The Stranger

Chapter 4 The Stranger

AS SOON AS SOMEONE DECIDES THAT HE HAS MADE HIS PEACE WITH himself and the world around him, his best friends, as though on cue, will start doing everything in their power to relieve him of the illusion. This has been tested on a live human being. On me, to be exact.

I returned to the House by the Bridge after several days of blissful lethargy, clouded only by the installment of a fourth bathing pool in my house. I walked down the corridor, wrapped in my splendid Mantle of Death, anticipating a pleasant meeting with colleagues. And, to tell the truth, they didn’t let me down.

At the door leading into our side of the building, Melifaro rushed up to me. The fact that in his haste the guy stomped on my foot and elbowed me in the side was a trifle. He then tried to turn this petty incident into a kind of vaudeville act.

Melifaro bounded away from me like a tennis ball. His face froze in an expression of utter horror. He collapsed onto all fours and began beating his head against the threshold. To top it off, he let out a scream so shrill it made my ears ring.

“Spare me, O Sir Max the Terrible, who spews death from out of his fire-breathing maw! Do not snuff out my existence with your burning spittle, which flows abundantly over the heads of your sworn enemies! I am unworthy of such a magnificent demise.”

Terrified policemen came running up when they heard Melifaro’s shrieks. It appeared they sincerely thought that someone was being murdered. They stared at my grimacing colleague. At me they only glanced surreptitiously, as though trying to size up the situation—was he going to spit or not? From our side of the Ministry, only Lonli-Lokli poked his stony physiognomy out of the doorway. Taking it all in at a glance, Sir Shurf sighed and slammed the door shut. In the meantime, the curious policemen still lingered.

Enjoying the all-round attention, Melifaro jumped up suddenly and sidled up close to me.

“Am I forgiven?” he asked innocently. “Or did I overdo it?”

“You overdid it.” I tried to stay calm, since I really was becoming a bit overwrought. “In such cases, it’s considered only proper to repent for no less than an hour. Moreover, it should be done in the most public place in town. Get thee hence to the Victory of Gurig VII Square, my poor friend, and fulfill your duty. Then you will be absolved of all guilt.”

At that, I retreated, slamming the door so hard the handle was left hanging limply by one screw. After that I really did start to calm down.

What’s wrong, Max? Melifaro sent me a call posthaste. Are you actually offended? I just wanted to amuse you.

Content yourself with the thought that you amused a whole crowd of cops and your own sweet self, I replied.

Where did your sense of humor go, Max? Well, never mind. If you’re still in a huff, I’ll stand you a drink. Come along to the Glutton and I’ll treat you to something stronger than your own nerves. Over and out.

He really was sucking up, tossing out my favorite expression. This only made me angrier.

“What if I actually do kill him, Shurf?” I asked.

Lonli-Lokli proceeded to regale me with legal advice, as thougt I really did intend to get even with my friend.

“Lifetime imprisonment in Xolomi, since you are both in government service. That will be an aggravating factor. Or there may be no consequences whatsoever, if you can prove that he committed a particularly heinous crime. All in all, such a situation is very undesirable. You ought not take offense at Melifaro. You know him, Max. It’s unfortunate that he was spoiled by his mother and older brothers, since his father, Manga Melifaro, was always busy—”

“Gadding about the World writing his famous Encyclopedia, I know. World travelers shouldn’t start families. Their passion for adventure gets passed down to their offspring. Well, never mind. I’ll just go to the Glutton and give him a shiner. He’s waiting for me, after all. Did you see the expressions on those terrified policemen, Shurf?”

“Naturally.”

“Make sure that none of them gets into the Silver Leaflet for the next thousand years. There wasn’t an intelligent face among them. And they really believed that I might kill him, the idiots. It’s obvious they learned their stuff from General Boboota.”

After venting my spleen on innocent people I felt a deep sense of satisfaction and went to make peace with Melifaro in the Glutton. There was plenty of time. Already bored at home, I had shown up for work much earlier than necessary.

Melifaro did everything he could to improve my mood—which he had done so much to spoil. When the time came to go on my night shift, I was no longer a menace to society.

Sir Juffin Hully sat in his armchair, his nose between the pages of a book. This idyll attested to the peace and tranquility that had already returned to Echo.

“Greetings, traitor,” he mumbled. “So, you’re sitting in the Glutton with Melifaro instead of relieving an old man on duty.”

“First of all, I came a half hour early. Second, Melifaro was atoning for his sins.”

“I know all that. And third?”

“And third, I’m ready to do it all again in your company.”

“What, exactly?”

“Go to the Glutton.”

“You won’t burst at the seams, Sir Max?”

“No way.”

“I’m too lazy to go anywhere. Let’s have them bring something over here. Sit down. I’m going to gossip.”

“For you, Sir, I’m prepared even for that.”

“Ha! He’s prepared. You’re the main character of this story. Do you know what Lady Melamori has been up to? I just found out today. When did you last see her?”

“Two days ago. Melifaro and I went to visit her. If you’re talking about that, Juffin, you can rest assured—everything was all above-board and proper. Too much so for my taste.”

“I see. I could have predicted the outcome of that visit without the help of clairvoyants—even twelve years before your birth. That’s not what I’m asking. Did you see her after that?”

“No. True, Melamori sent me a call several times. She inquired about my health and asked about my mood. Very sweet of her. I was touched.”

“By the way, how have you been feeling all this time?”

“You mean after my incarceration in the death cell? I haven’t spat any poison, at least, if that’s what you want to know.”

“What I want to know is something I’ll figure out for myself. Give me more details.”

“There’s nothing in particular to tell. Right afterward I felt I was in tip-top shape. My mood was good. Even too good. I felt cheerful, without any grounds for it, as though someone were tickling me. I wanted to laugh apropos of nothing. So I wandered around the house giggling like an idiot—children would say ‘I was feeling punchy.’”

“And that’s all?”

“Well, yes. Isn’t that enough?”

“Because of you, Sir Max, I have to be surprised so often it’s almost indecent,” said Juffin.

I couldn’t quite tell whether he was praising me or mocking me.

“So what happened? Tell me now—I’m on pins and needles!”

“Well, sit for a while without the pins and needles, and I’ll chew my food,” Sir Juffin snapped, biting off nearly half of the Glutton Pie, specialty of the house, which had just arrived.

He was really as eager to talk as I was to hear, and he began talking with his mouth full.

“The First and Last Lady of the Secret Investigative Force, Melamori, decided to test whether you were indeed worthy of her adoration.”

“I know one good way to test it,” I murmured. “If she doubts whether I am at her service any time of day or night, let her try me. You can tell her that.”

“Oh, Max, come on. Lady Melamori is a very serious woman. She has her methods. That’s why our cruel huntress has decided to shadow you.”

“What! Has she lost her mind?”

“No, I wouldn’t put it that way. She’s always been like that.”

“Are you sure that she’s on my trail? I feel absolutely fine.”

“Exactly. You feel wonderful. How did you put it—you feel ‘punchy’?”

I didn’t know what to think anymore. Lady Melamori on my trail! Unbelievable. But what usually happens to people in such cases? Deep depression at the very least. That’s the job of the Master of Pursuit—that’s why she’s hired. But I’m a rare bird. The queen of my heart is hot on my trail, and I feel nothing at all. Just a bit giddy. I’m a callous, insensitive pig. A monster. I hate myself.

There was another reason for my distress.

“And I thought she was asking because she was really worried. That she thought I was sick, since I wasn’t at work. And that she couldn’t wait until I turned up at the House by the Bridge again. But it was just her idea of an experiment. How humiliating.”

“Don’t worry,” said Juffin. “The old gal was interrogating you with the best of intentions—according to her own lights. If you had betrayed any sign of suffering, she would immediately have stopped. And she would have been completely happy. You see, for Melamori, her dangerous gift is a question of honor and fate. It’s the only thing she really has. Don’t worry. All our boys have had to undergo the same torments. Even I did—at the very start of my career, the lady decided to find out what kind of fish or fowl it was ordering her around.”

“I can only imagine the blow she got.”

“No, it wasn’t so bad. For her benefit I demonstrated my ‘Primary Shield’—though I could really have lost my temper. I have to hand it to her—the girl came to her senses in under an hour. She’s a fine damsel, that Melamori.”

“What is this ‘Primary Shield’?” I asked. “Is it something you can teach me?”

“The ‘Primary Shield’ is a poetic name for my own kind of Secret Weapon, Max. ‘Primary’ means it’s the least dangerous for my opponent. What can I teach you? You’ve got stronger shields than any person in this World. Stronger than I dared hope. And you’ll gradually learn to use them, but only through experience. Don’t sell yourself short. You just lack the terminology.”

“What a formidable character that Lady Melamori has turned out to be,” I sighed, pouring myself a comforting portion of kamra. “Such potent gifts at her disposal, yet she behaves like a little child.”

“Are you angry with her, Max? Don’t be. It’s not worth it. The poor thing is already moping around as it is.”

“No, I’m not mad. Just bemoaning my broken heart.”

“I warned you from the start that choosing her as a sweetheart wasn’t a very wise move. Does it never occur to you to listen to your elders, Sir Max?”

I sighed and cut myself a second slice of the Glutton Pie. I’m a callous human being. No broken heart can spoil my appetite—it’s been proven time and again.

“You don’t have anything to add regarding this incident except the sad story of your broken heart?” Juffin asked when we had polished off the pie.

“I don’t know. Actually, I should be asking you. How can it be that I don’t feel anything? Strange things are afoot.It seems that if I commit some crime, I can just calmly flee the scene. I’m a dangerous guy.”

“Yes, much more dangerous than many,” Juffin observed with a satisfied air. He looked like an artist whose hands had just put the finishing touches on a masterpiece.

“It’s all so strange. When I lived at home, I didn’t notice any miraculous inclinations in myself at all. I was as ordinary as the next person. I had peculiar dreams, but that was a personal matter. Maybe others dream the same way, but they just don’t talk about it? But as soon as I end up here, some novelty or other surfaces every day. Maybe you should just cut me in half to find out what’s inside!”

“Excellent idea, Sir Max. But you aren’t as invulnerable as all that. You’ve got your limits. Remember what happened to you in the Old Thorn?”

“The place that funny lanky fellow runs? What’s his name—Chemparkaroke.” I smiled, feeling a bit sheepish.

What happened there wasn’t an achievement I wanted to recall. Juffin had taken me to the Old Thorn when I was still waiting for my appointment to the service. He decided that I just had to try the Soup of Repose, a dish favored by all citizens of the Unified Kingdom.

As far as I understood it, this soup had a light narcotic effect, so harmless and pleasant that the whole family was accustomed to partaking of it, even the littlest tykes.

For that reason I plunged into the psychedelic adventure with no trepidation at all, although my whole life I had felt a cowardly antipathy toward drugs and drug users. My smattering of experience in this area was acquired, of course, in the last years of high school, and was so unsuccessful that rather than developing a habit, I developed a phobia.

I really fell face-first into the Soup of Repose. All my foreignness, which I simply forget about from time to time, came to the surface as soon as I had finished slurping up the first serving. Juffin suddenly found himself in the company of a blithering idiot, giggling over his empty bowl in a fit of hilarity. For me it wasn’t the most pleasant experience, either. In an instant I had become a hallucinating nutcase with compromised coordination. The respectable habitués of the Old Thorn, I imagine, were shocked by my behavior.

After this incident followed twenty-four hours of agony, as though I had stopped taking drugs after twenty years of rampant indulgence—and that despite the qualified medical help of Sir Juffin Hully. But even his healing arts were in vain. I had to endure it.

After I recovered, I vowed to make an enormous detour—of at least twelve blocks—around the Old Thorn.

Juffin approved of my decision and solemnly vowed not to indulge in Soup of Repose in my presence.

“Just don’t tell anyone that I can come undone merely by eating that soup. Someone might pour some into my kamra just to see the effect it has on me.”

“What are you saying, Max! That’s an attempt to poison a high-ranking government official—exactly the sort of crime that falls under our jurisdiction. Anyway, I think I’ll go home. And you try to be kind to Lady Melamori tomorrow. Our Lady is quite beside herself. After this little drama I think she’ll have to refrain from working for a few days. In our line of work, self-confidence is as necessary as the air we breathe, and every setback can mean the loss of one’s gift.”

“You don’t have to ask, Juffin. I’ll be nice to her. And not because . . . but because . . . well, never mind. Just don’t worry about a thing. If I had known what was happening, I could have complained to her about being in a bad mood right off—I wouldn’t have minded. And everything would have turned out fine.” “Don’t grieve, Max. Just think about how many wonderful things there are in the World! That’s an assignment. See you tomorrow.”

And Sir Juffin hurried out, to where the faithful Kimpa was already waiting for him in the amobiler.

The chief was absolutely right. The World is full of wonderful things. It was best to acknowledge the wisdom of what Sir Juffin Hully said. It was best to relax, stop sniveling, and start a new life—with a visit to the Quarter of Trysts.

