags, will you, old chap?” Moving very deliberately, he began to dress. “Dommi, go and collect the Carrots."

The valley was narrow, less than a mile wide. From a flat floor, the sides rose precipitously, soaring almost unbroken to the incredible peaks all around. It held a river, open meadows, and many-colored woods. It would have been spectacularly beautiful two days ago.

They walked past burned ruins and trampled flower gardens, many strewn with dismembered bodies. By the time they emerged from the trees, Exeter was able to walk on his own, just steadying himself with a hand on Smedley's shoulder. They had come to tennis courts, where a band of terrified natives awaited their arrival, two score or more. Men, women, and youngsters, they all had red hair. Many carried shovels, but seemed unsure what to do with them or where to begin. They all looked ill with guilt and horror. Even Smedley, hardened campaigner from the Western Front, was utterly nauseated by what he had already seen, and that was only a small part of Olympus. Plumes of smoke were still fouling the valley.

Exeter was greeted with apprehension and relieved murmurs of, “Tyika Kisster!” Others were running in through the trees. He waited as the crowd grew, leaning on Smedley. He was still trembling and very weak. It had been a bad crossing.

"Self-fulfilling!” he murmured.

"What?"

"The Filoby Testament. It seems to be self-fulfilling. Dommi said he was expecting me back from Thovale, so the Committee must have summoned me—but I'd gone to Flanders! If Zath hadn't sent me there, I would have arrived here in time to die, you see. And if he hadn't done this, I would still be going on to New Zealand."

Smedley looked at him in surprise. “Now you won't?"

"If Zath can't break the chain, then how can I?” Exeter released his grip on Julian's shoulder and straightened up to address the nervous mob of Carrots.

"It was not your fault!” he shouted. “It was Demon Karzon who drove you to this, Demon Zath. The saints will not abandon you, for it was not your fault. The Undivided knows the truth and where the guilt lies."

They reacted with screams of joy, like children.

"But you must demonstrate your grief. You must bury the dead with honor. Women go and start digging graves in the cricket ground, big graves. Men collect the bodies. We shall bury each household together, tyikank and servants together. The saints and the Carrots who lived together shall lie together. It must be done by sundown!"

It was done by sundown, when the snowy peaks of Kilimanjaro and Nanga Parbat turned to blood. The dead could not be numbered, for many bodies had been piled in the burning houses and others had been butchered into anonymous lumps of meat. Nevertheless, it was clear that many more Carrots than tyikank had died—most of the strangers would have been able to use their mana to escape, Exeter said. The remains were tipped into pits and covered over. Olympus was a ghost settlement.

Almost out on his feet with exhaustion, Smedley watched and marveled as Edward Exeter conducted a funeral service over the mass burial. He faced a congregation of several hundreds, probably the entire population of the native village, and he spoke in the local tongue, so that Smedley did not understand any of it, only the tears of the assembled Carrots. Whatever Exeter said, he began softly and ended with great vehemence, and his audience was impressed. When he had done, they cheered wildly, which seemed like a very peculiar closing for a funeral.

The next day some of the surviving tyikank came creeping out of the forest, hungry, frightened, and exhausted. Missionaries began returning from duty in the field. They were all surprised to find work gangs already clearing away the ruins, cleaning up, erecting temporary dwellings. They were even more surprised that the leadership was being provided by a young man none of them had ever met, an officer in the Royal Artillery, known to the Carrots as Tyika Kaptaan. The lad was doing a fine job, too.

Exeter had gone. He had departed in the night, alone, and nobody knew where. According to reliable Carrots, he had revealed to them in the eulogy he had delivered over the graves that he was the prophesied Liberator. They were not supposed to know that, of course, but it had always been impossible to keep the English-speaking domestic Carrots from eavesdropping and passing rumors, so many of them had already known. Now, apparently, Exeter had sworn that he was destined to bring death to Death, and thus fulfil the prophecies.

It was, he had said, an affair of honor.

He had not said where he was going.

As the fortnights passed with no news of him, a consensus arose that either Zath's watchers had caught the fellow on his way out, or else he had just gone native again. He could safely be forgotten.

Some of the pessimists would not believe that, especially Jumbo Watson. He predicted that Olympus had not seen the last of Edward Exeter. He pointed to the Filoby Testament and in particular to the cryptic Verse 1098:

Terrible is the justice of the Liberator; his might lays low the unworthy. He is gentle and hard to anger. Gifts he sets aside and honor he spurns. Eleal shall be the first temptation and the prince shall be the second, but the dead shall rouse him.

55

47 Bamlett Road,

London, W1

16th September, 1917

Dear Miss Prescott,

With very deep regret, I must inform you that word has been received that my brother, D'Arcy, has made the Supreme Sacrifice. A telegram from the War Office reported today that he has been killed in action. We have no further details at this time.

I was at the house when the telegram arrived. My sister-in-law was, as you will understand, quite distraught, as were we all. I have only just got home, and have written to you as soon as I could. You may have seen the news in the evening papers already.

A memorial service will be arranged and announced in the usual way.

I am sure that you share our grief, even if you will not be able to acknowledge it in public.

I am,

Yours sincerely,

Anabel Finchley (Mrs.)