Present Tense

3

AS SOON AS THE NURSE TURNED HER BACK, SMEDLEY SPAT OUT THE sleeping pill. When the light was turned off, he placed it carefully under his pillow. He would need it later. He rolled onto his back and prepared to wait.

His right hand throbbed. The fingers were tightly clenched, the nails digging into his palm. They were all somewhere back in Belgium, but he could feel exactly what they were doing ... hurt like hell sometimes. Just part of the trouble of going bonkers.

Staffles had not been designed as a hospital. He shared a room with two other men, and there was barely room to walk between the beds. Rattray tossed and scuffled on the right; Wilkinson wheezed and bubbled on the left, his lungs ruined by gas. Very shortly both men were snoring—those pills packed a punch like twelve-inch howitzers.

Light filtered in from the corridor. The sounds of the hospital dwindled into silence. Once in a while it trembled as a train clattered by, London to Dover or Dover to London ... no question which was the better way to be heading these days. The guns were still throbbing.

He needed a fag, but the nurses gathered up every cigarette in the building at lights-out. Staffles was one giant firetrap.

He lay and brooded, trying to fit what he had learned about the anonymous John Three in the west wing to the Exeter story he had heard from Jones—how that man had aged! An impossible disappearance and an impossible reappearance? Somehow that was appropriate. At least it made sense to a loony with a bad case of shell shock who couldn't sit still for ten minutes without having an attack of the willies.

I would kill for a cigarette.

He should have done something about Exeter days ago, but he hadn't really been able to believe himself. It had taken Ginger's reassurance to convince him of his own story, to persuade him he wasn't that far gone in the head. Not quite. Close, but not on target.

Exeter had vanished from Albert Memorial Hospital in Greyfriars. Somehow he had passed by the nurses on duty and the doorman, all of whom had sworn he had not. The night nurse had discovered his room wrecked, blood on the floor, and yet no one had heard a thing. Impossible, but Ginger believed, although he admitted it was hearsay. Hearsay from Mrs. Bodgley was good as Holy Writ.

John Three had been brought in from the battlefield with no uniform on. With nothing on, so the rumors said—shows how far gone the poor sod must be. No sane skulker would go so far as to strip to the buff in that rain-swept, bullet-swept, shell-swept hell. Mad as a March hare.

There were only two ways into no-man's-land. Either he had come from the British lines or the German lines. Or perhaps he'd cracked up an aeroplane. But why bare arsed? The mud had been known to suck off a man's boots and trousers but not his tunic. Shell blast could collapse his lungs or his brain and kill him without leaving a visible mark on him, but stripping him naked without otherwise harming him seemed rather too freakish even for shell blast.

I would give my right arm for a fag. It's no damn use anyway.

Why John Three? Could he speak at all? Why not invent a name?

Name, rank, and serial number.

The alternative was a bullet.

Why had Exeter not been shot out of hand? Why was he not in a provost cell, at least, instead of a low-security mental ward? There were weird rumors. Or at least there were rumors of rumors, tales of people who knew more than they were able to tell but rolled their eyes expressively.

He might not have been faking when he was brought in. Men picked up in battlefields were usually in bloody rotten shape. The journey back on a stretcher would be enough of an ordeal to drive a chap bonkers all by itself. So perhaps Exeter had genuinely been unable to talk when he was brought in, although Smedley himself had walked on his own feet into the casualty clearing station and tried to shake hands with—never mind.

Exeter had been putting up a stall on Wednesday. He had known Smedley. And if there was one thing Smedley had learned to recognize in Belgium, it was terror.

Exeter hadn't even given him a don't-give-me-away look. It had been an attempt at an I-don't-know-you look. That rankled a little, but if he couldn't trust an old pal not to give him away, then he was in something very deep and ever so smelly.

How long could he swing it? The medicals weren't dumb; they knew a skulker when they saw one. They'd use all kinds of tricks—sneak up behind him and bark orders, ask unexpected questions, leave newspapers lying around....

Thinking about that, Smedley began to sweat. How long could a man go without speaking? It would be like solitary, but solitary in the middle of a crowd. Voluntary Coventry? Never speaking, never admitting that you could understand? Hour after hour. Day after day. It would crack a man. If Exeter wasn't already off his rocker, the strain of pretending to be would make it so. Playing crazy, he'd go crazy!

Smedley realized with a shock that he hadn't been weeping or even twitching. Just lying there, thinking and wishing for a Player's. The Exeter puzzle had given his mind something to chew on.

He had a strange jumpy feeling, not altogether unpleasant. He wasn't going to be in any personal danger. Hell, he could paint his face green or dance hornpipes on the piano and no one would do anything more than sigh and write a note on his file.

The danger would be to Exeter. If Smedley got caught showing interest in the mystery man, then someone might put two and two together. If anyone ever made the Fallow connection, then the jig would be up. Which might be why Exeter was keeping his mouth shut instead of spinning a yarn. An Englishman's voice would place him within a county. Or his school. Put Professor Higgins on the case and he'd say, “Fallow!” in two shakes.

Smedley awoke with a blast of terror, sweating torrents and choking back a scream. He had been asleep! Without a pill! Jolly good! First time since ... since never mind. Snores to the right of him, snores to the left of him, volleyed and thundered. So he hadn't actually shrieked aloud. He had slept! Perhaps he was getting a little better, just a little? Please, Lord?

He tried to see his watch and couldn't. Still, it felt like time to go. He swallowed the ashtray taste in his mouth and eased back the blankets.

Dressing one-handed was bad enough in daylight. From now on he'd have his suits made with flies that buttoned on the left. He had thought to pull his shoes off without untying them, but getting them on again was harder. Neckties were an invention of the devil.... Hairbrush...

One wan bulb lit the corridor, invoking vast shadows. He set off on tiptoe, thinking of the poor sods in the trenches in Belgium, going over the top. At least in the artillery he'd never had to do that. Primary target: the linen closet down the hall. Pray it wasn't locked.

It was. Hellfire!

In two weeks he had snooped everywhere in Staffles—upstairs, downstairs, in any chamber he was allowed into—hoping he was doing it from boredom and because it was better than sitting still, frightened he was doing it because his loose brains were looking for bogeys.

Secondary target: one of the doctors’ rooms.

He found a doctors’ cubbyhole that was not locked, that did have a white coat hanging behind the door. Some kind saint had even left a stethoscope in the pocket. Now that was really shockingly careless! Take that man's name, Sergeant.

His fingers were shaking so much he could barely fasten the buttons. Nelly! He hung the stethoscope around his neck like a gas mask. He tucked a pencil behind his ear and his stump in his pocket and a clipboard under his arm. Then he stiffened his upper lip and marched off boldly in the direction of the west wing.

The house was dim and silent. It stank of disinfectant and the eternal stench of stale cigarette smoke.

A real doctor was the worst danger, and there would be one on duty somewhere. A nurse might be overawed by the stethoscope. Guards...

One guard, reading a newspaper.

"Don't get up!” the doctor said, and walked right by him.

It would not have worked in a proper hospital, but Staffles was not a proper hospital. The night nurses were not sitting out at a duty desk where they could view the corridor. Light pouring from an open door was the best they could manage, and apparently no one noticed the white shape flit past. The west wing had been servants’ quarters—low ceilings, painted plaster walls. Feeling the guard's eyes boring into his backbone, Smedley chose a room at random.

There were two beds crammed in there. One was empty. The man in the other was bandaged beyond recognition, but he sounded asleep.

Would the guard register that the doctor had not turned on the light?

Smedley waited a couple of minutes, about two thousand heartbeats.

Then he peeked cautiously. The guard was back in his newspaper. The light from the duty room shone unobstructed.

The next room was not the right one either.

Nor the next.

The next was.

A fair-haired head. Asleep. Just a kid, but lying on his back and breathing noisily. Exeter's black hair on the other pillow.

Suddenly Smedley was back in Paris, three years ago, staying at Uncle Frank's on his way to Crete, sharing a room with Exeter. His heart twisted in his chest. Ye gods and little fishes, man! How can you still look so young?

He left the door open. To close it would attract attention if a nurse had to pass by. He squeezed in between the bed and the wall, on the right side. He knelt down, dropping the clipboard. He laid his hand over Exeter's mouth.

A wild reaction almost blew the gaff. Bedsprings creaked. Arms and legs flailed; a hand grabbed his wrist so hard he thought it would crack.

"Shush, you idiot! It's me. Smedley. Julian!"

A grunt. A groan. Exeter subsided. The kid in the other bed paused in his breathing—and then resumed. Smedley's heart crawled back where it belonged.

He leaned close. “I know who you are,” he whispered. “This is on the level. No one put me up to this. I swear that! I want to help."

The blue eyes were silver gray in the dark, even with his, staring at him from the pillow.

"Ginger Jones came calling today."

Exeter sucked in a long breath and sighed it out again. He was drugged and still mostly asleep. Dopey, trying not to show any reaction.

"I don't believe you killed—I don't think Bagpipe's death was your doing. Ginger doesn't, either. I know you disappeared mysteriously from a hospital. Can you disappear from this one?"

Pause. Very slightly, Exeter shook his head.

That was a very deniable shake. Why wouldn't he trust an old friend?

"Can you talk?"

An almost imperceptible nod.

"You won't fool them for long, Edward! Do you want help getting out of here?"

A stronger nod. More blinks, as if Julian Smedley might not be the only man in the world with eye troubles.

"Can you tell me what's going on?” Smedley begged.

Another faint shake.

"For God's sake, man! Trust me!” He felt his cheek beginning to twitch. Any minute now the tears would start. Then where would trust go?

He waited stubbornly, sweating, gritting his teeth, fighting against twitching and weeping. He thought he wasn't going to get an answer. Then it came, a tenuous sound, like a whisper from beyond the grave and yet so close that he could smell the breath that brought it.

"You couldn't believe me."

"From the rumors I've heard, I can believe anything."

A shake: no.

"Look, I'm not going to be here much longer. I don't know how to get you out of here, and I don't know where I could take you that would be safe. Have you any ideas? Any suggestions? Anyone who needs to be told?"

Exeter's fingers reached out and took the pencil from behind Smedley's ear.

Smedley fumbled awkwardly to retrieve the clipboard. It had slipped under the bed. He passed it up. Exeter turned over the top sheet and wrote on the back of it. He handed them both back.

Smedley took the pencil in his left hand and tried to take the clipboard with his stump.

"Oh, my god!"

Exeter had spoken aloud, almost shouted. The kid on the next bed fell silent. Smedley crouched down low, out of sight. He was shaking. He must get out of here before he had an attack of the willies! In a moment the slow breathing resumed.

When he straightened up again, Exeter's hand gripped his shoulder and squeezed like a vise. They stared at each other.

Well! So there were other men who had trouble with watery eyes these days? Lot of it going around.

"Edward—"

Somebody screamed farther along the hall. Then screamed again.

Smedley wanted to dive under the bed. He forced himself to stand up and go to the door. Confused voices rising in protest, more screams ... Some poor bugger having nightmares. A nurse hurried by. Then another.

Then the heavy tread of the guard. They all went by. Splendid!

He glanced around. Exeter was sitting up straight, face pale, eyes wide.

"Enfilading fire, old man!” Smedley said cheerily. He waved his stump and departed.

If one of the nurses came out to fetch something and saw a doctor in the corridor—but that didn't happen.

Smedley went back to bed and wept until his sleeping pill took effect.

On Sunday it rained most of the day. He practiced left-handed writing all morning. In the evening he walked down to the village and posted two letters, to the addresses Exeter had given him.