This, by the way, is what the majority of lonely ladies and gentlemen do in Echo. And there is no shortage of them. Marriage in the Unified Kingdom is something people embark upon in their mature years—and not everyone decides to get married even then. It isn’t customary here to consider a family to be an unmitigated boon, and a lonely old age synonymous with failure in life. No one tries to claim the contrary either, though. Public opinion is simply silent on the matter, allowing everyone to arrange one’s affairs as one sees fit.

I had quite recently received a detailed briefing about the Quarter of Trysts from Melifaro, who fairly took me to task for being so ill-informed. You may be a barbarian, he said, but that doesn’t excuse you from knowing something so basic.

This aspect of local custom was completely unexpected for me. Despite my almost panicky desire to embark on some sort of “private life” I wasn’t sure I was ready to visit the Quarter of Trysts.

Let me explain. When you are returning home from a party in the company of a girl you don’t know very well, and you both realize where things are headed—well, it doesn’t always look like the Great Amorous Adventure that you dreamed of in childhood, but the scenario is simple and predictable. Everything happens by mutual consent. Two grown people make a more or less conscious decision. For one night, or longer—the ensuing sexual experiences of a new combinations of bodies will show.

In Echo, however, chance encounters are another matter altogether.

Visitors to the Quarter of Trysts fall into two categories: the Seekers and the Waiters. Every person decides for herself or himself which category to join that day. On one side of the Quarter one finds houses of male Seekers and female Waiters; on the other side are female Seekers and male Waiters. There are no signboards. Everyone knows where to go and why.

Upon entering the appropriate house, every Seeker must take part in a curious kind of lottery and pull a token out of a vase. By the way, there are also blank tokens. They signify that on that particular day fate is preventing you from having an amorous encounter with anyone whatsoever. In that event there is nothing to do but turn around and go home. Theoretically, the unlucky person may proceed to the neighboring house and repeat the process, but this is considered to be a sign of blatant disregard for one’s own fate, and there are not many who would want to challenge it.

Once the Seeker gets a token he goes into the living room, where the Waiters are to be found, and starts counting each person in turn—one, two, three, etc.—until he reaches the number that appears on the token. That Waiter is, so to speak, waiting for him or her.

I hasten to add that there is no one there to supervise the activities, so there is nothing to prevent cheating. But Melifaro himself said he couldn’t understand how such an idea could even enter anyone’s head. He couldn’t imagine anything more outrageous. Upon witnessing his reaction I concluded that no one in the Quarter of Trysts engages in such fraud. Here it is taken for granted that Lady Fortune is quick to take offense, and it’s best not to play pranks on her.

The newly fledged lovers then leave the Quarter of Trysts, set out for home or a hotel, and try to extract as much pleasure as possible from this arrangement of fate. In the morning, they must part forever. That’s a mandatory condition.

As far as I understand it, no one is there to enforce this unwritten contract down to the last point and to punish violations. Nonetheless, the rule is considered sacrosanct, and my suggestion that it would be easy to cheat fate met with a grimace of disgust, as though I had undertaken to expound on the charms of necrozoophilia and had warmly urged Melifaro to accompany me to the nearest pet cemetery. “Please, no more jokes of that kind,” he advised me grimly. “Especially around people you don’t know. And not around people you do know, either.”

So I never was able to understand the real reason for my friend’s offended sensibilities. I dismissed his prejudices and soon came up with my own high-minded explanation: the mutual agreement of the lovers, that separation for all time was inevitable, was not the worst means of lending an aura of romance to “intimate relations with a chance partner.” (I think this is how such phenomena are described in cold officialese.)

After recalling the above information, I realized sadly that it was still too early for me to make my way over to the Quarter of Trysts. My knees would shake, my tongue would twist into knots, my armpits would become small inverted lakes—and afterward in bed I would hardly show my most flattering side. The manner of acquaintance was too abrupt and unconventional. And what if “my fate” delivered me into the arms of an ancient, toothless giantess with elephantine legs? How, I asked myself, would I survive till morning? No. Better to place my bets on a more conservative approach to courtship, since it isn’t prohibited by local tradition.

After reaching this decision, I looked around in search of a way to kill time. The only possible conversation partner, our buriwok Kurush, was dozing, head tucked away under one wing. I reached for a book that Sir Juffin Hully had left lying on his armchair. The title was The Philosophy of Time; the author, one Sir Sobox Xes. Sinning Magicians! What people won’t read.

All in all, I had a rather distressing night. Thumb-twiddling boredom, fruitless deliberations about the Quarter of Trysts, and philosophical literature can plunge one into a funk much faster than the magical shenanigans of our incomparable Master of Pursuit.

The morning brought with it some favorable changes. Sir Kofa Yox amused me with a few risque jokes. Juffin decided to stay home until lunchtime, but he sent me a good-morning call. At the same time he asked me to wait for Melifaro, so that the Secret Investigative wouldn’t be without someone in charge. I didn’t object, since I was-n’t planning to leave anyway until I saw Melamori. She most likely felt guilty, and I’d be a fool not to use such a chain of coincidences to my advantage.

The lady finally made an appearance. She slunk around the Hall of Common Labor, unsure of whether to approach me. The door to the office was open a crack, so I had the opportunity to overhear a series of bitter sighs, too loud to be spontaneous.

After enjoying the concert, I sent a call to the Glutton and ordered kamra for two and a lot of cookies. The order arrived in a matter of minutes. When the courier opened the door, Melamori flitted to the far corner of the hall, fearful of remaining in my field of vision. She seemed to be listening to the clatter of dishes with bated breath.

When the messenger had left, I asked loudly through my wide-open door:

“If I have a tray with two jugs of kamra and two mugs delivered to my room, do you think it’s because I suffer from a split personality? I need help—there are no two ways about it.”

“Is that for me, Max?” came the plaintive squeak.

“It’s for my late great-grandmother, but as she’s in no condition to join us—well, I’m not angry, and the kamra’s getting cold.”

Melamori appeared at the door. Two expressions struggled for mastery on her face: a guilty one, and a satisfied one.

“Did Juffin tattle on me? He might have saved himself the trouble, since I’m so ashamed as it is,” she muttered.

“There’s no need to feel ashamed, Melamori. I’m just made a bit differently, that’s all. Don’t worry your head over it. My wise Mamma said that if I ate a lot of horse dung every morning, I would grow up strong and handsome, and no one would be able to shadow me. As you can see, she was right.”

My heart ordered me to be magnanimous, but it would be wrong not to admit that I hoped for a little reward. After all, her admiration (albeit treacherous) was a rather pleasant sensation; far better, it seemed to me, than polite indifference. Polite indifference, which I had experienced more than once, was something I didn’t even want to contemplate.

As a result of my carefully planned operation, I seemed at last to have charmed the First Lady of the Secret Investigative Force. Sipping her kamra, she exuded ingenuous cheer. Our fingers touched accidentally a few times over the cookie platter, and she didn’t cringe from my touch by any means. Suddenly emboldened, I suggested that we stroll through Echo in the evening. The lady admitted honestly that she was afraid, but she promised to be brave—not today or tomorrow, but very soon. No later than a few days from now. We just had to fix the date for accomplishing this feat. It was a serious victory. I hadn’t counted on it.

I went home ecstatic. For two hours or so I tossed and turned, unwilling to forfeit my happy excitement to the oblivion of sleep. Finally I dozed off, lulled by the purring of Armstrong and Ella curled up at my feet. I wasn’t able to sleep for long, though.

At midday I was awoken by a terrible noise. My head still fuzzy with sleep, I decided that a public execution (not customary in Echo) was underway beneath my window, or that there was an itinerant circus in progress (which does happen here from time to time). Insofar as it was impossible to regain slumber in the midst of that hubbub, I went to see what was going on. When I opened the door, I suddenly felt that I had either lost my mind, or that I wasn’t really awake yet.

On the street in front of my house, an orchestra made up of a dozen musicians had taken up its position. The musicians were trying desperately to coax some mournful melody out of their instruments. The magnificent Lonli-Lokli stood in front of them, wailing at the top of his lungs a sad song about a little house in the steppe at the top of his lungs.

This can’t be happening, because—because it just can’t be happening, I thought, dumbstruck. Hardly waiting until the end of the serenade, I rushed over to my colleague to find out what was happening.

“What is this, Shurf? Why aren’t you on duty? Good golly, what’s this all about?”

Sir Lonli-Lokli coughed, unfazed.

“Is something wrong Max? Did I pick the wrong song?”

“The song is wonderful, but . . . let’s go into the living room, Shurf. They’ll bring us some kamra from the Sated Skeleton, and you’ll explain everything to me. All right?” I was ready to cry from bewilderment and vexation.

Dismissing the musicians with an expansive gesture, my “official friend” followed me into the house. Beside myself with relief, I collapsed onto an armchair and sent a call to the Sated Skeleton. Not the worst pub in Echo, it was, moreover, the closest to home.

“I’m not on duty, since they offered me a Day of Freedom from Care and Chores,” Lonli-Lokli began calmly. “And so I decided to use this opportunity to carry out my duty to you.”

“What duty?”

“The duty of friendship!” Now it was his turn to be surprised. “Have I done something wrong? But I consulted the handbook . . .”

“What is this handbook, and where did you get it?”

“You see, Sir Max, after you and I became friends, I started thinking that the customs of the places you spent your youth might differ from ours. I didn’t want to offend you accidentally, out of ignorance. So I turned to Sir Melifaro, since his father is the preeminent specialist on the subject of the customs of peoples that inhabit the World.”

“Aha! Sir Melifaro!” I exclaimed, beginning to understand.

“Yes, insofar as the books yielded no information about this aspect of the lives of your countrymen. The only reliable source for this information is Sir Manga Melifaro. Considering that we are both acquainted with his son—”

“Yes, we are acquainted. And Melifaro told you that you must regale me with romantic folk ballads?”

I didn’t know whether to laugh or to be angry. Someone knocked on the door. The delivery boy from the Sated Skeleton had arrived just on time.

“Sir Melifaro told me about this particular custom of the Barren Lands, and about a few others, as well. He said that at the full moon, you and I had to exchange blankets, and on the Last Day of the Year—”

“Yes? And what, in his opinion, must we do then?”

“Visit each other and clean the bathing pools with our own hands. As well as other hygienic spots, including the toilets. Was he mistaken about that, Max?”

I tried to master my emotions. I realized that I needed to spare Lonli-Lokli’s feelings. It would be unpleasant for him to find out that he had become the victim of a practical joke.

“Of course not, Shurf. That’s all basically true. Only, you don’t have to do any of this anymore. I’m an ordinary, civilized person who ended up living in a strange place for a time. Much stranger to me than you can even imagine. But I’ve never held fast to the barbaric customs of my homeland. So, for one thing, friendship means the same thing there that it means here—straightforward, good relations between two people who are sympathetic to each other and wish each other the best. Exchanging blankets or mutual toilet-cleaning isn’t necessary. Agreed?”

“But of course, Max. I hope I haven’t offended you in any way. I simply wished to show my respect for the customs of your forebears and to please you.”

“You have pleased me with your considerate attentions and companionship, in any case. I assure you.”

After feeding and reassuring my guest, I ushered him out the door and was left alone with my own fully justified indignation. The first thing I did was to send a call to Melifaro.

You’re forgetting that I can fly into a terrible rage, pal! I growled fiercely (insofar as it’s possible to growl fiercely using Silent Speech).

What’s wrong? he asked innocently.

What’s wrong! Lonli-Lokli was just here with a whole orchestra!

Are you upset? Melifaro asked in a sympathetic tone. My father said that was the custom where you come from. You didn’t like it? Does our Lonli-Lokli have a bad voice? I’d always heard his voice was most pleasant.

Well, that beats all!

I still didn’t know whether to laugh or to get angry. So I decided to take refuge in dreamland.

And it was the right thing to do. As it turned out, it was my last chance to get some sleep. That evening I went off to work—and ended up being detained for several days, embroiled in one of the most desperate of classic criminal cases.

The nightmare began suddenly, and coincided precisely with my arrival at the House by the Bridge. A block away from the Ministry, I heard a familiar bellowing:

“Buffalo tits! If those bony-butts can’t find their own crap in an outhouse full of it, they can eat it until the hole is empty! Give the case to those Secret Investigative Crapsuckers? Those Generals of Steppe Outhouses who can’t extricate themselves from their own crap without a horde of bare-butt barbarians?”

I was amused. The old geezer was waxing so eloquent that he didn’t hear the warning bells on my boots.

You just wait, my fine fellow! I’ll fix you, I thought with irrepressible glee, as I neared the Secret Entrance to the Ministry of the Perfect Public Order.

Right, “Secret” . . . as if! The door was wide open, and at the threshold stood General Boboota Box, no longer red, but purple with malevolent rage.

“Now those bare-butt denizens of barren outhouses will be wiping the foam from my crap!”

At this point, Boboota noticed me, and he shut up so fast it seemed that the World had stopped.