4

FALLOW IN HOLIDAY TIME WAS A MORGUE THESE DAYS. IN ANOTHER week the inmates would start to trickle back, and the school year would start up again. Meanwhile, only a half dozen or so masters and three or four wives remained on the premises. Before the war there had always been a few boys in permanent residence, sons of parents abroad. The problems of finding staff, both academic and domestic, had forced the board of governors to abandon the practice of providing year-round board in the meantime. A revolution was sweeping England “in the meantime,” and only the far future would show how many of those expedients were temporary.

Early on Tuesday, David Jones cycled into Wassal and caught the local train to Greyfriars. The service was extremely poor on that line now, but rural buses were worse, almost as rare as dodoes in the England of 1917. After a twenty-minute wait, he entrusted his mortal coil to the Great Western Railway Company once more and was borne eastward toward London. The express was packed with people, many of them servicemen. At first he thought he would have to stand in the corridor the whole way, but a young gunner rose and donated his seat to the elderly gent, for which the same was suitably grateful. Considering that Jones was bound on paying his respects to the military, the tribute was ironic.

A couple of hours brought him to Paddington. From there he took the tube to Cannon Street and emerged into a dreary, drizzly gray morning, rank with the stench of coal and petrol. Letting the scurrying crowds rush by him, he strolled across London Bridge at a leisurely pace to his destination, Guy's Hospital.

He spent the remainder of the morning in conversation with William Derby, another Fallow old boy—not so old, really. He could not be more than twenty-five. He had been broken and blinded on the Somme, but his morale was heartrending. The ones that needed cheering up were almost easier. Like Julian Smedley, most of them were so happy to be out of the fighting that they regarded their disabilities as blessings. In time the reality would sink in.

By lunchtime, Jones's task was done. He did not like London. Before the war he had rarely come up to town except to pass through on his way to somewhere else. It was too big, too busy, too grimy. The war had brought to it a frantic, hothouse exuberance that did nothing to change his feelings. His new, self-imposed assignment of visiting the wounded had taken him there a dozen times in the last two months. One precaution he had learned from bitter experience was to bring his lunch with him, so today he sat on a damp bench on the Victoria Embankment and ate his sandwiches. Ten years ago all the taxicabs in London had been pulled by horses. Now there was hardly a horse to be seen anywhere. The smell of the city had changed, but petrol fumes were hardly an improvement.

He had the rest of the day before him. There were many other maimed young men he could call on, although none he knew of whom he had not visited at least once. He was haunted by the problem of one he could not visit, Edward Exeter.

In more than thirty years of teaching, he could recall no boy so cursed. His parents had been foully slaughtered in a native uprising in Kenya. He himself had been implicated in another murder, and seriously injured. Now he was in danger of being shot as a spy. It was madness! What had he ever done to provoke the Furies so? Out of all the hundreds of boys Jones had taught in his career, he would have ranked none ahead of Edward Exeter.

The only help he could think to provide was to track down Alice Prescott. He had last met her in 1914, when she had rushed down to Greyfriars to visit her young cousin in hospital. She had been a very self-possessed miss even then. Exeter had been suffering from a severe case of puppy love, but her heart—so Jones had suspected—had been mortgaged elsewhere. She had been fond of Edward, without question, because they had grown up together in Africa, but she had not spoken of him as a prospective lover.

Jones had written to her a couple of times afterward, relaying what skimpy information he had been able to gather about Exeter's disappearance. The correspondence had withered for lack of purpose. When her famous uncle, the Reverend Roland Exeter, died a couple of years later, Jones had sent a sympathy card to her last known address. It had been returned, recipient unknown. The war had raged ever more wildly since then. She might well be married or driving an ambulance in Palestine by now.

But he had promised Julian Smedley that he would try to devise some way of assisting Exeter, assuming that the mysterious John Three confined in Staffles was truly the missing man. In the days since, Jones had experienced no brain waves, had achieved nothing practical. He had written a careful note to the widowed Mrs. Bodgley, but she could hardly be expected to assist a boy she had barely known, one suspected of murdering her only son. The only possible helper in this affair was Alice Prescott. To the best of his knowledge, she was the only family Exeter possessed.

He fed his crusts to the restless pigeons and headed for the underground again. Miss Prescott's last known address had been in Chelsea, a modest location that would have been handy for her clients. She had been a teacher of piano, and the nearby area of South Kensington would have provided many wealthy families with children in need of such social improvement.

He found the flat. There was nobody home, which was hardly surprising in the middle of the afternoon. He rang a few doorbells in the vicinity, spoke with a few harried, suspicious women, and eventually found one who remembered Miss Prescott. It had only been three years, after all. He spun a yarn about news of a long-lost relative; either that or his accent convinced the lady that he was not a bill collector. After a long wait in a dim corridor, he was rewarded with an address in Hackney. Doffing his hat in salute, David Jones departed in search of the nearest tube station.

Hackney, of course, lay on the other side of the City. He could not afford taxis, so he had a choice of bus, tram, or tube. The advantage of the tube was that it displayed maps in all the stations. Even a country yokel could not get lost on the underground.

How often could a young lady change her address in three years?

Twice.

Three times, and apparently never for the better. There had been money in the family once.

The rain had started again. By the time darkness fell, he was in Lambeth, south of the river, and not very far from his starting point at Guy's Hospital. Whatever Miss Prescott was doing in that grim, working-class area, she was not likely to be teaching piano to the pampered offspring of rich matrons.

It had been an exhausting day, and his feet throbbed. Darkness was true darkness, too, for the threat of German air raids had imposed blackout. He knew in a purely cerebral way that the bombs did very little damage and caused few casualties—relative to the millions of people exposed, that is—but emotionally he had no desire to become a statistic.

He found the entrance beside a tobacconist's shop and was happily surprised to see that Miss Prescott did not inhabit one of the horrible egg-crate tenements of the back streets. This was a three-story corner building, proudly bearing the date, 1896. Its yellow brick was stained by the everpresent soot of London, but it was a reasonably appealing edifice. He plodded wearily up two flights of hard, steep stairs, inhaling aromas of boiled cabbage and cooking fat. At the top he was faced with a door, four bell pushes, and four labels he could not read in the gloom. He flipped a mental coin in the dark and pressed.

With surprisingly good reflexes, the door cracked open almost at once. Light knifed out at him. He blinked.

He raised his hat. “I am looking for a Miss Alice Prescott."

"I am she,” said an educated, non-Lambeth voice.

Praise the Lord! “David Jones, Miss Prescott."

The cultured voice said, “Christ!” and the door shut.

Jones could not recall ever having heard a woman use that particular blasphemy, and few men either. Before he could catch his breath, the chain rattled and the door swung open.

"Come in, Mr. Jones! This is a welcome, if rather alarming surprise. Let me take your coat. I have just brewed a pot of tea...."

She was a very practical young lady, and self-possessed to boot. He was ushered out of the cramped entrance hall into a small sitting room and urged to take a chair. He glanced around, at first with surprise and then with something closer to astonishment.

The address might be questionable and the wallpaper regrettable, but the furnishings were not. The tiny space was almost filled by an upright rosewood piano, two armchairs, and a sofa; they were old, yet neither worn nor faded. The rug underfoot was thick and bright. The curtains were velvet, the little tables oak. The mantel above the gas fire bore several Royal Doulton figurines and a silver-framed photograph of a man in uniform. A marble-topped cupboard with a two-ring gas cooker and a gently steaming kettle served as kitchen. The cup and saucer were Spode.

The crusts of the family fortune had taken refuge in Lambeth.

His wondering gaze turned to the walls and the watercolors.

"Yes, they are genuine Constables,” Miss Prescott said drily. “You will have a cup of tea with me since you are here?"

One of the more embarrassing problems of advancing years ... “If I may just freshen up first?"

"Of course! First door on the right. Let me find you a towel."

The WC was the size of a chicken coop. The bathroom opposite was little larger, but any indoor plumbing at all ranked the flat well above average for the neighborhood. She would share the facilities with the other tenants on the floor, of course. Considering the housing situation in London at the moment, she was doing very well. Her plain, serviceable suit had suggested that she was in some sort of clerical work, certainly not munitions, like so many thousands of British women now. Idiot!—there were no munitions factories in the heart of London. As he dried his hands, Jones decided that Alice Prescott was almost certainly a secretary of some sort, and she could walk to Whitehall from here.

He returned to the sitting room. She smiled up at him and said, “One lump or two?” Thus might a Roman matron have invoked the household gods.

She was not classically beautiful—her nose and teeth were too prominent. Had she possessed her cousin's jet-black hair and startlingly blue eyes, she might have been striking. Even with nondescript coloring, she was a handsome young woman.

Jones accepted the tea with gratitude, took a sip, and found himself impaled by a very direct gaze.

She wasted no words. “Where is he, Mr. Jones?"

"I am not certain of this, I have not seen him, but ... Do you remember Julian Smedley?"

"Yes."

"He says Exeter is in Staffles, a temporary hospital in Kent."

"Under what name?"

"A pseudonym, of course. ‘John Three.’ He is pretending to be suffering from amnesia, but Smedley is certain it's your cousin."

Alice bit her lip. All she said was, “Go on."

With tea soaking through his fibers like ambrosia, Jones recounted the tale. His feet were throbbing and burning inside his shoes; his knees ached. He did not want to think of the journey home that awaited him, but hotel rooms in London were an impossibility now.

She murmured an apology and held out a plate of biscuits. They had not been in evidence when he came in. He limited himself to one. As he talked, he became vaguely aware of other changes in the room. The fire had been lit ... a table moved ... Ah! The photograph had disappeared from the mantel. Interesting!

When his tale was done, she did not at first comment, which was a surprise. Instead she said, “And how are things at Fallow?"

"Much the same. We feel the pinch less than most, I expect."

She raised her eyebrows in frank disbelief. “Then how does it feel to be raising the next crop of cannon fodder?"

"Not good."

She smiled bitterly. “How bright and glorious it seemed at the beginning! When I last saw Edward, he was far more upset at his broken leg keeping him out of the war than he was about being a suspected murderer. Another cup? And now we all know better, don't we?"

Uneasy at hearing such defeatist sentiment, Jones accepted another cup.

As she poured, she said, “Edward turning up in Flanders I can understand. He would have enlisted as soon as his leg healed. No question. But to enlist he would have needed an identity. Turning up without any clothes on sounds..."

Again she turned her intimidating stare on her visitor. It would not have disgraced Queen Mary. “I do not attend séances, Mr. Jones. I do not read fortunes in tea leaves, nor consult Gypsy witches at fairgrounds. And yet I am convinced that whatever my cousin was mixed up in three years ago was more than natural."

Jones sighed. “I have been trying to avoid that conclusion ever since it all happened, but I think I agree with you. There were too many locked doors, too much of the inexplicable. A rational explanation ... There wasn't one!"

"Edward thought he was in love with me."

What was the difference between thinking one was in love and actually being in love? “He made no secret of it."

"I mention that only because I really believed he had died. He would never have departed voluntarily without at the very least dropping me a note. Now you say he has returned under equally mysterious circumstances.... May I suppose that he was taken against his will and has now escaped?"

"Out of the frying pan?"

She smiled and turned to study the hissing gas.

"I must see him."

"I told Smedley I would visit him again on Friday."

"No, we have departmental minutes on Fridays.” A wicked gleam shone in her eyes. “One advantage of being female, Mr. Jones, is that a male employer is always too embarrassed to ask for details if you request a day off."

Shocked again, he coughed awkwardly. “Yes."

"So will you stay over tonight?"

Oh, yes please! “Oh, I couldn't possibly—"

"The settee is quite comfortable, my friends tell me. I doubt if the neighbors will notice, and we must hope the zeppelins don't. Not many zeppelins now, anyway—they have these big bombers instead. I have a largish had-dock we can share, and potatoes are back in the shops, thank goodness. If you can manage on half a haddock, two potatoes, and a sofa, then you are more than welcome."

"That is exceedingly generous of you!"

"I am most grateful to you for coming here, Mr. Jones,” Alice said somberly. “You must tell me how you tracked me down. What is your normal procedure for organizing jailbreaks?"

5

WEDNESDAY BROUGHT SMEDLEY DISASTER. THREE DISASTERS.

Whatever the war had done, it had not seriously damaged the Royal Mail, which delivered the first two disasters by the morning post. Miss Alice Prescott was “not known” at the Chelsea address. Whether or not Jonathan Oldcastle, Esq. still resided at The Oaks, Druids Close, Kent, the Post Office was not about to admit being aware of the address.

With one hand and a foot, Smedley tore both letters into fragments. Then he had a quiet weep.

The third disaster was even worse. He was told to pack his bags.

He begged. He pleaded. He groveled. Damned tears wouldn't come when they might be useful. The thought of being buried alive in Chichester was the living end. Since his mother had died the house was a tomb. With no servants available now, he would be completely alone with his father. Worse, next Sunday was his twenty-first birthday, so every aunt and cousin and uncle from Land's End to John o’ Groats would descend on the returning hero. He would gibber and weep buckets and shock the whole brood of them out of their wits.

"Those are orders, Captain,” the medic said coldly. “Besides, we need the beds, old man."

His discharge would take effect as soon as he had been up to the palace to get his medal. Meanwhile he was on sick leave. There was a bus at 12:10. Ta-ta!

Then he remembered Exeter, who would wait and wait and never know why his savior did not return. Ginger Jones was coming back on Friday with whatever plans he had been able to concoct, but Smedley could do nothing by himself. The willies came then. His face did its octopus dance. Tears streamed in torrents. He shook so hard he expected the dressing to fall off his wrist. He gabbled.

"Well...” the doctor said unwillingly. “We've got a new lot coming in on Friday. Can put you up till then, I suppose."

Smedley could not even get his thanks out. Two more days! He wanted to kiss the man's hand like a dago.

It felt like midnight, and it was still not lunchtime. He wandered out into the entrance hall, which was almost the only public space in the building. On a rainy day, like this one, it was crammed with uniformed men, those mobile enough to leave their beds. Amid all the bandages and crutches and wheelchairs there were dominoes and draughts, bridge and newspapers, and much desultory, bored conversation.

Dr. Stringer came marching in the main door.

Smedley made an about-turn. He headed back to his room and changed into civvies. He would get away with that for about twenty minutes, if he was lucky. He asked a red-haired nurse to tie his Old Fallovian tie for him, so it would look nice.

"Mr. Stringer is extremely busy!” the secretary snapped.

Surgeons were never called “doctor,” but fortunately Smedley had remembered that. He should have guessed that surgeons, like golden fleeces, would be guarded by monsters. This particular monster had fortified a stronghold of her own; her rolltop desk was probably armor plated, the wall of filing cabinets behind her cut off half the hallway. Her outer defenses of chairs and tables could not have been bettered by the German high command. It would need at least a full division to advance to that decidedly closed door.

If she could not actually breathe fire, she could certainly look it. “You are not one of his patients, Captain—er..."

"Oh, I shan't keep him more than a jiffy! It's a family matter."

The old hussy pouted disbelievingly. “Family?” A surgeon as eminent as Mr. Stringer could not possibly be related to anything lower than a colonel.

"Sort of.” Wilting under the glare, Smedley fingered his tie. “Just wanted to pay my respects, don't you know."

Perhaps she had been a schoolmistress in her youth. She wore her hair in a bun and must be at least thirty. Her features had been chipped from granite, but the basilisk eyes narrowed as she appraised the tie. “I'll see if he can spare you a moment, Captain Smedley. Pray take a seat."

He sat on a hard wooden chair and sweated it out. Stringer was another Old Fallovian, but he could not have known Exeter, who had been long after his time. Even by talking to the man, Smedley was breaking trust. But what choice did he have? In less than two days he would be evicted from Staffles and lose all hope of helping Exeter. This was the only lead he had. He need not give John Three's real name. Just make a few inquiries. Find out what the score was. Face seems familiar, maybe? Dare he go that far?

And if the surgeon called his bluff, the provost sergeant would break Smedley into pieces in seconds.

He studied the Illustrated London News and saw not a line of it. Oddly enough, though, his hand was so steady that the paper wasn't even shaking. Funny, that. No accounting for the willies.

"Mr. Stringer will see you now, Captain."

The office was a cramped oblong with a small, high window and green-painted walls. It had probably been a butler's pantry originally, because scars on the wall showed where built-in cupboards had been ripped out when the Army took over. There was barely room for a desk, two filing cabinets, and a couple of chairs. The chair behind the desk looked comfortable. The one in front was not.

Stringer rose and extended his left hand. Smedley had not yet decided whether he appreciated that courtesy or regarded it as patronizing. In this case it had been offered to show that the surgeon had fast reactions.

He was short, fortyish, starting to grow plump, and his fair hair was parted in the middle. His suit had cost fifty guineas on Savile Row. His manner was brusque and arrogant, which was to be expected of surgeons. He had an unhealthy hospital pallor, as if he rarely went outdoors. His eyes were fishily prominent, and they had registered the tie.

"Do take a seat, Captain. Smoke?” He offered a carved mahogany box, English and Egyptian.

Smedley accepted a chair and a Dunhill. Stringer took the same and lit both fags with a vesta. He leaned back to put his visitor at ease. He smiled politely.

"I was not aware that we were related."

"Adopted family, sir."

"Esse non sapere?"

"That certainly applied in Flanders!” To be, not to know.

Stringer nodded approvingly. “Fallow has more than done its share in this war, Captain. Forty-four old boys have made the Supreme Sacrifice, last I heard. I feel sorry for the youngsters there now. Grim lookout, what?"

"Bloody awful."

The lookout for a sixth former now was a great deal worse than the lookout for a successful surgeon with a prosperous Harley Street practice, who probably regarded his weekly consultation at Staffles as all the Empire could legitimately expect from him in the way of war effort. Field hospitals would be beneath a man of his eminence.

He was smiling the sort of smile that medical professors taught their best students. “You are assured of an honored place in the school annals yourself, Captain. Sorry I hadn't registered you were here. Jolly good show. We can all be proud of you."

Willies gibbered in the rafters. Smedley shuddered and fought them back.

Stringer's eyebrows rose fractionally. “And what can I do for you today?"

What Smedley wanted to say was, Don't let them send me away from here!

What he did say was, “Er..."

"Yes?"

"Er...” He was choking, he could not breathe. “Er ... er..."

Stringer patiently trimmed the ash on his cigarette in the ashtray, looking at that and nothing else.

"Er..."

Still the doctor kept his eyes down. “Take your time, old man. It just takes a little while to get it out of your system. You're still fresh out of Hades."

"Er..."

"We've got lots worse than you. Not my specialty, of course. Not my patients, most of them. Can't amputate memories, unfortunately."

They all said this sort of guff at Staffles, but it wasn't what they thought. What they thought was coward and weakling, just like the guv'nor did. When Smedley was thrown out of here, he was going to have to face a world that thought like that.

Still Stringer studied his cigarette, while Smedley's face burned like a sunset and twitched and twitched. His lips and tongue would do nothing but slaver. Why had he come here? Any minute he would blurt out something about Exeter....

"Some poor devils can't even remember their own names,” Stringer said offhandedly, putting his cigarette back in his mouth. He took a letter from a wire basket and scanned it. “Got one chappie upstairs hasn't spoken a word since the day he was brought in. Understands English, though. He reacts—tries not to, but he does. Understands German, too."

Good God! He knew!

"But I don't really think the German's too significant,” Stringer remarked, frowning at the page.

"Probably not,” Smedley agreed. Exeter had always been a sponge for languages. Stringer knew who he was!

"Interesting chappie. Picked up in the middle of a battle without a stitch on him, just outside Ypres. No account of how he got there. And he can't tell us. Or won't, perhaps. There was some talk of just standing him up against a wall and shooting him."

"Why didn't they?” said a voice astonishingly like Smedley's own.

Stringer looked up cautiously and seemed to approve of what he saw. He dropped the letter back in the tray. “Well, it's a rum do. His hair, for one thing."

"Hair, sir?"

"He had a full beard and his hair was down over his ears, like a woman's. I needn't quote King's Regulations to you, Captain, and I dare say the Kaiser feels the same way about lice.” Stringer drew on his cigarette, eyebrows cocked quirkily to indicate that this was all frightfully jolly and nobody need get overwrought. The fishy eyes gleamed. He spun his chair around and opened a drawer in one of the filing cabinets. “At any rate,” he said over his shoulder, “our mystery man was no soldier. That's certain. And then there was his tan. I suppose the south of France is a possibility."

"Tan, sir?” Hospital pallor?

"He had a tan. A corker of a tan.” Stringer spun around to face his visitor again, thumbing through a file. “Yes, here it is. ‘When stripped, the patient appeared to be wearing white shorts. This pigmentation is only compatible with recent, extended exposure to a tropical climate.’ Then he turns up outside Ypres in the wettest summer in fifty years. Odd, isn't it?"

Now the surgeon put his arrogant stare to work, but Smedley was past noticing. Now he knew why Exeter had not been shot as a spy. But he wasn't much further forward. There was still a murder in the background, and now there was also the problem of how Stringer had known....

The surgeon was smiling.

"How?” Smedley asked weakly.

Smirking. “Best fast bowler the school's had this century. Saw him get that hat trick against Eton."

Lord, who would ever forget that day! The willies grabbed Smedley's eyeballs and squeezed.

"Astonishing thing is that no one else's recognized him yet!” Stringer sighed. “What the hell are we going to do?"

"You? You, sir? You'll help, sir?"

"Don't you want me to?"

"Yes, oh, yes! Would you? I mean he was just about my best friend and I'll do anything I can to get him out and clear his—"

"Ah, yes. There is that, isn't there?"

Smedley considered the awful prospect that he had walked into a trap. He had never spoken to this man before, and now he had betrayed his pal. The chance that Stringer would jeopardize a notable career and even risk a prison sentence for abetting the escape of a suspected spy was not the sort of hypothesis even a shell-shocked...

But the doctor had already known.

"Nothing too serious physically,” Stringer muttered, perusing the file. “He picked up some scratches in the mud, of course, and that stuff swarms with microbes. Gas gangrene, tetanus—we have antitoxins now, thank the Lord. Not like 1915. And he got some mustard gas blisters.” He looked up warily. “But he's basically sound, physically that is. You said you were chums? I'd have thought he was a year or two behind you."

"He seems to have worn well.” Smedley had not. “Sir, I will never believe Exeter stabbed a man in the back!"

Stringer pulled a face. “Not what they taught at Fallow in my day! The investigation was thoroughly botched, you know. Some country bobby who'd never dealt with anything worse than poaching. The Home Office sacked the general over it. That wasn't the story, but it's true. He should have called in Scotland Yard or shouted for aid from the next county."

But what did they do now?

"Just as well,” Stringer said, glancing at his watch. “No fingerprints on file. So Mrs. Bodgley tells me. I have to make my rounds right away. We'll have the man in here after and talk it over. You can manage for a half hour or so?"