I looked wonderful, in my own humble opinion, my Mantle of Death unfurled and my face bright with fury. I summoned all my meager acting abilities so that my malice appeared convincing. The nervous tic—which, according to my directorial method, was supposed to strike Boboota with fear that my venomous spit was headed his way—was particularly effective. I don’t know how believable I really was, but it worked on Boboota. Fear hath a hundred eyes.

There are many grounds for reproach of the Dashing Swordsman Boboota Box, though cowardice is usually not one of them. But there is an immutable law of human nature: all people are mortally afraid of the unknown. My newly acquired gift, which had caused so much speculation in the city, belonged to the realm of the unknown. So you could understand the poor guy.

General Boboota gulped frantically. Captain Shixola, his hapless audience, looked at me almost with hope. I advanced toward them steadily. I wanted to push the joke to its bitter conclusion, to spit at him just to see what would happen. Theoretically, my spit didn’t threaten the life of the Chief of Police, since I was neither angry nor afraid. But I stopped myself just in time. I decided that it might put too great a strain on the poor fellow, and I would be left to clean up the mess afterward. So I traded malice for mildness, and smiled good-naturedly.

“Good evening, Sir Box! Good evening, Captain!” My politeness dealt the final blow to Boboota, though it seemed to disappoint his subordinate. I left them to their perplexity and sailed off to Sir Juffin Hully’s office, which was considered a safe haven for me, his right-hand man.

Juffin was there, and in high spirits.

“Have you heard, Max? We’ve just been assigned a very unusual murder case. It’s really not our department, but Boboota’s boys can’t cope with it. He’s aware of that himself. That’s why the poor fellow just isn’t himself today. You probably heard his harangue out there. Well, let’s go look into this murder.”

We went out into the corridor. There we were joined by Lady Melamori, gloomy as I’d never seen her before. Strange, for I had cheered her up considerably that very morning. Or was it the murder that had gotten her upset? Doubtful. For me a human death was an event—for Melamori it must have already been routine.

“Why is it so quiet?” Juffin wondered aloud, listening to the whispering behind the wall that separated our rooms from those of the City Police. “I thought Boboota was going to keep up his ranting until dawn. Could it be that he has lost his voice? I don’t believe it. It would be too good to be true.”

“Well, I was just passing by, and I pretended to be angry,” I announced modestly.

Juffin stared at me in amazement.

“Sinning Magicians! I’ll arrange it so that your salary is bigger than my own. You’re worth it!”

Melamori didn’t even smile. It was as if the brave General Boboota had never even been her favorite butt of jokes. Rather, she looked as though she were about to cry. I put my hand on her shoulder and was about to make some lighthearted, offhand remark, but I didn’t get a chance. When I touched her I understood everything. I can’t imagine how the secret mechanisms were set in motion, but now I knew exactly what Melamori was feeling as well as she knew it herself. Our Master of Pursuit was temporarily out of order. The unsuccessful attempt to trail me had upset the delicate balance of her dangerous gift.

She needed time to put things to rights again.

It’s like the flu, which, thankfully, is unknown to the people of Echo. Whether or not you want to admit it, getting better takes time. And now Melamori was going to the scene of a crime as though to her own funeral, for she already sensed what the outcome would be—failure, and a new blow to her self-confidence. But she was going anyway, because she was not used to backing down, even before insurmountable obstacles.

And however foolish, I would most likely have done the same. I was starting to like the damsel more and more.

I sent Juffin a call.

Melamori can’t work today. She won’t be able to do her stuff. And she knows it. Why did you call her here? To teach her a lesson?

Juffin stared at me intently, then at Melamori, and suddenly smiled his blinding smile:

“Go home, on the double! March, my lady!”

“Why on earth should I?”

“You know why. Your gift belongs not to you alone, but to the Secret Investigative Force of the Unified Kingdom. And if there is something that endangers your gift, you must take measures to protect it. That’s also a talent, like all the rest of it. And no shifting your problems onto the shoulders of a tired old boss, who will inevitably forget about them. Is that clear?”

“Thank you,” Melamori murmured. It was painful even to look at her.

“You’re welcome,” Juffin snorted. “Go home, Melamori. Better yet, drop by to see your Uncle Kima. He’s a great Master. He’ll patch you up in no time. In a few days you’ll be right as rain. The sooner the better.”

“How will you find the murderer?” she asked uncertainly.

“Sir Max, this lady is insulting us,” the chief said with a grin. “She considers our intellectual faculties to be on the wane. She thinks that we’re good-for-nothing nincompoops who can only cling to the skirt-tails of the Master of Pursuit, hot on the trail of the criminal. Shall we get offended, or kill her on the spot?”

“Oh, please, I didn’t mean it that way,” said Melamori, and a timid smile spread across her face. “I’ll get better. I’ll bring you something from Uncle Kima. And please forgive me, won’t you?”

“I will forgive you, of course,” Juffin assented. “But Sir Max, here—they say he’s terrible when he’s angry. General Boboota completely lost his bearings!”

“I’ll make it up to Sir Max somehow,” Melamori assured him.

Understandably, I was beside myself with joy.

The darling of my demise graciously retreated and disappeared around the corner, toward the parking lot for official amobilers.

Her parting smile was the last pleasant moment of the day. The rest of it was too lousy for words.

A woman had been killed a few steps away from our favorite pub, the Glutton Bunba. Young, beautiful, though not quite to my taste. A rich brunette with large eyes, generous lips, and broad hips. In Echo, this kind of female beauty is particularly prized. But this woman had had her throat slit—a second horrific grin that reached from ear to ear.

If Juffin is to be believed, this is not how people are killed in Echo, neither women nor men. No one. As a matter of fact, murder of any description is exceedingly rare (unless, of course, one of the banned Orders of Magic is involved—then anything can happen). But this didn’t smell like magic, whether forbidden or permitted. No magic at all.

“To be honest, the thing that surprises me most about this whole mess is the location of the crime,” I said when Juffin and I returned to the office. “It’s common knowledge that the Glutton Bunba is your favorite haunt, Juffin. Not even a crazy paranoiac would get up to no good within a dozen blocks of the place.”

“Well, whoever it was sure did,” the chief said with a sniff.

“Maybe it’s a newcomer?”

“Most likely. In Echo, even in the Troubled Times, damsels weren’t treated like that. How inconvenient! We need Melamori now more than ever. She’d solve it in an hour. But here we sit, dwelling on every little piece of nonsense.”

While we sat, a second murder occurred, this time not far from the Street of Bubbles. The same bloody “smile,” but this time the Mona Lisa was a bit older (three hundred years of age). She was the local wisewoman, old Xrida, whom everyone on the street consulted for toothaches or all manner of bad luck. She was still youthful, energetic, and, in contrast to many of her colleagues, a very sweet lady. The residents of all the neighboring quarters had loved her, and the Echo Hustle and Bustle published letters of gratitude several times a year from people she had healed.

I should add that neither of these murders was carried out with the goal of robbery, since no valuables belonging to the victims had been touched. As for money, the women probably didn’t have any with them. Here in Echo, it is thought that touching coins cools off love. For this reason, no woman will ever take money into her hands, and only the boldest consider gloves to be sufficient protection. Men, too, prefer to take precautions; but ladies are especially superstitious in this regard.

By the way, this is why the inhabitants of the Unified Kingdom gradually introduced the custom of using various kinds of bonds and IOUs. Several days at the end of the year are set aside for clearing these debts. I myself prefer to pay with cash, and have occasionally gotten into awkward situations because of this. You hand your money to the bartender, and he glares at you because, you see, he’s left his gloves in the kitchen and now he has to run hither and thither all on account of you.

Thus, in the space of an hour, we had two corpses on our hands. And very few fresh ideas. The night was generous: we received five more “smiles” that were the spitting image of each other, while the victims differed significantly in age, appearance, and social standing. They even lived in distant regions of the city. The criminal seemed to be mixing work with pleasure—grisly murders cum nocturnal excursion: “Echo by Night.”

Close to morning we had a breathing spell. The murders seemed to have ceased. Most likely the protagonist was exhausted and had decided to take a nap. Juffin turned the matter over to Melifaro and Lonli-Lokli for the time being. Sir Kofa Yox went to gather information about the murders in the pubs, and our Venerable Head ordered me to stay right by his side. So far I had been of no use to him whatsoever. Maybe I provided him with inspiration—his muse, so to speak? In that case, I was a pretty lame muse; Juffin hadn’t been visited by a single interesting notion the entire night.

The seventh murder was bequeathed to us at noon, with the same “signature” and no return address.

Strictly speaking, this was what we knew: the killer was probably a man (the tracks he had left in the dust had all but disappeared, but the size was impressive); he was in all likelihood a newcomer (quite unconventional behavior); he possessed a knife of extraordinary size by local standards; he was indifferent to the property of his victims; and he seemed to have no connection with the rebellious Orders, since he didn’t even practice traditional magic in his own gruesome kitchen.

Moreover, he wasn’t insane, since madness in this World leaves behind a weak but distinct stench. Sir Juffin Hully detected no trace of it at any of the crime scenes.

“Max, you seem to be present at a historic moment,” Juffin said, putting aside his pipe, which he had been turning around and around in his hands for the last five hours. “This time I am absolutely baffled. We have seen seven corpses in the past twenty-four hours, a slew of clues that don’t add up to anything, and no magic to speak of, whether outlawed or permitted. It’s time to give the case back to Boboota’s department and try to live down our shame.”

“But you yourself know that—” I began cautiously.

“I know. But it doesn’t smell like there is any kind of sorcery afoot here. And using True Magic for such bestial murders? Highly unlikely. I can’t even imagine it. Unless he’s mad—but it didn’t reek of any kind of madness.”

“You know best,” I sighed. “Let’s go eat, Juffin. These walls need a rest from us.”

Even the Glutton was gloomy. Madame Zizinda looked like she had been crying. The food exceeded all expectations, as usual, but we weren’t in any mood to appreciate its merits. Juffin ordered a glass of Jubatic Juice, sniffed it critically, and pushed it away.

This was perhaps the most incoherent, senseless night I had experienced in all the time I had been here. Hm. In all the time I had been here. It hadn’t been too long, to be honest. It wasn’t at all hard to imagine that in addition to tourists from neighboring cities, inhabitants of other worlds had made their way to Echo, just as I had done. Sinning Magicians!

“Juffin,” I whispered. “What if it’s a countryman of mine?”

My boss raised his eyebrows and nodded slowly.

“Let’s go to the Ministry. A conversation like this isn’t for strangers’ ears. Tell Madame Zizinda to send kamra and something harder to my office. Only not this stuff,” he added, looking at the liquid distastefully.

In the office the chief stared at me with his penetrating gaze.

“Why?”

“Because it explains everything. No magic, right? In any case, no obvious magic. That’s number one. Number two, if I’m here, why might there not be other guests like me? A door, no matter how well locked, always remains a door while a house is still standing. And Juffin, you yourself say that it’s not customary to kill like that in Echo. Where I was born, back there, treating ladies that way is quite popular among madmen. Some madmen. We call them ‘maniacs.’ That’s my third, and most important, argument. It’s all too familiar. I’ve seen similar things on television.”

“Where did you see it?”

“It doesn’t matter,” I mumbled. I tried to think of a quick and comprehensible way of describing television to a person who had never seen it. “Let’s just say that it gives you the ability to stay home and watch what’s going on in other places. Not everything, of course, but the main things. Things that are surprising or important. And then there are movies. With the help of a special apparatus. No magic. Although who knows what the gauge on your Magic Meter would show?”

“Exactly. Oh, you should have brought that television along with you—what a fascinating little gadget!”

“But what do you think about the murderer?” I asked, trying to steer my chief back to the problem at hand. “Do you think he might be a native of my country?”

“Well, it’s an elegant and logical hypothesis—just something you’d come up with. We’ll have to try it out. I’ll go see Maba Kalox, and you’ll come with me. Maba knows your story, so don’t try to impress him with the legend of your origins.”

“Sir!” I exclaimed, indignant. “It’s not my legend, it’s yours. A prime example of the genre of fictional falsification. ‘Sir Max is from the Borderlands of the County Vook and the Barren Lands—an uncouth barbarian, but one heck of a sleuth!’”

“It’s mine alright,” Juffin sighed. “At least I’m good for something. Let’s go.”

At this point, I must elaborate on how I ended up in Echo, since, strange as it may seem, it is directly connected with how these events further unfolded.

For the first twenty-nine years of his muddled existence, Max, the Max I was then, nocturnal dispatcher at a newspaper, average in every possible sense of the word, had grown used to attributing special significance to his dreams. Events in dreams seemed even more real to me than everyday reality. It even went so far that when matters in my dreams weren’t going very well, nothing could comfort me when I was awake. Moreover, even on the best of days, when reality was absolutely agreeable to me, I didn’t quite see the difference between the dream world and the waking world. I dragged all my problems around with me, there and back—as well as joys and satisfactions, when there were any, of course.