He smiled quietly and eased the file across to the other side of his desk. Then he stubbed out his cigarette, rose to his feet, and pranced out the door in his fifty-guinea suit. Smedley's mouth was still hanging open.

6

HAD SMEDLEY REALLY THOUGHT ABOUT IT, HE WOULD HAVE SAID that he could no more sit still for half an hour in that cramped little office than his battery could have shelled Berlin from Flanders. Yet he did not go off his rocker. The walls did not fall on him. The willies stayed away, although it was probably nearly a whole hour before he was interrupted.

He had serious planning to do. He must devise a way to smuggle Exeter out of Staffles. After a while he decided that could be arranged. But where could the fugitive run to once he was outside the walls?

He considered Chichester and his gorge rose. In theory an empty house with no tattling servants around would be an ideal hideout, but there would be recurring plagues of aunts. Worse, the guv'nor had no use for Exeter. He blamed Exeter's father for the Nyagatha massacre, claiming the man had gone native. He'd accepted the son's guilt in the Bodgley case right away. Scratch Chichester!

There was Fallow. Term did not start for another ten days. Ginger could arrange something.

So that was settled. Now he had to think of a way to pass the information to Exeter when he was brought in, and right under Stringer's nose, too—another midnight expedition to the west wing would be tempting the gods. He found paper in the desk drawer. Writing left-handed was a bugger. Do not begin, “Dear Exeter!"

Tomorrow night will set off fire alarm. Try to slip away in the confusion. Left at bottom of stair. The yard wall is climbable. Go right. Look for Boadicea's chariot at crossroads, half a mile. Good luck.

He added: God bless! and felt a little shamefaced about that.

Even folding a paper one-handed was tricky, but he wadded the note small and slipped it in his trouser pocket. Then he sat back to examine the file Stringer had so generously left for him.

Boadicea's chariot was Ginger's Austin roadster. Smedley could write a quick letter and catch the evening post with it. It would reach Fallow in the morning—perhaps. If it did not arrive until the afternoon, that would cut things very fine. He had better walk down to the village after dinner and telephone.

He realized that he was staring blankly at some appalling handwriting and medical jargon. He pulled his wits together—what was left of them—and began to read. He was not much wiser when he got to the end than he had been at the beginning, except on one point. The doctors knew that John Three was a shirker. He would certainly be thrown in the clink very shortly.

Two points. The stretcher-bearers who had witnessed his arrival all swore he had dropped out of the sky.

Smedley jumped as the door swung open. It swung a long way, hiding him from whoever was outside.

"Hand me that chair, would you, Miss Pimm?” Stringer's voice said with breezy authority. In a hospital, a surgeon ranked just above God. “I am not to be disturbed. You needn't wait, Sergeant. We'll send word when we need to ship him back. Come in here, Three."

There was barely room for another chair and two more men and a closing door. Exeter had not expected Smedley. His blue eyes flickered anger for a moment and then went stony blank. He was wearing flannels, a tweed jacket, and a shirt with no tie. He stood like a tailor's dummy as the surgeon squeezed past him to reach his desk.

Stringer sat down and gazed up fishily at the patient.

Smedley shrank back on his seat.

Exeter just stood and looked at the wall. He was tall and lean, as he'd always been. In daylight his cheekbones still bore the inexplicable tan. But his chin and ears ... long hair like a woman's? Exeter?

"Sit down, Exeter,” the surgeon said. Nothing happened, and he sighed. “I know you, man! I shook your hand in June 1914. I have discussed your strange disappearance extensively with Mrs. Bodgley. I have read the reports on your equally mysterious reappearance. I know more about your odd goings-on than anyone in the world, I expect."

Still no reaction. How could the man stand it? According to the file, he had not spoken a word in three weeks.

"You'll be more comfortable sitting down, Exeter,” Stringer said sharply. He would not meet defiance very often. “Cigarette?"

Nothing. Smedley's skin crawled. As the box came his way he shook his head. He needed another Dunhill, but he also needed his hand free.

"Captain?” said the surgeon. “You try."

"I didn't tell him, Edward. He already knew."

No reaction at all.

Smedley felt the willies brush over his skin. Exeter thought he was a traitor. Stringer was scowling at him, as if this were all his fault. Didn't they realize he was just a broken coward, a shell-shocked wreck of a man? Didn't they know he was liable to crack up and start weeping at the first sign of trouble? Please, lord, don't let me get the jitters now!

"I'm leaving here the day after tomorrow, Edward. Dr.—Mr. Stringer showed me your file. They're on to you! I wrote to those two people you named and both letters came back this morning, addressees unknown.” He stared up at that unchanging witless expression and suddenly exploded. “For god's sake, old man! We're trying to help you!"

He might as well have spoken to the desk. Exeter did not move a muscle.

Stringer chuckled drily. “The most remarkable case of esse non sapere I ever saw."

Smedley discovered he was on his feet, eye to eye with Exeter, which must mean he was on tiptoe, because he was three inches shorter. He grabbed at lapels with one hand and a stump, and Exeter staggered back under the assault.

"You bastard!” Smedley shrilled. “We're trying to help! You don't trust me! Well, screw you, you bastard!” Shriller yet. He had not planned this, but he might as well use it. He had his back to Stringer. He stuffed the note down inside Exeter's shirt collar. “I didn't go through all that the other night to help an ungrateful bastard who—who—” He was weeping, damn it! His face was going again. Full-fledged willies!

"Sorry, old man,” Exeter said quietly, easing him aside. “Mr. Stringer?"

The surgeon rose and reached across the desk. “I'm honored once again to shake the hand that humbled the fearsome ranks of Eton."

"Those were the days,” Edward said in a sad voice. He sat down. “You have a good memory for faces, sir."

"Good memory for cricket. Did you kill Timothy Bodgley?"

"No, sir."

"Are you a traitor to your King?"

"No, sir."

Happy to be ignored, Smedley sat down also, and shook like a jelly. He had done it! He had passed the note. “Perhaps I do need that fag, sir,” he muttered. He helped himself and leaned forward to the match, sucking a blessed lungful of smoke.

Stringer, too, drew on his cigarette, eying his prisoner.

Exeter gazed back with an unnerving steely calm.

The surgeon blew a smoke ring. “You say you're not a traitor, and I accept your word on it. But when you made your dramatic appearance amidst the battle's thunder, you were talking."

"Just shock, sir. It hits those who—Just shock."

"Daresay. But you were babbling about treason and spies. If you have any important information, I want it. It's your duty to—"

Exeter was shaking his head. “Nothing to do with the war, sir."

"Tell me anyway."

"Friends of mine in another war altogether. I was not expecting to arrive where I arrived. I was tricked, betrayed."

"You'll have to do better than that."

"I can't, sir. You would dismiss it as lunatic babbling. It has nothing to do with the Germans, the Empire, the French ... no concern of yours at all, sir. You have my oath on it."

The two stared bleakly across the desk at each other.

"You're saying that someone wants you dead, is that it?"

"That is very much it, sir. But I can't even try to explain."

Exeter's foot pressed down on Smedley's instep.

He choked on a mouthful of smoke, remembering Ginger Jones sitting on that bench on Saturday.

"Someone tried to kill him at Fallow,” the schoolmaster had said. “They ran that spear right through his mattress. Someone tried to kill him at the Grange and got young Bodgley instead. When he disappeared from Albert Memorial I was afraid that they had scuppered him at last. Now you say he's turned up in the middle of a battlefield? It sounds as if he's a hard man to kill."

Stringer?

Exeter was trying to say that the surgeon wanted to kill him?

Perhaps Captain Smedley was not the worst case of shell shock in Staffles after all.

Suddenly Stringer defused the confrontation with a patronizing chuckle. “Not just the public hangman?"

"Him too, sir. But private enemies also."

"All right! I shall accept your word on this also.” He beamed and sat back in his comfortable chair. “All the more reason why we've got to get you out of here, what?"

Smedley gulped.

Exeter showed no change of expression at all. “Why? Why risk your career to help a fugitive escape from justice?"

The surgeon smiled with smug, professional calm. “Not justice, just the law. We can't have the school name dragged in the mud, what? And if some private thugs are after you as well, then that's even more reason. If we can get you out, is there anyone who would take you in?"

Exeter turned a sad look on Smedley. “I thought there might be. Apparently not."

"I think I can arrange a place for him,” Smedley said.

"Ah! Somewhere secure?” the surgeon inquired blandly.

Why ask? And Exeter's foot was warning him again.

"No names, no pack drill, sir."

Stringer's chuckle did not quite reach his eyes—or was that just another illusion? “If he is apprehended, Captain, then my part in the affair may become known. I must be sure you have a safe haven ready for him."

Shot while trying to escape?

This was totally crazy! A distinguished surgeon was offering to let a suspected murderer and spy escape from his care, and the aforesaid spy was hinting that the aforesaid surgeon was actually trying to kill him, and Julian Smedley was believing both of them. He had definitely cracked.

"A school friend, sir, Allan Gentile. He and I were in the Somme cockup together. He got a Blighty."

"A what?” Exeter said.

Smedley and the surgeon exchanged shocked glances.

"A wound. Brought him Home to Blighty—England."

"Ah."

Where had the man been for the last three years not to have heard that expression? Still, Allan Gentile had died of scarlet fever in 1913, and Exeter must remember that, so he would know this was all drip.

Stringer seemed satisfied. “Good. Now, how do you propose to get him off the premises?"

"He can go as me, sir.” Smedley fished out his pay book and flourished it. “I've got a chit for the bus to Canterbury, a chit for a railway ticket to Chichester.” He turned to Exeter and leaned a foot on his instep. “The window in your WC is directly above the washing shed roof. Sneak out just before dawn on Friday."

Exeter waited inscrutably. He still looked like the peach-faced boy of 1914, but something inside him must be a hundred years old.

Smedley ad-libbed some more. “There's a derelict summer house about halfway down the drive, on the left. Meet me there. My pay book will get you through the gate."

"It will be a very close run thing,” Exeter said impassively. “They'll miss me when they do the morning rounds."

"They'll search the house first,” Smedley snapped. It was a wet rag of a plan. It would not convince the present audience if Exeter himself started picking holes in it.

Stringer frowned, tapping ash from his cigarette with a surgeon's thick finger. “I'll try and get down here again tomorrow evening and stay over. If I'm around in the morning I may be able to muddy the waters a little."

Now that was definitely going too far! The surgeon had just strayed right out of bounds. Smedley felt a shiver of joy as if the spotters had reported he had found the range. He nudged Exeter's foot.

"I'll look like a scarecrow in your togs,” Exeter complained.

"You look like a scarecrow already. I'll try and filch something better from the laundry. If you've got a better idea, spit it out."

"I haven't. But what happens to you?"

"I shall be discovered eventually, bound and gagged in my underwear. How could you do such a thing to a cripple, you rotter?"

"You'll freeze!” Stringer protested. He eyed Smedley suspiciously. “You may be there for hours. Can you really take that in your condition, Captain?"

It would drive him utterly gaga in ten minutes. But it wasn't going to happen. “I'll manage."

"Good show!” Stringer said approvingly. “Now we know how you collected all those medals. It's audacious! And ingenious! You agree, Exeter?"

"I'm very grateful to both of you."

"Just a small recompense for some of the finest cricket I ever saw. Now, where does he find Gentile?"

Smedley almost said, “Who?"

Again the man was showing too much curiosity. Chichester itself would sound a little too convenient. Somewhere handy? “Bognor Regis. Seventeen Kitchener Street, behind the station."

Stringer glanced at his watch and reached for the cigarette box. “Excellent! Now, Exeter, I have a small favor to ask."

"Sir?"