Among the myriad dreams I saw (for it was like watching myself starring in a strange movie) there were several that stood out for their frequency. A city in the mountains, where the only kind of municipal transportation was a cable car; a shady English park, divided into two parts by a babbling brook; a series of empty beaches on a gloomy seacoast. And another city, whose mosaic sidewalks enchanted me at first sight. In this city I even had a favorite café, though I could never remember the name of it after I woke up.

Later, when I found myself in the real Glutton Bunba, I recognized it immediately. I even discovered my favorite table between the counter and window onto the courtyard. I felt immediately at home in this place—the smattering of customers who stood along the lengthy counter all seemed strangely familiar to me, and their exotic mode of dress didn’t daunt me in the least. I might add that they, too, looked upon my trousers without any particular curiosity. Echo is, after all, the capital city of a large country. It is also one of the largest seaports in the World. It’s hard to shock the local residents, least of all with exotic attire.

In time, one of the regulars began greeting me. I greeted him back. Even a cat, as everyone knows, appreciates a kind word—no less so when it’s asleep and dreaming.

Gradually, this person established the habit of sitting down at my table just to chat. And Sir Juffin Hully can do this as no one else can—just give him the chance, and he’ll talk your ear off. Things went on like this for a fairly long time. Sometimes when I woke up I would relate to my friends some of the marvelous stories I had heard from my new acquaintance. They all told me to write them down, but I never got around to it. I somehow felt that certain things shouldn’t be entrusted to paper. Well, laziness was a factor, too; why hide it?

Our curious friendship began suddenly—and, for me, completely unexpectedly. One day my conversation partner broke off his story in mid-sentence, and with the mock seriousness of a conspirator, glanced around furtively, then said in a mysterious whisper: “But you’re sleeping, Max. This is all just a dream.”

I was thoroughly shaken, and my body jerked so that I fell off the chair and woke up safely on my floor at home.

For the next seven years I dreamed about everything under the sun except the mosaic paving tiles of the wondrous city. I was sad not to be visited by those dreams, and in my waking life things got worse and worse. I lost interest in my old friends, broke off with my girlfriends, and changed jobs more frequently than underwear. I threw all my books away, since they could no longer comfort me, and when I drank too much I invariably got into fist fights, as though I wished to smash to bits the reality I could not abide.

In time, however, I calmed down. I adopted the whole package of life-affirming values: friends, girlfriends, a tolerable job, decent living quarters, a large library attesting to the affluence of its owner, rather than to his literary tastes. In bars I began ordering coffee instead of spirits. I showered in the morning, shaved no less than every other day, took my underwear to the laundry, and kept my wits about me, resorting to withering glances and biting comments instead of using my fists.

Instead of justified pride, however, I still experienced that dull longing and boredom that drove me out of my mind in my youth. I felt like a walking corpse that had risen from the grave, and had for some reason settled down to a quiet, unobtrusive existence among people who were only half-alive, just as he was.

But I got lucky—and how!

One day, early in the morning, as soon as I had fallen asleep after work, I saw in a dream the long counter of the bar, my favorite table, and my old acquaintance waiting for me at the neighboring table. I remembered right away how our last conversation had ended. I knew I was having a dream. But this time I didn’t fall off my chair. I didn’t wake up. I wasn’t even afraid. I guess as I had grown older I had learned, from necessity, to keep my wits about me.

“What’s happening?” I inquired. “And how is it happening?”

“I don’t know,” my old friend answered. “I don’t think anyone knows how things like this happen. But they do happen. My hobby is examining that fact, when I’m up to it.”

“You don’t know?” I asked, flabbergasted. For some reason I assumed this person was bound to know the answer to my every question.

“That’s not what matters just now,” he interrupted me. “But tell me—do you like it here?”

“Do I? It’s my favorite dream! When I stopped dreaming it I thought I’d lose my mind.”

“I understand. And do you like it there, where you live?”

I shrugged. Around that time problems had been piling up at home. No major difficulties—they were all in the past by then—but dull, trivial, everyday problems. I was the proud owner of a mediocre, uneventful life, and delusions of grandeur about what I actually deserved.

“You are a nocturnal creature,” my conversation partner observed. “And not without eccentricities, am I right? Where you live, it’s a problem when you can’t sleep at night, I suppose.”

“A problem! You’re not kidding!”

Before I knew it, I was unburdening my heart to this sympathetic old man. And when all is said and done, why be ashamed of it? It was only a dream, as I had been frankly informed seven years before.

He listened to me rather indifferently; but he didn’t laugh at me, either, for which I am grateful to this day.

“Well then,” he began, after I had gone quiet. “That’s all quite sad, but I have an excellent proposal for you: an interesting, well-paid job here in this city, which you have already come to love. Moreover, you’ll work only at night—just like you’ve always wanted.”

I didn’t have to think twice. It still hadn’t sunk in that a decision I made there, in my dream, could have any real consequences. But I wanted him to fill me in on the details, purely out of curiosity.

“Okay, let’s say you’ve already won me over. But why do you need me? Do you mean to say that there are no other night owls in this entire city?”

“Of course there are plenty of those,” he said with a grin. “By the way, my name is Juffin. Sir Juffin Hully, at your service. Don’t trouble yourself, I already know your name is Max. And your last name is immaterial to me. You’d be surprised, but I know quite a bit about you already. In particular, I know that you have a certain rare talent that is relevant to the organization I head. It’s just that it hasn’t revealed itself to you yet.”

“What kind of talent might that be? Not a criminal streak, by any chance?” I snickered foolishly.

“You see, you’ve guessed it already! Fine work!”

“Are you serious? What are you, some sort of a Mafia boss?”

“I don’t know what a Mafia is, but I can assure you, what I am is much worse.”

“A Mafia boss is the head of a criminal organization,” I explained. “A big-shot bandit. And what are you?”

“I, on the contrary, am head of the Minor Secret Investigative Force of the city of Echo. Another version of a ‘big-shot bandit,’ you might say, but in the service of the law. By the way, my department concerns itself only with magic crimes.”

“Tragic crimes?” I asked incredulously, fearing I hadn’t heard correctly.

“No. You heard right. Magic crimes. There’s no need to wince. I’m not playing a joke on you. I’m quite serious. But never mind about that for now. If we are able to work together, you’ll get answers to all your questions, and even answers to questions you didn’t know you had.”

“Well, I guess you could say we’re already working together.”

“Really? Well, that’s good. I thought it might be hard to persuade you. I even thought of making a speech.”

“Why don’t you tell me what my job will be, since we’re working together?”

“Nocturnal Representative of the Head of the Minor Secret Investigative Force. You see the Force is usually getting some shuteye at night. So you, Max, will be the Nocturnal Head.”

“Not a bad career for a migrant worker.”

“You’re right about that. Tell me, if I really were this ‘Mafia’ boss, would you nevertheless have agreed to work with me?”

“Oh yes,” I replied honestly. “I don’t know the ins and outs of life here. So for me there’s no real difference between those who commit crimes and those who catch the criminals.”

“Good for you, friend; you didn’t lie. Keep going in that spirit. The truth isn’t such a weighty thing that it ought to be concealed.”

This Sir Juffin, with the profile of a bird of prey and the cold eyes of a predator, had a surprisingly gentle smile. I realized I hadn’t been that charmed for a long time—either awake or asleep. I truly did want to stay here, with this extraordinary person. What he did, and what role he wanted me to play, didn’t really matter at all. This may be why I decided to take our conversation as seriously as I would have if I had been awake. I wanted to believe him; I hadn’t desired anything so deeply for a long time.

“Now we just have to sort out the technical details,” said Sir Juffin Hully and sighed.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, Max, that you still have to get here.”

“Am I not here? Oh. Well, yes . . .”

“That’s just it. Do you think it’s the real you here now? You’re an ordinary ghost. Well, almost ordinary. People don’t shriek and dash aside when they see you, but someone with a trained eye will see through you instantly. And you’ll have problems with your body, which is now lolling around under a blanket. If you die, it’s curtains for you. No, you must be present here with all your engine parts and accessories, which are who-knows-where at the moment.”

“The engine—yes, that’s a problem,” I said, crestfallen.

“Right you are. But listen carefully. You have to do something well-nigh impossible when you wake up. First, you must remember our conversation. I hope that won’t pose a problem for you. And if it does—well then, we’ll have to start all over again. Second, you must remember that all this is extremely serious. You have to convince yourself that some dreams can continue while you’re awake. And if it doesn’t work, you must persuade yourself to verify it. Out of curiosity, or out of boredom, as you wish.”

“No problem. I have enough of both in my life.”

“Wait before you speak! People are made in such a way that if something inexplicable happens to them, they write it off to an overheated imagination. You have only a few hours here to convince yourself of my existence. There I’m powerless to help you. All I can do is hope for success.”

“Have a little faith in me,” I protested, a bit hurt. “I’m no dimwitted fool.”

“Neither dimwitted, nor a fool. But the capacity to believe in miracles isn’t the strongest trump card in your deck. I’ve had the pleasure of studying you for many years now, Max.”

“How?”

“Not ‘how’ but ‘why’. That’s just the way it happened. I saw you here by chance many years ago. I realized you weren’t a local. Then I thought that you weren’t old enough to be hanging around in bars. Only then did it occur to me that you weren’t real. You know: a phantom, a ghost, a pale shadow of a distant dreamer. Around here such things do happen, but I didn’t sense any of our magic in you. That’s why no one caught on to you. Except me, of course.”

“And you—”

“I noticed you because I’m well-versed in these things. And you know what? I took one look at you, and I knew: this guy would be an ideal nocturnal replacement for me one day. And he’d be a pretty good one even now!”

I was stunned. It had been a long time since I had received any compliments, and such pleasantly unexpected ones were a first for me. Now I understand that Juffin was praising me in advance, as it were, so that I could more easily believe in his existence. No matter how loudly my common sense shouted that it was just another stupid dream, to accept the fact that the charming Sir Juffin’s overweening flattery was also only a stupid dream—well, that just wasn’t my style.

“When you’re convinced that it’s worth a try—if, of course, it comes to that—do the following . . .” Here, Juffin fell silent, rubbed his forehead, closed his eyes, and then commanded, “Give me your hand!”

I extended my hand, which he then grabbed hold of painfully. Then he began muttering quietly, hurriedly, almost incoherently, as though trying to keep up with some invisible understudy.

“Late at night, go to . . . yes, that place called Green Street. Remember. Don’t stand still, just keep walking. Well, for an hour, two hours—however long you need to. You’ll see a carriage—you call them ‘streetcars.’ An empty streetcar. It will approach you then stop. Get in and sit down. The streetcar will start moving. Do whatever you wish, but don’t take the coachman’s seat. It’s better not to risk it, you never know with these things. Don’t get nervous, and don’t worry. It could take a long time, so be sure to bring some sandwiches or other provisions. You should be prepared to spend a few days on the road. I don’t think the trip will take terribly long, but anything can happen. And, most important, don’t tell anyone anything. They won’t believe you, and other people’s doubts always interfere with real magic.”

Finally, he let go of my hand, opened his eyes, and smiled.

“Remember that last bit of advice well—it will come in handy in the future. Is everything clear?”

“Yes,” I said, rubbing my sore extremity.

“Will you do this, Max?”

“Sure I will. But streetcars don’t run on Green Street.”

“Maybe not . . .” Juffin said indifferently. “What, did you plan to travel between worlds on an ordinary streetcar? By the way, what’s a streetcar?”

When I woke up, I didn’t have to make any extra effort to remember my dream. I remembered it down to the most minute detail. Trying to figure out where I was at that very moment proved to be more difficult, but I managed.

It was three in the afternoon. I made myself some coffee. Then I sat in an armchair with my cup, and with the first, best cigarette of the day, intent on mulling over everything. By the last gulp, I decided there was nothing more to think about. Even if it was an ordinary dream, what did I have to lose? Taking a walk to Green Street wasn’t much trouble. I like to walk, and I didn’t have anything to do at night. But if the dream was prophetic . . . then it was the chance of a lifetime!

There was nothing to keep me here. My life stretched before me like a meaningless, empty expanse.

There wasn’t even anyone I needed to call to say goodbye to.

Well, there were, of course, people to call. A good fifty names in my telephone book, which I had acquired only a month ago. But there was no one I wanted to talk to, much less see. Maybe I was just depressed. In that case, long live depression! That hypothetical malady made it very easy for me to make the most important decision in my life. It surprises me to this day.

I was possessed by a strangely pleasant lightheadedness. I was moved neither to try to put my effects in order, nor to share my plans with trusted friends. I spent the evening not in tormented deliberation, but over endless cups of tea in front of the TV. Even the last episode of Twin Peaks didn’t seem to me to be a bad omen. I just thought that if I had been Agent Cooper I would probably have continued wandering around the Black Wigwam—anything was better than returning to reality and messing up the lives of others, along with one’s own.

Rather, I behaved as though the most intriguing event of the evening would be the ritual of taking out the trash. Packing my backpack with only a thermos of coffee and a three-day supply of sandwiches, I felt like a first-class idiot, but I thought that even being a first-class idiot would be a welcome change. In recent years I had been a paragon of sensible behavior, and the results were not impressive.