"I want to hear where you've been these last three years—how you escaped from Greyfriars, how you turned up in Flanders. Just to satisfy my own curiosity."

For the first time, Exeter's stony calm seemed to crack a little. “Sir, if I even hint at my story, you will lock me up in a straitjacket and a padded cell!"

"No. I accept that there are things going on around you that have no obvious rational explanation. You can't spout any tale taller than the things I have already tried to imagine to account for your appearances and disappearances.” The surgeon was brandishing his full authority now. “I don't expect I shall ever see you again after you walk out of this room. So I want the story. The truth, however mad it may be.” The smile did not hide the threat: no story, no escape.

Exeter bit his lip and glanced at Smedley.

"Don't mind me, old chap!” Smedley said. “I'm already round the bend, as the sailors say."

Exeter sighed. “There are other worlds."

Stringer nodded. “Sort of astral planes, you mean?"

"Sort of, but not this world at all. Another planet. Sir, won't you let me leave it at that?"

"No. I can see that there must be some paranormal explanation for the way you come and go, and I won't go to my grave wondering. Talk on."

Exeter sighed again and crossed his legs. “I was on another world, which we call Nextdoor. It's a sort of reflection of Earth—very like in some ways, very different in others. The animal life's different, the geography's different, but the sun's the same, the stars are the same. The people are indistinguishable from Europeans, everything from Italians to Swedes."

He paused to study Stringer's reaction. “See? You can't possibly believe I'm not raving or spinning a cuffer."

"It sounds like Jules Verne,” the surgeon admitted. “How did you get to Elfinland?"

"I went to Stonehenge, took all my clothes off, and performed a sacred dance.” Exeter pulled a shamefaced smile. “You sure you want to hear any more?"

"Oh, absolutely! Why Stonehenge?"

"It's what we—what they call a node. They're sort of naturally holy places. There are lots of them, and they often have churches or old ruins on them or standing stones. You know that creepy feeling you get in old buildings? That's what they call virtuality, and it means you're sensing a node. If you know a suitable key—that's the dance and chant—then a node can act as a portal. Somehow the nodes on this world connect with nodes on Nextdoor or one of the other worlds. People have been going and coming for hundreds ... probably thousands, of years. You have to know the ritual, though."

Smedley wondered how Exeter had managed to dance with a broken leg, but Stringer did not seem to have thought of that. He was nodding as if he could almost believe—or was he just humoring the maniac?

"How do they work, though?"

"I don't know, sir, I really haven't the foggiest. The best explanation I ever got was from a man named Rawlinson, but it was mostly just wordplay. Let's see if I can remember how he put it. It was about a year ago.... I'd been on Nextdoor for two years by then, and I'd finally met up with ... call them strangers—other visitors, like me—people who understand all this. Some of them have been back and forth lots of times. They call themselves the Service.

"The Service have a station—much like a Government station in the colonies somewhere. In fact, it's not unlike Nyagatha, where I was born, in Kenya. Prof Rawlinson's made a study of the crossing-over business and come up with some theories...."

Exeter had always carried conviction. As he continued to talk, Smedley found himself caught up in what had to be the strangest story he had ever heard, and somehow he found himself slipping into unwilling belief.

7

"WHAT RAWLINSON SAID WAS, ‘IT'S A MATTER OF DIMENSIONS. WE live in a three-dimensional world. Can you imagine a two-dimensional world?'

"Of course I had to tell him that maths had never been my long suit. Then he produced a pack of cards...."

That wasn't quite true, Edward recalled. The cards had been lying on the other table at the far end of the veranda, at least twenty feet away, so Rawlinson had not fetched them himself. He had shouted for a Carrot, and the Carrot had come and brought over the cards to him. That was how the tyikank did things in Olympus. But how could anyone ever explain Olympus to these two—the surgeon, as smug in his chair as a Persian cat, almost purring with self-satisfaction ... or Smedley, poor sod, with the skin of his face stretched so tight over the bone that it looked ready to split open, with glimmers of hellfire inside his eyeballs and little nervous ticks of smiles jerking the corner of his mouth every few seconds as he listened to poor crazy old Exeter talking himself into a lifetime padded cell.

"He pulled out a king and a jack. Two two-dimensional people, he called them—length and width, but no thickness. He put them face-to-face and then asked me, could they see each other? I said I supposed not.

"He said, ‘Right. They can't, because they're not in quite the same plane. They're separated by a very small thickness, and their world contains no thickness.’”

Edward remembered how triumphantly Rawlinson had beamed, then. Prof was a spare, sandy-haired man with the fussy, pedantic manner of an Oxford don, but he looked no more than twenty, most of the time. His English had an odd burr, which might be more historical than geographical. He knew a lot and his mind was quick, but there was something essentially impractical about Prof, a hint of that most damning of all indictments: not quite sound. If you needed a detailed report with graphs and illustrations and references, fine—very good chap. Else put him in charge of the sports program.

Materially, he was doing very well. His bungalow was large, one of the inner circle of residences surrounding the node, and he must own one of the finest collections of books in the Vales, where printing was a very recent innovation. He had at least a dozen servants, all rigged out in snowy white livery.

But Stringer and Smedley would not be interested in all that.

"I said, ‘You're telling me that Nextdoor and Earth are separated in some other dimension?’ and he said, ‘It's more complicated. If it were only one dimension, then Home would have only two neighbors, but there are at least six worlds that can be reached directly from Home. We know of only two others from Nextdoor, but then we don't know very much about this world outside the Vales. So we must be dealing with more than one extra dimension. I know it's hard enough to think in four dimensions without throwing five or six at you.’”

Edward was alarmed to hear himself chuckle. “I remember taking a long drink at that point. I couldn't cope with this while sober."

All the time he'd been on Nextdoor, he'd been homesick for Earth. And now he was Home, he felt his heart twisting as he talked of Olympus. He recalled the dry fragrance of the air, tantalizing scents of spice or dried flowers; hot by day, cooling off rapidly in the evening when the tyikank gathered on their verandas to drink gin and blue...

He looked again at his audience—Stringer's eyes half closed as he dribbled smoke, Julian's wide, too wide.

"I warned you this was going to take a lot of swallowing! It even stuck in my throat, and I'd done it—I mean, I'd actually crossed over to another world. No offense, Mr. Stringer, but this is a too practical, down-to-earth setting for fairy tales. I told you you wouldn't be able to believe me. I had trouble believing Prof, although I knew I wasn't on Earth, and hadn't been for two years. Look here: desk, papers, telephone, filing cabinet! Whereas I was sitting in a wicker chair drinking what they call gin, but isn't, on a veranda with screens around it. The trees had an African look to them, you know?—airy traceries with foliage hovering around the branches more like clouds of smoke or insects than leaves. There were mountains like white teeth behind them, going straight up into a pale, bloodless blue sky. My drink had been brought by a liveried servant who addressed me as Tyika Kisster. Prof and I were dolled up in white tie and tails—he'd asked me to come a little early so we could have a private chat, but a dozen or more other guests would be arriving shortly and his wife was indoors overseeing the final touches."

Chattering like this was madness! The sparkle in Smedley's eyes was welcome. The poor devil seemed to be enjoying the guff, and anything that took his mind off his own personal internal hell for even a few minutes was worth doing. But Stringer wasn't going to believe a word of it. Edward Exeter, alias John Three, was cutting his own throat with all this babbling. Trouble was, he'd been silent for so long that now he'd started to speak, he couldn't stop himself....

The veranda fronted on a garden of flowering shrubs and carefully scythed lawn, a surprise of green fertility in the khaki dryness of Olympus. Teams of servants must water it frequently to keep it so lush.

Scattered amid the woods were more of the tyikank's sprawling bungalows, clustered around the node. An irregular line of denser, dark-foliaged trees marked the course of the Cam. The natives’ village lay a mile or so downstream.

To the west, the jagged sword of the Matterhorn towered over everything, a stark silhouette. Opposite stood Mount Cook and Nanga Parbat and Kilimanjaro's perfect cone, a poem in itself. All three were flushing pink and salmon and peach in the sunset. The valley lay like a palm between them, the Matterhorn being the thumb and the other three raised fingers. Several minor summits might qualify as the pinkie. He had not learned all their names yet.

"They're two slightly different aspects of the same world,” Prof said, “two cards in the same pack, no two identical. Make two slices through, oh, say a Stilton cheese, and you won't get exactly the same pattern of maggot holes each time, what?"

Edward thought longingly of Stilton cheese. “The stars are the same."

"Ah! You noticed that? Small things are different, big things are the same. The beetles have eight legs. The sun looks exactly the same. The planets are very much the same, so far's I've been able to find out. The year's a little shorter, this world's axial tilt's a little less, days are about three minutes longer."

"How can you know that? You can't bring a watch over with you."

Rawlinson smiled knowingly. “But you can go back and forth. Sometimes you arrive at the same time of day, sometimes later or earlier. It works out to about three minutes’ lag per day."

Edward had walked into that one. Even so ... “Nextdoor has four moons. Moons are not exactly small."

"You're wrong!” Prof beamed excitedly. “Oh, they're big, but they may be caused by very small effects. A trumpet can't knock down a forest, can it?"

"No.” Edward could not see what a trumpet had to do with moons, but he knew he was about to find out.

"But suppose there's an avalanche poised to fall? Then the trumpet call might set off the avalanche! There goes your forest. Now, it's generally agreed that the Moon was knocked off the Earth by a giant meteor, you know. The Pacific Ocean is the scar remaining. A meteor hit is a very chancy business. If the meteor comes by even a second or two earlier or later, it will miss the Earth altogether. Both bodies are moving at tremendous speed, remember! So it struck Nextdoor slightly differently. The debris coalesced into four small moons instead of one large one. Even Trumb is quite small. It just looks big because it's very close.” Prof reached for his glass triumphantly. “Or perhaps there were several hits."

"How about the other worlds?"

"Other slices, remember? More variations. Gehenna has two moons, or so I've been told. Never been there.” Rawlinson took a long drink. He was just hitting his stride, glad of an audience. “Back to our flat friends. We agree that they can't see each other, because they're not in the same plane. These cards can't be perfect planes, can they? No such thing as a perfectly flat surface. But if they're face-to-face, then they must touch here and there, what?"

"The nodes!"

"Right you are! The flat cards touch at a few points. And where worlds touch, you have a node—a portal, a hole in reality."

"And the keys pull you through that hole!"

"Across. Or through, I suppose. Apparently."

"But how do they work?"

The enthusiasm faded slightly. “Good question. It's all mental, of course."

"It is?"

"Absolutely. Only people can cross over. You can't bring anything with you—no clothes, no money, nothing."

"Not even the fillings in my teeth."

Rawlinson raised his sandy eyebrows. “Do the cavities bother you?” He grinned, seemingly suddenly very juvenile.

"I picked up some mana, and they healed themselves.” Edward could also recall a scar on his forehead that had vanished and certain other scars on his chest that had persisted in trying to disappear when he had wanted them not to.

"That's what usually happens,” Prof said smugly. “But whatever makes crossing over possible is something only the human brain can achieve. The keys themselves don't do it, I'm sure. They're not magical incantations; they only work internally. You could teach a parrot the song, but it wouldn't work. Rhythm, words, dance—somehow they induce a particular vibration or something in the mind, a resonance. The music of the spheres, what? The mind soars in splendor, it roams, it drifts across the gap. Then it hauls the rest of you after it. I think that's why we feel so bloody awful afterward. The brain's in shock."

Edward squirmed. “Does it always work? I mean, from what you say, then sometimes the mind might go and the body not follow? Can that happen?"

"Yes, it can. Sometimes. You ready for a refill?"

"Not yet, thank you. Now explain mana to me."

"Wish I could. How much have you learned already?"

How much should he admit to knowing? His report was going to be completely truthful, of course, but there were certain episodes in his recent past that he ... did not intend to stress.

"I know that Colonel Creighton talked about charisma. I know it's something that only happens to strangers. He had no occult power on Earth, but as soon as he arrived back on Nextdoor he could throw thunderbolts."

"Because he hadn't been born here,” Rawlinson agreed. “Where you're born is what matters. If you ever father a son here, my lad, then he'll be a native. Take him back to Earth and he'd be a stranger there. I can't give you an explanation, but I'll give you another picture. Suppose we're all born with a sort of shield, a kind of mental armor. Suppose that it doesn't cross over with us—that fits the case, doesn't it? Without the shield, you can absorb mana. With a shield there, very little can get through."

"And what is mana?"

Rawlinson sighed like an old, old man. “I wish I knew!” he said wearily. “It comes from admiration. It comes from obedience. It comes from just plain old faith. We breathe it in and blow it out again as power. It works most easily on the mind, of course. You must have discovered the authority you have here! Give orders and the natives will jump to obey ‘em.

"At higher levels, mana can work on the body, as in faith healing or those yogi chappies who can sit around on an ice field in the altogether. In really high concentrations, it can influence the physical world. Then you're into miracles, Indian rope trick, teleportation, and all that.” He discovered his glass was empty. “Carrot!"

A servant hurried out from the house door. He was probably sixty or older, although still trim and alert. His close-cropped hair had once been a fiery red; now the embers were streaked with ash. He wore white trousers with knife-edge creases down the front, a white tunic buttoned to a high collar. Very smart. His shoes were a shiny black.

"Ah, there you are,” Prof said. “Sure you're not ready for another, old man?"

"Not just yet, thank you, sir."

The servant bowed slightly and withdrew.

The natives were always referred to as Carrots. Edward wondered if they had any idea what the word implied. He rather hoped they did not. They must have a name for themselves in their own language. Nextdoor's vegetation was completely unlike Earth's; it included some carrotlike vegetables, but they were not carrot colored.

Prof was off on his hobbyhorse again. “Strangers have the ability to absorb mana and redirect it as magic, but even natives can have it in some measure. ‘Charisma’ is as good a term as you'll find. Napoleon obviously had it. His soldiers worshipped him. He led them into the jaws of hell—they followed him and loved him for it. Caesar the same. Mohammed.” He eyed Edward with wry amusement. “You can think of others, I'm sure."

"But Napoleon could not work miracles!"

"Couldn't he? Some of his opponents thought he did. And he was only a native, not even a stranger. Where do you draw the line? If a general or a statesman inspires his followers with a rousing speech, is that magic?"

Edward conceded the point. “No."

"Even if they are moved to superhuman efforts?"

"Probably not."

"Then how about faith healing? Mental telepathy? Foretelling the future? Where do you draw the line? When does the uncanny become the impossible?"

"When scientists can't measure it?"

"They can't measure love either. Don't you believe in love?"

Edward chuckled. Obviously this speech had been made many times before.

"You came through an untried portal, I hear.” Rawlinson rubbed his chin. “That's very interesting! Creighton took a hell of a risk there. Could have landed you anywhere on Nextdoor or on some other world altogether."

"He was relying on the prophecy. It said I would appear in Sussvale."

"I wouldn't have risked it. Still, all's well that ends well. And you arrived in the Sacrarium? That's useful to know. What key did you use?"

Edward tapped out a beat on the table with his fingers. “Affalino kaspik..."

"Oh, yes, that one,” Prof said, watching the Carrot replace his empty glass with a full one. “Don't try that rascal here at Olympus, my boy! It'll flip you to Gehenna. Nasty spot! Affalino was a sound choice, though. It does seem to connect Europe to the Vales pretty often. It works the other way sometimes. There's a portal in Mapvale it opens to somewhere in the Balkans. Near Trieste, I think. And others."

The servant stepped backward a couple of paces and bowed before turning away.

Almost like being back in Africa ... not quite. The natives of the Vales were whites, and in this valley they were all redheads. It happened that way quite often. Blue eyes here, brown eyes there. In one valley the women would all be flat-chested, in the next breasts would be heavy as melons and lush as ripe peaches. The larger vales had varied populations of several “European” types; the little side glens, when they were habitable at all, each cut their sons and daughters from a single cloth. Olympians had hair as red as any Gael. They also had green eyes and skin like sand beaches, freckles on freckles on freckles.

Edward had a houseboy of his own now. Dommi was about the same age as he, but shorter and wider. And freckles! Every time he blinked, Edward expected to see freckles flake off his eyelids. He was a tough little mule. He wore nothing but a loincloth, even first thing in the morning when the valley was decidedly nippy. The soles of his feet were as thick as steaks and hard as iron; he could run along a gravel path like a gazelle. He was as much a white man as Edward—even whiter, really—but he was a native and Edward was a stranger. So he was the servant and Edward the tyika.

After roughing it for so long, formal evening wear felt very odd. Three days had not begun to blunt the strangeness of Olympus. Nor had they taught the newcomer all the intricacies of accepted social behavior. Even speaking English again was alien to him now.

The natives spoke a version of Randorian, which was pretty much a dialect of Thargian. They would have their own names for the Cam River and Kilimanjaro and the Matterhorn. They probably did not call the tyika settlement Olympus. Edward wondered what they did call it.

The strangers spoke English among themselves. They sprinkled it with Thargian words—or even Joalian—but by and large their English would have been understood on Regent Street. Yet they always referred to themselves as tyikank. Odd, that. Why not use the English equivalent, “masters"?

They had a childish fondness for nicknames. Rawlinson was known as Prof, and he seemed to cultivate a dry, academic style. Edward was still “Exeter” to the men, “Mr. Exeter” to the women. Once his status and duties became established, he would probably pick up some informal title of his own. He already suspected it would be “Tinker.” His identity as the Liberator was officially a secret, for if the Chamber ever learned where he was, then even Olympus itself might not be safe for him.

"You know mana exists, Exeter!” Prof lowered his voice and leaned closer. “They say you've actually met two of the Pentatheon?"

Edward nodded and emptied his glass. He had not yet learned the levers and switches in Olympus; he did not know who was supposed to know what. The Filoby Testament strongly hinted that there were traitors here, in the very heart of the Service. For all he knew, Rawlinson could be one of them.

"Well, you must know that they can work miracles! They draw their power from their worshippers’ adoration and sacrifices."

Edward had been expecting questions about his own experience with mana, so Rawlinson evidently knew less than he thought he did. As for his “explanations,” they were slick enough, but they left an aftertaste of bam-boozlement. The words did not really mean anything.

"Mostly on nodes? How does that fit your picture, Prof? I can see the nodes being portals, but why do they increase the flow of mana?"

"Temperature."

"Temperature?"

"Not real temperature, but something like temperature. After all, if another world is especially close just there, then there could be a leakage of something across the gap. You must have sensed that feeling of awe we call ‘virtuality'? Imagine the nodes as being in some way hot and the rest of the world as cooler. Now suppose the shield effect is dependent on this ‘temperature.’ Sensitive to heat, or whatever the force is. That would explain why the stranger absorbs the mana best on a node and why his worshippers’ sacrifices are more potent there."

More mumbo jumbo, and yet it did have a sort of logic to it.

"What's the limit?” Edward asked. “Telepathy and prophecy—how far does it go?” He knew it could kill.

"A long way. Healing, certainly. And prophecy, as you well know. Legends tell of earthquakes and thunderbolts. Earthly myths do the same. It goes all the way to magic. Miracle, if you prefer.” Rawlinson flashed his boyish smile and laughed. He was starting to display the results of the gin. “I have no science to give you, old chap! All I can do is draw pictures."

"They fit the facts,” Edward agreed politely. He was becoming a little fizzy, too, and a long evening loomed ahead. He did believe in miracles. He had worked one himself.

Rawlinson peered around angrily at the door. “Where in the world has my wife got to, do you suppose? Carrot!"

Edward had a few more questions about keys—who had invented them and who ever dared test a new one—but his host suddenly changed the subject.

"Oh, by the way?"

"Yes?"

"The others'll be here shortly.... You hired a houseboy, I understand."

"Jumbo's cook recommended him. A grandson or nephew or something, I expect."

Rawlinson coughed. “Yes. Well, my wife was going by your place this afternoon and saw him. She suggested I drop you a quiet hint."

"I'd appreciate any help you can give me,” Edward said, having trouble not adding, “sir,” to every sentence. He felt as if he were back at Fallow and had been called into the Head's office. Consciously or unconsciously, Rawlinson was radiating mana at him now.

The manservant glided in, to wait expectantly near the tyika's chair.

Rawlinson did not seem to notice him. “Well, it's just this, old man. We don't encourage the Carrots to run around like savages, you know. That's all very well down in their own wallow, but up here we try to teach them more civilized ways."

Back in the baking heat of the afternoon, young Dommi had scrubbed every floor in the bungalow and most of the walls as well. He'd been working like a horse and sweating like a pig. Shiny shoes and white uniform?

"I'll have a word with him."

"And do see he cuts his hair, old man. Shipshape and Bristol fashion, what?"

Dommi's hair hung down his back like a flag of burnished copper. He was very proud of it.

"It seems clean enough,” Edward protested.

Rawlinson pulled a disapproving face. “They look much better with it short. More civilized. You mustn't let them get away with a thing, or you'll never get any work out of them at all. Bone lazy, the lot of them."

Edward had suggested Dommi take the evening off and go courting his beloved Ayetha. The youngster had been shocked. The tyika's house was not yet completely cleaned up. There were still many dishes to unpack and wash. There were the tyika's clothes to iron, and food to be fetched and prepared, and the garden must be dug over. His father would be horrified if he took time off while there was work waiting to be done.

Dommi was pathetically anxious to please.

"So far he had shown no signs of laziness at all! He works like a ... He works very hard."

"Just you wait!” Rawlinson said. “As soon as he's saved up a few shillings he'll buy himself a wife and that'll be the last you'll see of any work out of him.” He frowned up at the waiting Carrot. “What's the Entyika doing, d'you know?"

"She is supervising the cooks, Tyika."

Rawlinson grunted angrily. “Remind her we have a guest here, will you?” He waved the man away. “Bone lazy,” he repeated, “the whole lot of ‘em."

8

"INCREDIBLE!” STRINGER MUTTERED. HE COUGHED, STUBBING OUT a cigarette. His bulging eyes were red from the bite of the smoke that filled the little office.

Smedley's mind was spinning. Incredible did not do justice! And yet no one who knew Exeter would ever doubt his word. He spoke always with a quiet deliberation that compelled belief. Lying would be beneath him, even if his life depended on it. He had always been like that.

"These magical places?” the surgeon demanded. “There was one in Flanders?"

"Must have been,” Exeter agreed hoarsely. “There may have been a church there before the war or a cemetery."

"And another in the hospital in Greyfriars?"

"Er, no, sir."

"So someone rescued you and took you elsewhere?"

Exeter set his jaw. After a moment he said, “No names, no pack drill, sir."

Stringer let his annoyance show. Then he glanced at his watch. “By Jove! I must be gone. Dining with some bigwigs tonight! Well, it's a fascinating tale! Wish I had time to hear more of it.” His arrogant gaze settled a frown on Smedley, as if he did not belong there. “This meeting has gone on too long anyway. I think you should wriggle out unobtrusively now, Captain. Don't want anyone prefiguring your association with the escaped prisoner, do we?"