I left home at one o’clock in the morning, and it took me about twenty minutes to Green Street. I had to hang around there for quite a while. One of the last things I recall in that world was the sight of the enormous numbers on the electric clock hanging above the telephone company building: 2:22. I don’t know why, but symmetry like that has always struck me as an auspicious sign.

The loud rumble of the approaching streetcar shattered the stillness of the night, interrupting my contemplation of multiple twos. I wasn’t exactly afraid, but my head started spinning, my eyes saw double, and I just couldn’t get my mind around how the streetcar tracks had suddenly appeared in the middle of the narrow cobble-stone street. I was able to make out a sign that indicated I was at the stop for streetcars following route 432. For some time, the number struck me as even stranger than the very existence of the streetcar. In our city there had never been more than thirty routes, at most. I chuckled nervously. The sound of my own laughter seemed so terrifying to me that I immediately stopped. Then the streetcar appeared from around the corner.

I wanted very much to peer at the driver’s cabin. (People have a habit of doing on occasion what they know they shouldn’t.) When I did, I saw a broad, carnivorous-looking face sporting a sparse growth of whiskers. His tiny eyes, drowning in abundant flesh, burned with unearthly ecstasy. It was hard to determine what frightened me most about his appearance. Let’s just say that at that moment I understood what a soul wandering through Bardo must feel when it first comes across the procession of Divine Furies. Ordinary epithets (“fear,” “horror,” “shock”) cannot begin to describe what I felt.

The streetcar slowed as it approached the stop. Then I realized that this was the end: if I got in, it was the end of me, and if I turned tail and ran, all the more so!

I glanced again at the driver’s seat. Now it was empty, to my relief. A streetcar without a driver, on a street where streetcars don’t run, along route 432, from nowhere to nowhere—that was alarming, but bearable. This form of distorted reality was more to my liking.

The streetcar came to a halt. It was a completely unidentifiable old model with crude letters scrawled on the side that read “Sex Pistols” and “Michael is an ass.”

I’ll always be grateful to this Michael. He saved my life, or my reason, or both. Contemplating the animal nature of the person immortalized on the side of the streetcar reassured me, and I entered the empty semidarkness of the compartment. I sat down by a window and arranged my backpack on the next seat. The door closed. It closed very gently. There was nothing in the least bit frightening about it. We started moving. Even our speed seemed just right.

The nighttime landscape outside the window was in no way unusual—half-familiar urban streets illumined by the pale globes of streetlights, now and then cheerful yellow patches of windows, the weak neon shimmer of store signs. I felt happy and calm, as though I were on my way to my grandmother’s house in the country, where I hadn’t been since I was fourteen. My grandmother died, the house was sold, and I had never again been as free and happy as I was then. I looked at my reflection in the glass: cheerful, eager, youthful. What a nice guy I can be.

On one of the seats I discovered some sort of magazine, and I reached for it happily. The magazine was a news digest, a genre I am especially fond of. Some people like things that are a bit hotter, but at that stage in my life I liked to numb my brain with digests—an ecologically clean drug. It made time pass the way I like it to: imperceptibly.

This probably all seems very absurd—jumping without a backward glance into an old jalopy of a streetcar, reaching for an out-of-date magazine, and devouring the day before yesterday’s news over fresh sandwiches. But that’s just how I am: when I don’t understand what’s going on, I try to find some activity that will distract me. In everyday life I often behave like a lunatic, but as soon as things start getting strange, I become a psychologically balanced bore. It’s no doubt my unique version of the instinct of self-preservation.

When my attention wandered away from the magazine, I noticed that it was getting light outside. Suddenly I felt like there was a taut string inside me, quivering and ready to snap. Two cheery suns were clambering up into the heavens above the horizon—each one above its own horizon, that is. Two sunrises in one—or one sunrise twice? To the left and to the right, so that neither eye would feel left out.

Come what may, I had to gather my wits about me. So as not to panic, I turned away from both windows, screwed up my face, relaxed, yawned, and tried to get more comfortable on the hard seat. Surprisingly, it worked—the seat seemed to become roomier and softer. I laid my head down on the sandwich-stuffed backpack and fell asleep.

I slept soundly. No nightmares haunted me. Apparently, the demons in charge of my dreams were taking a smoke break. Good for them.

All in all, the streetcar-microcosm was kindly disposed toward me. When I woke up, I realized I was lying not on a hard seat, but on a short, soft leather divan. It was possible to fit my whole body on it if I pulled my knees way up near my chin. In addition, a scratchy plaid throw, almost as comforting as the one I had left at home, had appeared out of nowhere.

“How sweet you are to me,” I mumbled, and fell into an even deeper sleep.

When I woke up again, the streetcar compartment looked like a dormitory for gnomes. All the seats had turned into short, leather divans, which suited me to a tee. After all, it would be a crime not to take advantage of such creature comforts in the face of the complete unknown. I slept a lot, munched on my provisions, and discovered new magazines now and then, sometimes in the most improbable places—one of them turned up tucked under my armpit; another was stuck in the ticket puncher like a monstrous, interstellar transfer pass.

As for surrealistic landscapes like the double dawn, there were no further surprises. A permanent darkness settled outside the windows of the streetcar, making it easier to preserve my emotional equilibrium.

According to my approximate calculations, this idyll continued for three or four days. Who knows, though, how much time really passed in this extraordinary streetcar? To this day, the most inexplicable phenomenon of that experience remains the fact that I never once felt the call of nature or noticed the absence of a bathroom. This, to put it mildly, contradicts what I know of human capabilities. The whole time I waited with trepidation for the familiar distress signals from my plumbing system, all the while trying to come up with a somewhat hygienic solution to the awkward problem I anticipated —but it turned out to be unnecessary.

My final “awakening” was strikingly different from the previous ones, beginning with the fact that I found myself wrapped not in the scratchy throw, but in a fur blanket. And I could finally stretch out my long-suffering legs. Looking around, I discovered that I was lying not in a bed and not on a divan, but on a very soft floor in a huge, half-dark, and nearly empty room. At the far end of this room, someone was breathing heavily, menacingly, as it seemed to me. I opened my eyes wide, then turned over awkwardly and got up on my hands and knees. The breathing ceased, but a few seconds later something softly nudged my heels. To this day, I don’t know how I kept myself from screaming out.

Instead, still crouched on the floor, I pivoted around and found myself nose-to-nose with another one, very soft and moist. Then something licked my cheek. Indescribable relief nearly robbed me of my senses. Before me was an absolutely charming creature—a shaggy puppy with the face of a little bulldog. Later, I found out that Chuff wasn’t a puppy at all, but a seasoned canine. His compact size and exuberance had misled me.

Soon, a small figure draped in capacious garments flowing down to the floor materialized in the twilight of the room. Peering closely at him, I realized that it was not my dream companion. It was someone else. Could I have come to the wrong address?

“Mister Venerable Head is expected later this evening. If you please, sir, inform me of your wishes,” requested the stranger, a fragile, wizened old man with radiant eyes and a pensive, thin-lipped mouth. This was Kimpa, Sir Juffin Hully’s butler. Juffin himself did indeed arrive later that night.

Only then did it sink in that the unimaginable journey from one world to another had really taken place.

That is how I ended up in Echo—which I have never had cause to regret, even on days as hopeless as this one seemed to be.

While I was lost in reminiscences, the amobiler, manned by Sir Juffin Hully, was winding in and out among the luxuriant gardens of the Left Bank. Finally, we turned into a narrow driveway that seemed to be paved exclusively with semiprecious stones. At first I didn’t see the house amid the thick undergrowth. Sir Maba Kalox is probably a philosopher, and his philosophy requires that he become one with nature. That’s why he lives in a garden without any architectural superfluities, I thought cheerfully, just before we nearly ran smack into the wall of his house, all but invisible under the opaque curtain of vines.

“This is what you call camouflage!” I exclaimed admiringly.

“You can’t imagine how right you are, Max. Now do you see why I sat behind the levers of this blasted buggy? During my lifetime I have paid several hundred visits to Maba, and I have always been forced to find my way to his lair by guesswork. It’s impossible to memorize the way here. Every time you just have to arm yourself with the hope that you’ll get lucky. Maba Kalox is an unsurpassed master of discretion!”

“Is he hiding from someone?”

“No, not at all. People just have a hard time discovering his whereabouts. It happens of its own accord, with no help from him. One of the side effects of studying True Magic.”

“And why is your house so easy to find?”

“In the first place, we all have our eccentricities. And, second, I’m by no means as old as he is.”

“Do you mean to say—”

“I don’t mean to say anything. But I have to, since you asked. The Order of the Clock of Time Backwards has existed . . . let me see . . . yes, around 3,000 years. And I have yet to hear that there has been a succession of Grand Magicians.”

“Wow!”

I had nothing more to add.

Sir Juffin turned behind the well-concealed building. There we came upon a decrepit plywood door, more fitting for a toolshed than a Grand Magician’s villa. The door opened with a creak, and we found ourselves standing in the middle of a large, rather chilly hall.

Maba Kalox, the Grand Magician of the Order of Time Backwards, was known for having peacefully disbanded his Order several years before the onset of the Troubled Times, after which he managed nearly to disappear from sight without ever leaving Echo. This living legend was waiting for us in the sitting room.

The “living legend” was quite ordinary looking. He was a shortish, stocky fellow of indeterminate age with an animated expression. His merry, round eyes were the true embellishments of his face. If he could have been said to resemble any of my companions, it would have had to be Kurush, our wise buriwok.

“Haven’t set eyes on you in ages, Juffin!”

Sir Maba Kalox said this with such unfeigned enthusiasm that it seemed Sir Juffin’s presence filled him with cosmic joy.

“I’m happy to see you,” he said to me, making a low exaggerated bow. “You could have brought your marvel around sooner, Juffin. May I touch him?”

“Go ahead. As far as I know he doesn’t bite. He doesn’t kick. It’s even safe to drop him on the floor.”

“On the floor! That’s a good one.”

Maba Kalox really did probe me with his index finger, then immediately drew back as if he were afraid of getting burned. He winked at me conspiratorially, as if to say, “You and I know this charade is just for Juffin’s sake—so bear with me. Let’s humor the old geezer.” Sir Maba didn’t use Silent Speech, but somehow I knew just what the wink meant. I liked his approach, in spite of the fact that he had called me “marvel” and pinched me like fresh dough.

“Sit down, friends,” Sir Maba Kalox said, gesturing broadly toward the table. “I’ll rustle up some of your best black poison.”

By “black poison” he meant kamra, of course.

“It will probably be some potion of boiled herbs again,” Juffin commented peevishly. He could grow savage when someone took aim at one of his little weaknesses.

“Well, at least it’s not any of that liquid tar of yours. Whoever decided that was fit for drinking at all? No matter how often those misery-mongers muttered spells over it. Don’t pout, Juffin. Just try this. It really is something special.”

Sir Maba Kalox was absolutely right. The steaming, ruby-hued beverage that appeared on the table had a flavor somewhat reminiscent of Elixir of Kaxar, of which I was particularly fond, infused with some kind of celestial flower.

“Well, at long last I get offered something decent in this house,” Juffin said gruffly, beginning to come around.

“I haven’t seen you this tired since the Code was adopted,” our host said, standing up and stretching creakily. “Why worry so much about these murders, Juffin? When the World might really have collapsed you were much calmer about it—and for good reason.”

“First, if I can’t solve a case within an hour, it makes me very irritable, you know that. Second, Max has gotten an idea into his head that I don’t like one bit. At the same time, it would explain everything. If we left the door open between Worlds—well, Maba, you realize it’s nothing to joke about.”

“The door between Worlds is never really closed, Juffin. It’s time you realized that. In any case, I’m at your service, on the condition that you both drink another cup of my concoction. I’m extremely vain, you know.”

“And I was worried that you had left all your human weaknesses far behind,” Juffin said, grinning. Then he turned to me, “Sir Max, don’t sit there looking so stiff and awkward. This may be the only house in Echo where you have no cause to feel shy.”

“I’m not feeling shy. I just always need a little time to—”

“Sniff things out?” Maba Kalox asked. His eyes were the kindest X-rays I had ever been subjected to.

“Something like that. It usually lasts just a short time, and then I realize that I’m already used to things. But sometimes—”

“Sometimes you understand that you’ll never get used to it. You don’t have to, but you try to swallow it anyway,” Maba said, finishing the end of my thought. “Well, I’d say that’s a very sensible approach to things. Sniff it out, Marvel. As for me, I’ve already sniffed you out.”

I nodded and reached for the second cup.

“You can check out whether Max is right or not, can’t you?” asked Juffin, drumming his fingers on the tabletop nervously.

“Of course. But why check it out? You already know he’s right, Juffin. You’re just tired. And not only because of this. But it was your choice—wasting your life on trivial nonsense.”

“Somebody has to do it,” Juffin grumbled.

“And not just anyone, but you in particular. So it’s all well and good. You want me to look into the matter, do you?”

“Of course I do. If a fellow from another World is roaming around Echo, I have to know at the very least whether he ended up here just by chance, or—”

“Why don’t you call a spade a spade, Juffin? What you really want to know is how many other uninvited guests are likely to fall into your warm embrace.”

“Well, you’ve got my number. Of course that’s what I want to know. That’s my job.”

“Fine. If you want a refill, the jug’s on the table. I hope you won’t be bored. I’ll be back shortly.”

With this, Sir Maba, much to my astonishment, crawled under the table. I stared at Juffin, dumbfounded.

“Look under the table and you’ll understand.”

I looked. There was nothing there. What else did I expect?

“The door between Worlds can be anywhere, Max,” Juffin said softly. “Even under the table. What difference does it make? But whoever wants to find it has to hide from the eyes of others. Maba needs only seconds. I’d need a minute or two. How long did you have to wait for that curious contraption that delivered you to my bedroom?”

“About an hour.”

“Not bad for a beginner. It’s just a matter of practice, son. Pour me some more of that potion. I think I’ve found just what the wiseman ordered for a weary man.”

“I’d like to get the recipe for this out of him,” I murmured dreamily.

“The recipe? It doesn’t exist. I know how Maba makes his concoctions—he just throws in everything that comes to hand.”

“Sinning Magicians, Juffin! That’s beyond me.”

“Me, too, for the time being. And I’ve been around on this earth a bit longer than you have, if you care to remember. I haven’t wasted my time, either. The problem is that everything happens gradually, Max.”

“My problem is that everything happens too suddenly.”

“In that case, you’re lucky. Try to get used to it.”

Somewhere in the far corner of the sitting room a door slammed. Sir Maba Kalox came back to the table, as cheerful and animated as ever.

“Thank you, Juffin. It was a pleasure to examine the Door you opened, and to see the curious place that lies beyond it. I must say, it was grand!”

“I’m glad you liked it. But the more Max tells me about the place, the less I like it.”

“I’m not saying it appeals to me. It was simply very interesting. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen anything like it. Are you glad you stole away from there, Max?”

“I can’t imagine my life working out any other way. When I first arrived here I felt like I had landed in clover! I felt that someone was rubbing the part of my brain that makes me purr.”

Sir Maba Kalox nodded, settled himself more comfortably in his armchair, and thoughtfully drew out a plate with small rolls from under the table. He tasted them, nodded his approval, and placed his souvenir on the table.

“They’re edible, and very tasty. But, I won’t stall, I’ll tell you everything that happened while I was there. In the first place, Max, you were right. One of your countrymen really is at large in Echo. By the way, Juffin, it’s the first time I’ve come across someone of his age and sex who has such a highly developed faculty of intuition.”

“Same here,” my boss said.

I blushed with pleasure.

“I congratulate you both. Eat up, don’t be afraid. I don’t know where they came from, but nevertheless . . .”

“Poisoner,” Juffin mumbled, stuffing a roll into his mouth. “Chow down, Max. If we die, we’re going out together.”

The rolls were excellent. The flavor seemed familiar to me, though I couldn’t quite place it.

“I don’t know how you managed,” Sir Maba Kalox continued. “But you, my boys, came up with the craziest mode of transportation between Worlds I’ve ever seen.”

“What do you mean ‘we’? Juffin thought it up. I just obediently followed instructions,” I protested. I certainly didn’t want to be burdened by someone else’s laurels. I didn’t even know where to put my own.

“Judge for yourself, Max,” Juffin replied. “How could I have invented that ‘streetcar’ when to this day I don’t know what it is? Someday it will get through to you that we did it together. But for now, you’ll just have to take my word for it.”

“Just resign yourself to not knowing what you’re doing for the next few hundred years,” Maba Kalox added. “It’s only frightening at first. After that it gets interesting. Now then, let’s get back to my impressions. I found myself in the dark and lonely street where the Door between Worlds opened for you, Max. There was some lunatic wandering around who was obsessed with murder. Nothing so unusual in that, and anyway, I love madmen. However primitive they may be, they always have access to marvels. As for this fellow, it was obvious to me right away that he was tripping over the marvelous with both feet. Some kind of eccentric buggy, clearly man-made, drove up and stopped right in front of him. I’ve never seen anything more ungainly in my life. A means of transportation should be able to drive anywhere, and not be confined to a little path! All the more since no path is infinite.”

“That ‘little path’ is called ‘tracks,’” I interposed, just to set the record straight.

“Thank you, Max. That, of course, changes everything. When I realized how this strange buggy was made and what it was for, I split my sides laughing. But for the madman, the arrival of the streetcar was also a surprise. You see, he was aware that on that street there was no little path like the one I have already mentioned. Yes, yes, Max, I remember. ‘Tracks.’ Consequently, the poor fellow was sure that this contraption couldn’t be there at all. Sinning Magicians, how little it takes for some people to lose their minds!”

“Tell me, Maba,” Juffin said, frowning. “How great is the probability that other people will come across this streetcar?”

“The chances are almost nil. The appearance of this anomaly of nature is in some way connected with the phases of the moon there, as well as the positions of the other planets. The necessary conditions of alignment are fairly rare. Also, it’s a deserted street. And, more important, this passage between worlds was created especially for him”—a nod in my direction—“so normal people not only cannot use the thing, they don’t even see it. Only an experienced person or a lunatic, whose own personality has disintegrated due to the onset of madness, is able to pass through the Door to Beyond. You may rest assured, Juffin, such auspicious conditions occur very seldom, unless we’re talking about a few of their Magicians who manage to pass through. But that’s possible at any time, under any circumstances.”

“All the more since there are no Magicians there,” I added.

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” said Sir Maba Kalox. “Are you personally acquainted with all the inhabitants of your world?”

“Of course not, but—”

“Just what I thought. Just because you haven’t met any of them doesn’t mean they don’t exist. Be optimistic, we Magicians are everywhere.”

“So you’re saying there won’t be any invasion from those parts,” Juffin said, visibly relieved.

“Of course not. Oh, and one more interesting detail. This ‘streetcar’ had a coachman. I wish I had had more time to study this strange creature. I’ll pursue the matter at my leisure, to be sure.”

“A zealous-looking fat fellow with a thin mustache,” I said slowly, my lips growing numb with horror at the memory. “As monstrous a mug as earth can produce—was that him?”

“Yes indeed it was. Who else? The first being you ever created, Max. You might be a little bit more charitable. I’ve never seen the likes of him.”

“Who is this coachman you’re talking about?” Juffin demanded. “You never mentioned him to me, Max!”

“I thought you knew everything already, without me. Besides, I tried to forget about him as soon as I could. I almost died when I saw him! Praise be the Magicians, he disappeared almost immediately!”

“Oh, right—you no doubt thought he was a good buddy of mine. Well, I’ll be. I should have questioned you about your journey. My pragmatism foiled me—I thought that since you had arrived in one piece that was all that mattered. Maba, what kind of creature is he?”

“I can’t say. I don’t know yet myself. There’s only one thing I can tell you: I’ve never seen anything like him before. If I find time to study him, I’ll certainly inform you of the results of my research. But you are so severe toward your own creation, Max! The lunatic, for example, liked this coachman very much. He decided to talk to him and to find out how the streetcar had found its way to a street where it didn’t belong. And at a certain moment he thought that the coachman might become his best friend. You could say they were made for each other, each obsessed in his own way. In short, the streetcar stopped, the fellow got in, greeted the coachman, and off they went. I can’t tell you all the details of their journey together, since I was too lazy to investigate any further. But after some time, the lunatic ended up in Echo, in the back courtyard of the Glutton Bunba. He was hungry, frightened, and he had finally ‘flipped his lid.’”

“He flipped what?” asked Juffin asked.

“His lid. I’m just using his own term. Nuances are very significant in such matters. Max, can you translate?”

“Well,” I began. “It means to ‘lose your mind’ all at once, but at the same to sink deeper and deeper into it, step by step. That’s how I would explain it.”

“Well said,” Sir Maba exclaimed, sounding pleased. “And what happened next you know better than I do, as the Door between Worlds closed and I lost interest in your companion.”

“Listen, Maba, couldn’t we—” Juffin proposed, before Maba cut him off.

“No, we couldn’t!”

“Fine. Goodbye then. Don’t forget to let me know about the mysterious mustachioed creature when you figure him out.”

“And you come back in a dozen or so days, or even before, but not with such a despondent countenance. You come, too, Max. With Juffin or by yourself. If you can find me, of course. But I can’t help you there. Well, gentlemen, you have given me great pleasure, dropping in like this and dumping your personal problems on me. That’s a true art. Farewell.”

And Sir Maba overturned the table we were sitting at with a violent shove. The table crashed to the floor, shards of dishes went flying in all directions. I ducked instinctively, the chair flipped over, and in the wink of an eye I had landed on the most reliable of all points of rest, after executing a somersault à la Sir Melifaro.

A moment later I realized I was sitting not on Maba’s floor, but in the luxuriant grass beside a garden path. I glanced around, stunned. Next to me sat Juffin, roaring with laughter.

“Maba adores surprising novices. After meeting him for the first time I found myself at the bottom of a lake, crawling on all fours looking for some stairs, since I had completely forgotten I knew how to swim. In fact, the very notion that there existed such a useful skill as swimming never entered my head! It was several hours before I reached shore, and several years, if I remember correctly, before I understood how I had ended up there. But by then I couldn’t be angry at Maba, even if I tried very hard. Believe me, Sir Max, he was very humane in his treatment of you.”

“You call that humane? All the same, I liked Sir Maba very much.”

“I’m glad you did. Let’s go. You can sit at the levers—finding the way back is a piece of cake.”

“What were you and Maba discussing just before we left, Juffin?” I asked when I had come to my senses after our unorthodox parting from the Grand Magician. “I’m pretty quick on the uptake, but that was too fast even for me. ‘Couldn’t we—’ ‘No, we couldn’t.’ Forgive me for being importunate, but I’m terribly curious.”

Sir Juffin Hully waved his hand vaguely. “It’s no mystery. I meant to ask whether we might be able to find your countryman more quickly using you . . . well, as a model. Maybe there is some scent from your world so subtle that I can’t detect it. Or something of that nature, which might speed the case up a bit.”

“So?”

“You heard him—it’s impossible.”

“You mean my homeland has no smell? That’s disappointing.”

“It may very well smell, but you, Sir Max, are no reliable model.”

“I’m hurt,” I admitted in dismay.

“You needn’t be. Studying True Magic has already changed you too much. You yourself may not notice these changes, but you can take my word for it. If we use you as a model, we might just as likely find me—or Maba Kalox himself.”

“That’s also relevant,” I remarked. “You yourself said that seeking him out to pay a visit was no easy matter.”

“Yes, but I’d prefer to find this ‘lunatic’ for a start—and only then undertake a more intellectual pursuit. Sleeping, for instance. Ah, here we are already.”

“And his clothes, Juffin?” I asked, getting out of the amobiler. “I’m willing to bet they are no more fitting for a walk around Echo than the trousers I showed up in.”

“Oh, but this is the capital of the Unified Kingdom. There are dozens of visitor here at any given time. It’s no secret to the local residents that half the World wears trousers, including those very citizens of the free city of Gazhin, not to mention the inhabitants of the Borderlands so dear to your heart. Trousers will surprise no one here. The time when locals were ready to gawk at every foreign costume is long since past. Now they don’t even turn their heads. How are things, Melifaro?” Juffin asked our colleague, whom we found stretching his legs in the main foyer of the House by the Bridge, nonchalantly studying the artwork that adorned the walls.

“Not bad, that is to say, no more corpses,” Melifaro reported briskly. “The fellow has wound down, I suppose. He really should take better care of his health. Sir Juffin, are you ready to save my skin from this poison-spewing monster? Not long ago he threatened to do me in!”

I stared at Melifaro in bewilderment.

“When was that?”

I had already clean forgotten about Lonli-Lokli’s serenade yesterday, after which the ‘diurnal backside’ of the Venerable Head really had run the risk of my wrath. Vanity of vanities, to be sure.

“You won’t be offended, Melifaro, if I do you in later? In light of recent events, murder seems like a terribly trivial and humdrum affair. I don’t want to be just a pale imitation of an unsung genius.”

“Give me a break! The victims are ladies, and I’m a man at the height of my powers.”

“Death has no gender preferences.”

“Spoken like a true philosopher,” Juffin remarked approvingly. “Come with me, Melifaro. We need a quick-witted ne’er-do-well like yourself who isn’t completely befuddled by these goings-on. I’ve already sent a call to Sir Kofa. He promised to join us in half an hour.”

“Right. He just has to consume half a pie and listen to another new joke,” Melifaro quipped, nodding vigorously. “You can’t hold it against him, though; it’s his job.”

When he got to the office, Juffin collapsed in a chair and smiled broadly.

“We’ve done all we could, Melifaro. Now it’s your move. It’s clear beyond the shadow of a doubt: the killer is Max’s countryman. What do you suggest?”

“Clothes are out,” Melifaro observed coolly. “Time was when a person in pants was considered a novelty.”