He was making sure the two of them had no chance for a private word. But that did not matter. The plan he had been told was not the one Exeter would learn from the note inside his shirt. And already Smedley was drawing up Plan Three in his mind. Other worlds!

He mumbled something and rose, holding out his hand. Exeter stood up also, to clasp it in an awkward grip.

"See you on Friday, old man!” Smedley said, nudging foot on foot.

"Good of you. Damned grateful."

By good luck, the formidable Miss Pimm was absent from her desk, probably having lunch, and Smedley walked away along the hall. He would have to change back into uniform if he expected to eat at the King's expense.

The big hall was almost deserted. Everyone must be in the mess.

Yes, the plan would have to be changed. Stringer was a nark, no question about it. Even if he was not quite low enough for the shot-while-trying-to-escape villainy, he was at least a nark. Exeter caught walking out the gate in a stolen uniform would be exposed as a scrimshanker and the jig would be up. Stringer thought the escape was going to happen on Friday morning, so it must happen sooner. Tonight!

Which was cutting things very fine indeed. Smedley must hare down to the village and phone Ginger to get the chariot fired up right away. How many hours would it take to drive from the West Country to Kent, even supposing the car did not break down completely or have too many bursts?

"Ah, there you are, sir! Been looking for you."

Smedley's eyes came back into focus, seeing the wan face of his roommate Rattray.

"Lieutenant?"

"Couple of visitors for you, sir."

Smedley turned to look, and caught a wave.

Alice Prescott! And Ginger Jones!

Oh, hell! That's torn it!

He put his good arm around Alice and kissed her cheek. Despite her astonishment she did not bite him. He could tell she was tempted, though. Quite a gal, Miss Prescott. He laid his stump across Ginger's shoulders and propelled both visitors toward the door.

"I say, darned good of you to come! You haven't eaten yet, have you? Let's trot down to the Black Dragon and grab a bite.” Then he had them outside.

It was raining and his greatcoat was upstairs. Oh, well.

"What was all that about, Captain Smedley?” Miss Prescott demanded as they walked down the driveway, footsteps crunching on the gravel.

"All what?"

"I have never been thrown out of a pub, but I imagine the sensation would be somewhat similar."

"Edward. He'll be brought through there in a couple of shakes, and seeing you two might rattle him."

"You've talked to him?” Ginger demanded.

"Yes. He's well."

"No amnesia?"

"No, he's in tip-top shape, actually."

What else could Smedley say? He's been to visit another world, where he has magical powers. The magic took him there because it was prophesied it would, and he was tricked into coming back by people who want to kill him, who happen to include the doctors here. And after that, of course, Smedley could explain that he was inclined to believe most of this. You'd look neat upon the seat of a straitjacket built for two....

"He's slinging it, then?” Ginger demanded.

"Ah, yes. Odd thing, though. Stringer, the surgeon, knew who he was! Met him at the Eton match, apparently. He's been covering for him. Old School Tie and all that."

The rain was merely a drizzle. The fresh air smelled wonderful, all leafy and earthy. They walked hurriedly, and Smedley told the Fallow part of the story. He left out the Olympus bit altogether. He was asked, of course. He hedged: “He just dropped a few hints."

By the time he had finished, they had reached the Black Dragon. It was a favorite outing for the walking wounded from Staffles, serving good English ale and quite respectable lunches. The lounge was packed with patients and visitors, of course, with more men waiting hopefully on the sidelines, but luckily a group vacated a small table right under Smedley's nose and he grabbed it. Before his claim could be disputed, Miss Prescott sat down and the challengers angrily withdrew.

"My favorite table!” Smedley said with satisfaction.

"I wish I knew how you do that,” Ginger muttered.

"Do what?"

"Never mind. A drink, Miss Prescott?"

She requested a sherry. Smedley ordered mild and bitter. Ginger went to fetch them.

Alice had changed very little. Her face had always been a little on the horsey side and still was, but not hard to smile at. Edward had been head over heels back in ‘14. She was not wearing a ring. How did she feel about Edward? How had she ever felt about him, for that matter? She was two or three years older. She was even older now, and Edward...

Recalling how oddly youthful Exeter still looked, Smedley suddenly recalled the remark about curing cavities in teeth. Was that why he still seemed young? He was still young? He had not aged at all on his other world. Hell's bells!

"Something wrong, Captain?” Miss Prescott inquired coldly.

He had been staring right through her. “No, nothing..."

Ginger laid a foaming tankard on the table; Smedley grabbed for it, cursed, switched arms, and drank. Son of a bachelor!

The fact was, he believed in Nextdoor and Olympus! That a man of twenty-one still had rosy cheeks was a very flimsy piece of evidence. Lots did, although lately they had been aging much faster than usual. But it was another piece in the puzzle. There had to be some explanation for that tropical tan turning up in Flanders.

"All they have left is the Melton Mowbray pie.” Ginger had brought a beer for himself, but was still standing.

"It's usually pretty fair,” Smedley said.

Alice nodded acceptance. Ginger went off to order lunches. Service was something else that had gone to hell since the war started. Now Smedley had his chance to hobnob with a girl and see how often he could make her smile.

"Having a good war, Miss Prescott?"

"You used to call me Alice."

"Horrid little bounder, wasn't I? You called me Spots, as I recall."

"And now I ought to call you Gongs! Well done! I hear you're going up to the palace for..."

Oh, God! His eye had begun to twitch. He leaned his face on his head to hide it. No good—he was starting a full-fledged attack of the willies. He wanted a drink, but he couldn't lift the beer with his stump, and ... Hell and damnation! He scrambled to his feet and blundered toward the door.

The cool rain helped. When the tears stopped and he could breathe again, he went back inside. The other two were quietly eating pork pie, discussing the terrible price of food in the shops. They did not say a word as he sat down again, ignoring him as if all grown men had hysterical fits all the time, perfectly normal. He did not try to apologize, for that would just set him off again.

What was the use, now? How could they trust anything he said after that performance? He struggled to cut the hard crust with a fork, keeping quiet in his misery. His companions made small talk across him. As they finished eating, the adjoining tables suddenly emptied and stayed that way. So it was time to talk about the business of the meeting, and he wondered if he could do even that much without foaming at the mouth.

"First,” Alice said, as matter-of-factly as if jailbreaks were all in her day's work, “we must get him out of Staffles. Second, we must get him up to London before they bring out the bloodhounds.” She had finished her food, but she was still nursing her drink. “And third we must find him a safe refuge so he can stay at liberty. Have I omitted anything?"

She glanced at Smedley. He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

"I think that's enough to be going on with.” Ginger was scratching at his beard. His expression suggested that he was wondering how he had ever managed to get himself involved in such lunacy.

"Good!” she said. “Item one: Can we get him out of the building?"

Smedley nodded again.

"That's your part, Julian,” she said. “But how?"

"Two plans,” he said hoarsely, clenching his fist under the table, struggling not to let his voice quaver.

"Why two?"

"Because we can't trust Stringer! He was altogether too inquisitive. I think he wants Edward to give himself away by trying to escape."

"I see."

He knew what she was thinking.

"I know it sounds crazy.... “Oh, what was the use? He was crazy! They both knew that as well as he did.

Ginger grunted. “You say Stringer said he knew Exeter?"

"Shook his hand the day he got the hat trick."

"No, he didn't."

"What?"

Ginger removed his pince-nez and wiped it on his sleeve. It was a trick of his when he was upset. “Short Stringer never had any use for games. It was his brother who was the cricketer. Long Stringer was the one who was there that day at Eton. I know. I was there too. I sat right behind him. I remember Exeter being mobbed. I know there were dozens of admirers around him, but I'd swear Short Stringer wasn't there."

An unfamiliar sensation around his mouth told Smedley that he must be smiling. Another piece of evidence sliding into place! If distrusting doctors was proof of insanity, then Ginger Jones belonged to the club too.

"Long Stringer's the soldier?” Alice said. “Could he be involved in this? Could he have recognized Edward in Belgium and tipped off his brother?"

"I don't think we can trust anyone,” Smedley said. “Just the three of us.” That was funny, asking them to trust a babbling lunatic.

"I agree! Tell us your two plans."

Keeping Plan Three to himself for the time being, Smedley outlined Plan One, the blind for Stringer's benefit, and then Plan Two, the fire alarm.

His audience did not leap to its feet and applaud.

"Hardly cricket,” Ginger said dourly, “to shout ‘fire!’ in a hospital full of disabled men."

"It's damned near a public service! They haven't had a fire drill since I got there, and the place is a death trap. I just hope the alarm works, that's all.” Truth to tell, Smedley was uneasy about the ethics of Plan Two, perhaps trying to convince himself as much as his listeners.

"You're sure it will work?” Alice demanded.

"Certain. There will be chaos unlimited! The yard wall's only head high. Exeter could vault it one-han—easily."

She shrugged and did not argue. “Good. You've taken care of the first problem. How about the second, the manhunt? Spiriting him up to London?"

"That's Ginger's part. He'll have to be waiting with the getaway car. There's a concealed gateway..."

He was facing two stares of dismay.

"What car?” Ginger growled.

"Boadicea's chariot."

"The Chariot's out of commission. Up on blocks. There's no private motoring now."

"I—I didn't know!” Smedley felt a surge of panic and struggled against it.

"It's not quite illegal,” Alice said quickly. “Not yet. I'm sure it soon will be. There's all kinds of restrictions."

"And the price of petrol!” Ginger added. “It just went up to four and sixpence a gallon! Nobody can afford that!"

Smedley cursed under his breath. He should have thought of this. Bicycles? Horses? No, Plan Two had just sunk with all hands. Oh, God, did that mean he would have to go through with Plan One?

"How much time will he have?” Alice asked.

"He'll be missed pretty soon. I can't cut the telephone wires, or I would. If he can just get up to London, he'll be in great shape, but he's got to go through Canterbury or Maidstone.” The coppers could set up roadblocks and picket the railway stations. Kent was a dead end in wartime, with the ports closed. Stringer must have seen that.

"An hour?"

"At the most."

"The same problem would arise with Plan One, wouldn't it?"

Smedley shivered. Cold torrents ran over his skin as he thought of himself lying bound and gagged in the little summerhouse—that tiny, walls-falling-in, trench-sort-of suffocating summerhouse. “If Stringer snitches, Plan Two's a dead duck. If not, then my paybook and chits will get Exeter clean away. Just depends how long until they find me.” Find a screaming, eye-rolling, mouth-foaming lunatic...

Alice eyed him thoughtfully for a moment. She laid down her glass. “I think Plan Two is better. You'll do it tomorrow?"

"Tonight would be even better, but—"

"I know a car I can borrow."

"You do?” Smedley wanted to hug and kiss her. The expression on her face sobered him.

"But I can't drive."

He opened his mouth and then closed it. He felt a twinge of the willies and suppressed them. He would never drive a car again.

"Edward can't,” Alice said, “unless he's learned how in the last three years."

"I don't think that's too likely. And it doesn't get the car here, anyway."

"I've only ever driven a little bit,” she said, “and I'm certainly not up to driving in London."

They looked at Ginger.

He pawed at his beard, alarmed. “Neither am I! Strictly a back roads driver, I am! And I've never driven anything except the chariot. My license is back at Fallow anyway."

"Come on, old man!” Smedley said. “It's only fifty miles to London from here, and the A2's the straightest damned highway in the country, Watling Street. The bloody Romans built it."

Ginger glowered at Alice. “Where is this vehicle?"

"Notting Hill."

"Don't know London. That's north?"

"West."

"So it's on the wrong side!” The old chap was scowling ferociously, but he had not quite said no—not quite.