“I told you,” Juffin said, turning to me.

“Likewise his accent. Well, we have a few leads to work with, but it’ll take some time,” Melifaro said, slipping his fingers under his turban.

“Think, Max. What else is there that would distinguish your compatriot from, er, normal people? No hard feelings, of course. Is there anything that might draw attention, something impossible to conceal in a motley crowd?”

“I have to concentrate,” I replied. “And the best place to do it is sitting on the porcelain throne. Maybe there a brilliant idea will dawn on me. Excuse me, gentlemen. I’ll return in a moment.”

I left for the shortest vacation of all—a rest stop to which every person in any imaginable world has an inalienable right.

Passing down the corridor, I heard one of my favorite “arias” again, and I decided to sneak over to catch another performance.

“Bull’s tits! What kind of crap does she want from you, Foofloss? She can go over there, where they wallow in it!” General Boboota Box looked around warily and glimpsed my friendly face just as I rounded the corner.

“. . . insofar as those good people will undoubtedly be interested in everything she has to say,” Sir Boboota finished in a hollow voice without taking his eyes off my face.

In response, Captain Foofloss, his relative and deputy, eyes popping out of his head, carried out the curious and entertaining breathing exercise know as spluttering.

“I was just giving orders that a material witness in the case Hully has been investigating since yesterday evening be sent to you,” Boboota reported respectfully. He can actually express himself decently when he wishes! I marveled.

“Excellent,” I drawled. “You have acted fully in accordance with the law, Sir Box.”

I could have sworn he sighed with relief.

I returned to find a cheerful hubbub in Juffin’s office. A spry, red-haired lady in an expensive bright-red looxi was holding a mug of kamra in her hand and beaming coquettishly at Melifaro’s chiseled Hollywood features. I had thought that the heyday of the frivolous flirt had passed, but the lady herself clearly knew otherwise.

“And here’s Sir Max,” Juffin announced solemnly, for some reason finding it necessary to state the obvious. “Please begin, Lady Chadsy.”

The lady turned to me. Upon seeing my garment, her face fell. Then she broke into the falsest of false smiles and turned away from me again hastily, all of which I found quite distressing. I took my place without any fanfare, arming myself with a full mug of kamra.

“Thank you, sir. You can’t imagine the brutes I had to deal with at the City Police department. They didn’t know how to offer a lady a sip of kamra, much less a comfortable chair. I was forced to sit on a rickety stool!”

“Oh, I can imagine,” said Juffin. Sincere sympathy was written all over his face. “But I am under the impression that it was an even more serious matter that brought you here.”

“Yes, indeed, Sir Hully. Already this morning I had a premonition. I knew I ought not to go shopping. And I didn’t, because I trust my premonitions. But then my friend, Lady Hadley, sent me a call. She was very anxious to see me, and I couldn’t refuse her. We agreed to meet in the Pink Buriwok. I decided not to call for an amobiler, but to go on foot, since I live on the Street of High Walls, so—”

“Yes, the Pink Buriwok is just a stone’s throw away,” Melifaro nodded. Lady Chadsy looked at him with unfeigned interest, and not a trace of maternal tenderness.

“Exactly, sir. I’m surprised at how quickly you understand me. Perhaps you also live nearby?”

“No, but I’m planning on moving there soon,” Melifaro informed her in a confidential tone. “Please go on, my lady.”

The lady blushed with pleasure. I could hardly keep from laughing aloud, though it would have been quite awkward if I had lost my composure. The lady would no doubt have refused to give a deposition until they had me strung up and quartered—all the more since my Mantle of Death reduced any hypothetical manly charms to zero.

“I left home despite the premonition. And it hadn’t misled me. I had not gone a block when some horrible barbarian came around the corner wearing a disgusting, dirty looxi with sleeves, and dreadful-looking trousers. And the boor was swaying back and forth! I had never seen such a drunk man—well, with the exception of my cousin James, whom I once found in a similar condition. But that was well before the Code Epoch, so Cousin James can be forgiven. But this drunken scoundrel started waving a knife around at me. He even slashed my new skaba, which I bought only yesterday at Dirolan’s! You can imagine how much it cost. I can’t stand men like that, so I gave him a punch in the nose before I really got frightened. He hissed some strange words at me. ‘Who-are, who-are!’ At first I thought he had the impudence to ask me who I was. But then he hissed ‘Old-who-are!’ and ran away, so I think it must be some primitive barbarian curse. I went home to change and sent a call to Hadley so she wouldn’t be angry that I was late, and I explained the reason I had been delayed. Hadley said that it might be the murderer they wrote about in the Echo Hustle and Bustle, and that truly frightened me. And she advised me to come to you—well, not to you personally, Sir Hully, but to the House by the Bridge. Then I hailed an amobiler and hurried over here. That’s all there is to tell. Do you think it might be the same killer? But he was such a weakling! I can’t understand why those poor women couldn’t wrestle him down. Just one punch was all it took.”

“Thank you, Lady Chadsy,” Juffin announced ceremoniously. “I think your courage has saved not only your own, but many other lives, as well. And now, you may go home. I regret that our meeting was so short, but it is our duty to find the culprit who insulted you as soon as we are able.”

“You will find him, gentlemen. Of that I am certain!”

The lady made her exit, swaying her hips gracefully, and now and then casting sultry glances at us over her shoulder. Melifaro, the lucky man, received such a passionate parting smile that he nearly crashed to the floor under the weight of it. When Lady Chadsy had finally disappeared from sight, the poor guy rolled his eyes heavenward.

“Sinning Magicians, what did I do to deserve such punishment?”

“Well, if worse comes to worst, you’re guaranteed a position as a salesman at Dirolan’s,” Juffin said with a grin. “Max, have you remembered how you differ from ‘normal people,’ to use the terminology of this poor man?”

I shrugged, and drank the rest of the cold kamra. I differed from “normal people” in many ways, especially just now. I would have to try to discern how all my former compatriots differed from my present ones, but the amusing episode with Boboota and the heart-wrenching confession of Lady Chadsy distracted me from my thoughts on the matter.

“Here I am!” Sir Kofa Yox beamed at us with the complacent smile of a man with a full stomach. “I’m sorry I’m late. I was detained by a very amusing incident. I was just going into the Old Thorn when your call came, Juffin.”

I leaped up and knocked over my chair. The mug, blessedly empty, clattered to the floor.

“What an idiot I am!” I cried. “How could I have forgotten! The Soup of Repose! Remember what happened to me, Juffin? Of course he was swaying back and forth on his feet! He sure must have been! Of course, it was my countryman. The guy tried the soup! No more murders for him!”

“Well, that’s that,” Juffin sighed in relief. “Our troubles are over. Though we have nothing to be proud of. We’re just lucky. Theoretically, the killer could have wandered around Echo forever, eating something else.”

“What happened when you ate the soup?” Melifaro asked, perplexed. “I don’t quite get the connection, gentlemen.”

“Max can’t eat Soup of Repose,” Juffin explained. “But don’t even think about joking about it, son. It affects him like poison. He was knocked out flat for three days after eating a bowlful, and I was powerless to help.”

“Poor guy,” Melifaro said sympathetically. “That’s why you’re so overwrought all the time. As though Lonli-Lokli were sitting on your backside. You’re really missing out, mate.”

“I hope it’s the worst loss I experience,” I said indifferently. “I can get along fine without the soup.”

“Everything makes sense to me now,” Sir Kofa announced suddenly. “You can send Lonli-Lokli to the Old Thorn. The killer’s there. He’s the reason I was late.”

“I’ll go myself.” Melifaro jumped up and made it to the doorway in a single bound. “You can’t just kill a miracle of nature like that! Moreover, the Master Who Snuffs Out Unnecessary Smiles is busy with my paperwork. It would be a sin to deprive him of the pleasure.”

“We’ll go together,” said Juffin and stood up. “I’m curious, too, not to mention Max, who simply must exchange greetings with his compatriot. And Sir Kofa has full right to his portion of the laurels.”

Frankly speaking, I wasn’t especially eager to accompany them. I would have to encounter a person who had traveled the same road I had, through the Door between Worlds, to use Juffin’s terminology. If it were up to me, I would have postponed the meeting. But no one thought to ask me.

They put me behind the levers of the amobiler—we had some distance to go, and time was short. Along the way, Sir Kofa recounted his experiences.

“Just after midday, a strange fellow entered the Thorn. As everyone knows, Mr. Chemparkaroke adores oddities. The stranger, the better—that’s his motto. Chemparkaroke is still just as curious as the day he arrived in Echo for the first time from the island of Murimax. Anyway, the visitor made his entrance by shouting out something from the doorway: ‘All women are . . .’ something or other. A hole in the heavens above, I can’t remember for the life of me.”

“Whores,” I prompted. “He probably said ‘all women are whores.’”

“That’s it, Sir Max! You’re not a medium, by any chance?”

“No, it’s just that maniacs like this guy usually get fixated on one idea or phrase, and they keep repeating it over and over. He said the same thing to the red-headed lady. He called her an ‘old whore.’”

“What does it mean?” Melifaro wanted to know.

“Nothing, really. Something like ‘bad woman.’ Or, let’s say, ‘very bad, depraved woman.’”

When he heard my translation, Melifaro colored deeply. But I thought it necessary to continue my lecture.

“Guys like that always bear grudges against women—against all of them without exception, or just against blondes, or plump ones, or tall ones. It all depends.”

“Let’s not get sidetracked, here,” Juffin grumbled. “Let Kofa have his say.”

“Chemparkaroke was in ecstasy over this incomprehensible word. So he agreed with his guest out of politeness. The guy asked whether Chemparkaroke had anything to relieve his suffering. The innkeeper concluded that the visitor wanted to taste some of his legendary soup. He poured him some of the most potent stuff. At first the visitor didn’t want to eat it, but Chemparkaroke swore on his mother’s grave that it was the best cure for suffering. So the fellow tasted it. He liked it. Did he ever like it! Chemparkaroke claims that he had never witnessed such unequivocal enthusiasm about his homemade soup. When the visitor had finished, he fled. Chemparkaroke realized that the fellow had no money and didn’t know that the King picked up all tabs for the hungry in Echo. Visitors are often unaware of this, and so end up getting into scrapes. Chemparkaroke was used to it. He was happy with the new acquisition for his ‘oddball collection’ and returned to his innkeeping tasks.

“An hour later, his newfound friend came back. Chemparkaroke noticed that he was shuffling his feet uncertainly in the doorway, and shouted to him to come in, since he wasn’t obliged to pay for anything if he didn’t have the money. Then he served him some more soup. The fellow kept muttering about ‘relieving his suffering. ’ By the time I dropped in to the Old Thorn, curiosity-seekers were already gathering. Chemparkaroke was doing a brisk business, so his generosity was rewarded tenfold. And people got what they were looking for. Something extraordinary was happening to the visitor. After the second bowl of soup, he began to babble, and after the third, he broke into the most enigmatic dance I’ve ever seen. It was probably some kind of folk dance. Then he dozed off, and I thought he was there for the long haul, since he was in no condition to leave. Chemparkaroke promised to keep an eye on him, because by then it had occurred to me that this strange bird could well be one of your clients. I even started to wonder—is he really a human being? But what didn’t occur to me was to recall Chemparkaroke’s story about how you, Juffin, dragged this poor boy into the Thorn one day.”

The “poor boy,” of course, was me. Juffin sighed penitently, remembering his recent blunder.

At the threshold the Old Thorn I winced. It was no doubt a great place, but my digestive system refused to agree with that opinion, and a feeling of nausea hit me the moment I entered. The Thorn was so packed that it looked as though the entire citizenry of Echo had received a Day of Freedom from Care at the same time. When our rather intimidating posse entered the tavern, the patrons slowly began to disperse. The red-haired Chemparkaroke assumed a knowing expression and began wiping off the already spotless dishes.

My countryman was asleep on a broad wooden bench. Luckily, he didn’t seem to be one of my childhood friends. That would have been too much. As for his age, he could have been my father—or perhaps the pressure of being a maniac had aged him before his time. This guy looked ghastly—a dirty raincoat, wrinkled trousers, week-old stubble, dark circles under his eyes . . . poor thing. Moreover, he had clearly overindulged in Soup of Repose. His ragged breathing was not a sign of physical well-being. If he had died right then and there, it wouldn’t have surprise me. It looked like that’s where things were heading.

Juffin sniffed fastidiously.

“We’ve spent a whole day looking for this . . . this natural phenomenon? Ugh, how unattractive! Take him, Max, and get him out of here. Chemparkaroke, do you have anything to add to Sir Yox’s story?”

The good-natured redhead shook his head:

“What’s there to add, Sir Venerable Head? An ugly affair. At first he was so funny. Then he started to snore, to moan, to chase an invisible person around the tavern. The customers were amused. People love a clown, even a sick one. But then he fell on the bench and went to sleep. Only I think that soon he’ll be chatting with the Dark Magicians. I often get a hunch about things like that. If you give him something to drink, his legs will start twitching, and it’ll be all over.”