Alice drummed fingers on the table. An old, familiar glint shone in her eyes. “Captain Smedley, can you suggest anyone else who might be qualified and willing to assist us in rescuing my cousin?"

"Dozens of chaps, Miss Prescott. All the fellows in his class at school would jump at the chance."

"And where can I find them?"

"Ask around in Flanders. Most of them are there, still fighting the lousy Boche or filling up the cemeteries. The ones back here in Blighty have all had their legs blown off. So they can't help you. Frightfully sorry."

Ginger snarled. “Damn you both! What sort of car?"

"A Vauxhall, I think,” Alice said. “Bloody great big black box on four wheels. You won't get wet."

"Does it have electric lights?"

Alice pursed her lips, a gesture which definitely did not improve her appearance. It suggested hay. “I'm not sure. I've never been out in it in the dark."

"Time, gentlemen!” called the landlord.

"We must go,” Smedley said.

Jones did not budge. “You're sure the owner will be willing to lend us this vehicle?"

"He would not mind!” she said firmly. “I have the key to the lockup."

"And what will he say if I ram a taxi in the Strand?"

"I am sure it is insured.” Her face was bleak. Best to ask no more, obviously.

Ginger polished his glasses vigorously. “Tomorrow night?"

The old chap was not short of courage and definitely long on loyalty. How would Fallow react if one of its senior masters was caught driving the getaway car in a jailbreak?

"Good man!” Smedley said. “But not tomorrow. Tonight! We must get the jump on Stringer and his gang."

Ginger flinched. “Tonight?"

"This is Plan Three! I tried to hint to Exeter that it would not wait until Friday. Even if he didn't understand my hint, though, he'll know as soon as the alarm goes off. I'll bring some spare togs along, in case he has to run in his pajamas.” Smedley sighed happily. “I'm coming too, you see."

Other worlds!

9

SUDDENLY THERE WAS URGENCY. SMEDLEY RECALLED THAT THE NEXT bus was almost due, so the three of them ran. Jumpy and chattery, he waited at the bus stop with them until the bus arrived, a creaky old double-decker. Alice and Jones both found seats, but not together, so they had no chance to talk.

Alice was beside a verbose middle-aged lady with pronounced—loudly pronounced—opinions on the Germans, the war, prices, food shortages, the need for rationing, and many, many other topics. Letting this blizzard of complaint drift around her, Alice sat back and marveled at the sudden emergency that had disrupted her life.

She had met Julian Smedley four times previously, with a lapse of years between each encounter. He had always been one of Edward's closest friends at Fallow, and always more of a follower than a friend. It might be more accurate to say that Edward had always been Smedley's friend, for Edward was one of those people who had friendships thrust upon them. Her memories of Smedley were like photographs in an album. Weedy little boy on page one, then pimply adolescent, and now wounded hero on page five. Each memory was strangely different. He had been shy and owlish, yet mischievous and quietly witty. Moreover, as Ginger had pointed out on the train down, Julian Smedley had always possessed a gift for falling on his feet. When the cake was passed out, the largest piece would usually land on his plate, yet nobody ever disliked him.

Perhaps even a missing hand counted as a largish piece of cake in 1917. He had been buried alive by a shell burst and dug out in time. Now he was out of the war, which was what mattered. Ginger said he had medals galore, although she would never have marked Julian as a potential hero. Why had she made that stupid, stupid remark about them? Buried alive!

Shell-shocked or not, Julian Smedley had talked Jones and herself into this madness very slickly. She might lose her job over it, although jobs were no problem now. She might even go to jail, although that prospect was sufficiently improbable not to trouble her unduly. She was not the one in danger. If things went wrong, the police would want to know by what right she had taken a motorcar belonging to Sir D'Arcy Devers. The danger was scandal.

The bus groaned into Canterbury at five minutes to three, and there was a branch of the Midland Bank directly across the street. With a wave to Jones, she ran over to it and managed to cash a check just before it closed. Ready money might be useful.

After that she had a chance to talk with her fellow conspirator. They walked side by side to the station. He looked haggard and worried. Jones she had met only once before, and now suddenly they were plotting an illegal undertaking together. He seemed so much a typical, dull schoolmaster, a stolid rock, pitted and barnacled by wave after wave of untiring youth. He was obviously close to retirement, possibly due to having been put out to pasture before now had the war not intervened, a tweedy badger of a man. By no means cuddly, but unthinkable as a criminal.

"Have we both gone insane,” she asked him, “or are we merely bewitched?"

"You've been wondering that too, have you? I decided that it's something to do with the war. It's stripping away all our pretences, layer after layer."

"Pretences?"

"Our veneer of culture. Illusions. Everything we hid behind for so long. We see those young men who have gone out into hell to fight for a cause, and we realize that they now know something we don't. Life and youth seem infinitely more precious than they did three years ago. Many other things have become trivial and meaningless."

She considered that thought and decided it was more profound than it had sounded at first. He had an aching conscience, this Mr. Jones.

"I am extremely grateful to you, and—I confess—more than a little surprised that you would let yourself become involved in this for the sake of my cousin."

The schoolmaster cleared his throat. “Ahem! Your cousin is an admirable young man. I feel very sorry for his many misfortunes. But I should be less than honest were I not to admit that my primary interest is Julian Smedley."

"He has severe emotional problems,” she said warily.

"He has been horribly damaged, both physically and mentally. We old men who have stayed home and sent the young to fight for us—we do have certain obligations. At least I feel that way. And you cannot conceive the difference between the Smedley you met today and the one I saw last Sunday."

She remembered the tears. “Better?"

"Infinitely better. His efforts to aid his old friend are working a miracle cure on our young hero."

So that was why he had let Smedley talk him into this! What would Smedley think if he knew that? That reasoning would not sound convincing in the witness box at the Old Bailey. How would Smedley react if they failed?

"I wish he were not coming!” she said. “If he would just set off the alarm and then stay with the other inmates, then no harm could come to him.” But they had both argued that case, and Smedley had insisted.

"I am sure he has his reasons. We must show him that we trust him. It is the best treatment he could get."

"Your sentiments do you honor,” she murmured. “Have you ever had children of your own, Mr. Jones?"

He laughed feebly. “A highly improper question to put to a lifelong bachelor! I suppose I could be platitudinous and say I have had hundreds of sons, but that would not be true. Perhaps twenty-five, a little less than one a year. I always hoped that a year would bring forth at least one. Sometimes it did, sometimes it didn't. Rarely two. Two of them are involved in this."

She squeezed his arm. “I hope they appreciate you."

"Perhaps they will one day. Not now."

They turned into the station. It was ominously crowded.

"They are sending all the engines to France, you know,” Jones complained. “And some of the rails, too! Let us go look at the board."

According to the board, there was a train in fifteen minutes. The waiting room was packed to the doors. By mutual consent, they wandered along the platform together, taking the chance to talk.

"May I inquire about this automobile, Miss Prescott?"

It was a very fair question.

"I told you I have the key. Its owner would certainly not object to my using it. He has let me drive it before."

"And why do you think it has petrol available? Why do you believe it to be in operating condition?"

Alice sighed and decided that there had better be honor among thieves. “His wife is a woman with a great deal of influence."

She glanced sideways at her companion, expecting to see a bristling of shock. But Jones had a trick of using his pince-nez to mask his eyes, and his face gave away nothing.

"Does she know you have the key?"

"She does not know I exist. I am certain of that. You know it's illegal now to employ men between the ages of eighteen and sixty-one in nonessential industries, and yet she still has a chauffeur. What strings she pulls I cannot imagine, but she does. Admittedly she is not in good health, but I feel that morally Captain Smedley has a greater claim on the vehicle tonight than she does."

Jones uttered his quiet chuckle again. “Learned counsel would hesitate to present such an argument in court. And what happens if we are caught and the lady finds out?"

Alice winced. “She will not lay charges, I am sure. It would cause tongues to wag."

That was not true at all. Lady Devers would trumpet it to the four corners of the earth. She was a vindictive, malicious bitch. Alice would not tell Mr. Jones that. He was more shocked by bad language than he was by confessions of adultery.

A porter began shouting, “London train!” and they had no further chance for private conversation.

They reached London. They struggled through the traffic, which was already mounting toward the evening rush. They stopped to do some shopping for supper and came at last to her flat.

As always, her hand was trembling when she unlocked the door. The day's post lay on the mat, where it had fallen through the slot. She snatched it up and peered at the envelopes. What she dreaded was not there, and she was another day closer to the end of the war.

The official notice would not come to her, of course—it would go to the bitch in Notting Hill—but D'Arcy had taken his sister into his confidence before he was posted overseas, and Anabel had promised faithfully that she would notify Alice if the dread announcement ever came. Alice could not bring herself to trust that arrangement. Every day she read the obituaries and casualty lists in the Times, although no one knew how outof-date those might be. On Sundays she would sometimes go up to Notting Hill and walk past the house, looking for the drawn blinds that would be evidence of mourning. That was how she knew about the chauffeur.

She made tea and prepared a drab meal. She suggested that Jones take a nap, in preparation for a sleepless night, but he was too anxious about the coming ordeal to relax. They must be out of town before dark, he insisted. He dare not try to drive in traffic in the dark.

Alice prepared some sandwiches from the ugly wartime bread. She dressed in the warmest tweeds she possessed. She took the precious key from her bottom drawer, and pressed a kiss on D'Arcy's photograph. Then she went back into the sitting room and found Jones nodding before the gas fire. He looked up with a guilty start.

"Come, my lord!” she said. “We must embark upon our pilgrimage to Canterbury, as in days of yore. You shall be my verray, parfit gentil knyght!"

He hauled himself out of the chair, blinking behind his pince-nez. “And you, my lady? The prioresse?"

"The wif of Bathe, I think, is more my role. Shall I tell you a tale upon the way to lighten the journey?"

Mr. Jones looked deeply shocked that she should even know that story.

They sallied out into the streets again. They took the tube, and then a bus, and so they came to Notting Hill. It seemed a very mundane way to embark on a mission of romance and high adventure. And all those long miles must be retraced.

The lockup was one of six, in what had been a stable until five or six years ago. There was no one else about in the gloomy little yard. The rain had ended, but the skies remained gray and gravid.

The key still worked. Jones groaned loudly when he saw the size of the motorcar. The great black dragon almost filled its kennel, so that there was hardly room to move around it. Alice had only been here two or three times, and she could not recall why D'Arcy had ever given her the key. She could remember every drive she had ever had in the car, though—wonderful, intoxicating journeys out of town with her lover, stolen hours of happiness together.

Jones inspected every inch of the monster. Alice fidgeted, fearing that some neighbor would come driving in and think to investigate the strangers, although it was more than probable that the cars in the other lockups had been abandoned for the duration of the war. Adjacent houses overlooked the yard. Would some kind friend think to telephone Lady Devers and inform her that her car was being stolen?

Jones checked the fuel tank with the dipstick and examined the jerry can chained on the running board. Both seemed to be full, he said glumly. He had been hoping for a last-minute stay of execution, perhaps. The oil in the lamps was low, he said, and he could find no spare oil. They must stop somewhere and buy some before the garages closed.

That was not enough excuse to give up the expedition. Alice found a motoring rug in the back. She adjusted it over her knees as she settled herself in the seat next the driver's. Jones turned the crank. The motor caught at once. He backed the car out of the lockup and went to shut the doors. The adventure had begun.

Sometime in the small hours, Julian Smedley would set off the fire alarm in Staffles. Edward, who would not be expecting the signal this night, would be jerked out of his sleep by bells ringing to signal his escape....