“Thanks for the good news, old boy. I’m all for it,” Sir Juffin muttered. “Good work, Chemparkaroke.”

The innkeeper was flattered, but he clearly didn’t understand why he was being praised. Juffin looked at him wearily.

“Take him, Max. What are you waiting for? He’s not going to dance anymore, that’s for sure.”

I sighed and did the usual prestidigitation with my left hand. The half-dead maniac fit comfortably between my thumb and my forefinger. Chemparkaroke’s jaw dropped. He had arrived in Echo during the height of the Code Epoch and was unaccustomed even to small wonders. I frowned in distaste, and we left. I even had to drive the amobiler holding this fistful of iniquity.

In the Hall of Common Labor I was able to rid myself of this unpleasant burden, depositing my countryman right on the rug.

Then I went to wash my hands. I’m a typical neurotic, so things like this can easily knock me off course. And I really didn’t like this maniac. It was probably because we had too much in common. At the same time, his appearance was extraordinarily repellant to me. I steeled myself and plunged back into the fray.

“Should I bring him back to his senses?” Sir Juffin Hully pondered aloud, staring at our quarry with unconcealed disgust. “It would be a lot of fuss and bother, but I’d like to know.”

It seemed I could imagine what my boss wanted to know. Blessed are the ignorant!

“Don’t worry about it, Sir Max,” Juffin said jovially.

Usually he begins to understand what I’m feeling before I even notice a change of mood in myself. But today he seemed to lag behind a bit with his consolations.

“This is no test of your nerves. It’s a form of pleasure, because we have a chance to find out something we didn’t know before. Keep your chin up, son!”

“I’m not so sure that this arcane knowledge is going to improve my appetite,” I murmured.

Sir Kofa and Melifaro looked at us with incomprehension.

“It’s nothing,” Juffin told them. “Just a little family quarrel. I’ll deal with this handsome devil.”

“I’m afraid it’s already too late to help him,” I replied. “Remember, I was almost done in by one bowl of it. This lucky man polished off three.”

“I wasn’t planning to help him. But perhaps he wants to make a confession.” Juffin crouched down beside the malefactor and began massaging his ears. Then he reached for his throat. The rhythmic motion soothed and lulled me, if no one else.

Better turn away, Max. The silent advice of Juffin resounded in my head. You really don’t have to play any part in this.

I averted my gaze reluctantly. And just in time. Sir Juffin Hully executed a feat that I never would have expected from such a staid, respectable, middle-aged gentleman.

With a piercing yelp, he leapt on the stomach of the hapless maniac, after which he rolled head over heels out of the way.

“It’s been some time since I had to amuse myself that way,” Juffin remarked, getting up to his feet. “Well, now he’ll talk.”

And my countryman did begin to stir.

“Kela!” he called out. “Is that you, Kela? I knew you’d find me! Way to go, mate!”

As though in a dream I moved closer to this unsightly creature.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

Dumb, of course. Why could I possibly have wanted to know his name? But it was the first thing that came into my head.

“I don’t know. No one calls me by my name anymore. Is there any more of that soup left? It really does help with the pain.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say so.” I stuck to my guns on that point. “Besides, you could die from eating it.”

“No matter. I already did, but they woke me up again. Who woke me up?”

“I did,” Sir Juffin Hullly answered. “Don’t bother to thank me.”

“Can someone explain to me where I am?” the unhappy specimen asked. “A person has a right to know where he died.”

“You’re too far away from home for the name of this city to mean anything to you,” I replied.

“All the same, I want to know.”

“You’re in Echo.”

“Is that in Japan? But none of you looks like Japs around here. You’re fooling me, right? Everyone here laughs . . . It took so long to get here. I don’t remember why. And those whores, they didn’t want to tell me where I was, either. They were probably glad that I got stuck here! Never mind. In the place I sent them, they won’t think it’s funny anymore.”

I noted with astonishment that no amount of violent upheaval could inspire this single-minded man to doubt the rightness of his own actions. A lunatic, Sir Maba had called him, and he was right. He was possessed.

“Kela promised me that they’d help me die here,” the tormented soul suddenly informed us. “Are you the ones who will help me?”

“Who is this Kela?” I asked.

“A streetcar driver. I don’t know who he is. He promised me that everything would be over soon. So I felt calmer. He was going to kill me, but then he changed his mind. He said that other people would do it. Kela’s my friend. I used to have another friend, when I was a kid. I killed his dog because she was in heat. It was disgusting. Kela’s also my friend. The best one of all. I don’t know—” He made an effort to raise himself up, and stared at me with something like horror, or maybe with love. “Oh, a familiar face. I’ve seen you somewhere before, friend. Only without that cape. In a dream . . . I saw . . . yes.”

He started to grow weaker. Then he closed his eyes and was silent.

“Where could he have seen me?” I asked in surprise.

“What do you mean ‘where’? In the Great Battle of Horse Dung, when you were the brave commander of a mighty horde of five men!” Melifaro prompted.

“Shut up,” Sir Kofa muttered. “Can’t you see? Something is happening here that neither you nor I can understand, or even hope to.”

“It’s not all that bad, Kofa. Hope is the last thing to die,” Juffin piped up gaily, and turned to me. “He said ‘in a dream’! Where else? Whether you like it or not, there is some very strong bond between you two, Max. And a very dangerous one. This is a special problem. In short, you’re going to have to kill him.”

“Me?!”

I was beyond dumbfounded. I couldn’t believe my ears. The world felt like it was collapsing around me.

“Why do I have to kill him, Juffin? The death penalty was abolished long ago—you said so yourself. And he won’t hold out for very long as it is.”

“That’s not the point. It’s about you. This stranger used your Door. I can’t explain it all right now; it isn’t the time or place. You must understand one thing: if the man dies his own death, he’ll open another Door for you. It’ll be there waiting for you. It could be anywhere. No one knows how things will transpire, and you have too little experience to figure it out on your own just yet. And behind this new Door will be Death, because now his path leads only there. And by killing him with your own hands, you will destroy this unnecessary and fatal connection you share, which you had no part in choosing. And mark my words, there’s no time to lose. He’s dying. So . . .”

“I understand, Juffin,” I nodded. “I don’t know why, but I understand everything. You’re absolutely right.”

The world around me shuddered and melted away, subsiding into a million tiny flames. Everything became shiny and dull at once. It was, as I saw—no, sensed, felt—a kind of short corridor that stretched between me and this dying madman. And I very much doubted that we were two distinct people. We were Siamese twins, freakish sideshow monsters, connected not by a tissue of skin, but by something else, concealed from the gaze of the crowd in some other dimension.

Perhaps I hadn’t been aware of this from the start, but when I rushed off to wash my hands, as if that would help, I already knew. I had managed to hide this terrible knowledge from myself, until Juffin uttered out loud what I had been too afraid to think.

I dropped down on my knees next to my abhorrent double, and took the splendid Profiline butcher’s knife from the inner pocket of his coat. And I planted the knife in his solar plexus, without shrinking back and without even flinching.

I’ve never been a strong man, rather the opposite. But this act completely changed my notions of what I was capable of. The knife went into his body like it was butter—though it doesn’t really happen that way.

“You got me, friend . . .”

In the last words of the dying man I heard more reason than I had heard during all the other events of that absurd, sickening day.

And then I went to wash my hands again. It was the only way I knew to reward myself for my courage.

When I returned to the place of execution, junior officials were already bustling about with buckets and mops.

“Thank you for removing the body so quickly,” I said, taking my seat. “You’ll think it’s funny, but I’ve never killed anyone before. I’ve never even gone hunting. Juba Chebobargo’s doll doesn’t count, I suppose. It’s a loss of innocence in a way, so please be kind.”

“No one removed him, son,” Kofa said in a quiet voice. “He simply disappeared, as soon as you left. The blood on the carpet stayed, though. They’re already cleaning up the mess.”

“How’s it going, Sir Max?” Juffin shoved a mug of hot kamra over to me.

“You already know. Fine, I guess. It’s strange, though. The World hasn’t completely come back to me, if I may express it that way.”

“I know. But that will soon pass. You did everything just fine. I didn’t expect you to manage as well as you did.”

“I’m wearing the Mantle of Death, after all,” I laughed. Laughter is the best way I know to return you to your senses.

“Sir Juffin, I need a drink,” Melifaro announced. “I thought I was used to everything in this job at the Refuge for the Mad. Now I understand that I desperately need a drink. Right this second.”

“I’ve already sent a call to the Glutton. Do you think you can hold out another two minutes?”

“I’m not so sure. First those pagan rites of yours, then the disappearance of the primary material evidence. And you have no intention of explaining anything, I suppose?”

“No, I don’t. I’d be glad to, but . . . we had to do it that way, old chap. Take my word for it.”

“Really? Or maybe it was just a new form of entertainment, and I’m lagging behind? Sir Kofa, you, at least, might try to calm my nerves.”

“I need a drink, too,” Kofa Yox said, smiling good-naturedly. “Then I’m at your service.”

“This is no Secret Investigative Force. It’s some kind of orphanage,” I snorted. “So I kill a guy. Just one, mind you. He disappears afterward. It’s really no big deal! Besides, I think I need a drink, too. I’ll join you.”

“My team has taken to drink,” Juffin moaned. “Lonli-Lokli is my last hope—where is he, by the way?”

“Did you call, sir?” Lonli-Lokli appeared suddenly at the door. “Have you still not found our killer?”

Turning around to look at him, the four of us burst out laughing. At first it resembled mass hysteria, but in a few seconds we really did begin to find it funny. Shurf stepped into the office, sat down in a chair, and regarded us with warm interest, waiting until we had regained our composure. Then he asked:

“So, what about the murderer?”

“Everything has been taken care of, since Max killed him and the corpse disappeared,” Melifaro informed him, laughing heartily again.

I didn’t have the strength to join in his merriment. Luckily, the messenger with a tray from the Glutton Bunba was already at the door. Excellent timing!

I had never in my life thought I would be capable of drinking a whole mug of anything at one go, much less Jubatic Juice. Evidently, however, the body knows its own needs. If necessary, it will perform miracles.

“Sir Juffin,” Lonli-Lokli urged calmly. “Perhaps you will tell me.”

“Melifaro is absolutely right, Sir Shurf. That’s just about how it all happened, save a few spicy details.”

“Max, why did you do it on your own? And in such a primitive manner?” objected the professional in Lonli-Lokli, somewhat scandalized by the shoddy job of a dilettante.

“I’m bloodthirsty, Shurf,” I admitted eagerly. “Sometimes I just can’t help myself.”

This time it was Juffin Hully who laughed loudest of all. I think it was just relief for he realized I was finally myself again.

“But that’s very bad, Max!” Lonli-Lokli exclaimed in alarm. “With your abilities you need to learn to exercise self-control. If you don’t mind, I’ll demonstrate some simple breathing exercises that will aid in the development of your self-control and peace of mind.”

For the sake of my “official friend” I tried to be more serious.

“Thank you, Shurf. I’d love to see them. But to be honest, I was just joking. Later I’ll explain everything that happened. Everything I can, anyway. I’m afraid it isn’t much.”

“If this has anything to do with a mystery, I’d prefer to remain in the dark, since a mystery made public is an insult to Truth.”

“Do you understand?” Sir Kofa asked Melifaro. “That’s an answer to all your questions at once.”

“I couldn’t give a flying buttress,” Melifaro announced dreamily. “I’ve had my drink and all is well. You can go to the Magicians with your terrible mysteries. Even without them, life is wonderful. Oh, by the way, since Sir Shurf is here with us—do you still think that I was making fun of you both, O Bloodthirsty Monster? Sir Max, I’m talking to you!”

“Of course,” I said indifferently. “But I didn’t give a flying buttress, as you expressed it, either.”

“Then you absolutely must meet my father, who will give you evidence of my innocence. Sir Juffin, can you possibly do without us both at the same time? At least for one day?”

“What would I need you for? Get out of my sight this instant, if you wish,” Juffin said. “But just one day, mind you! Agreed? Sir Kofa, Sir Shurf, get used to the idea that tomorrow the two of you alone will answer for the safety and security of the Unified Kingdom. And tonight—only Kurush. Right, my friend?” Juffin stroked the bird’s fluffy little cap of feathers tenderly. “As for me, I intend to sleep for a whole day and night. Lady Melamori is probably already sipping expensive wine under the watchful supervision of her uncle. These two are planning an outing to the country to terrorize cats. We’re a pretty pack of Secret Investigators, bulwark against threats to our society’s well-being. It can’t be denied.”

“Well, how about it, Max?” Melifaro said, turning to me. “We’ll leave tonight, and get there in a few hours. If you’re at the levers of the amobiler, we’ll get there in one. Fresh country air, heaps of good food, and my Pa. It will be something, believe me. And Mama’s a treat, too.”

“Heaps of food, Papa, and Mama,” I repeated in rapture. “That sounds perfect. And a fast drive sounds even better. You’re a genius, Melifaro! I’m forever in your debt. Thank you, Juffin. You’re both lifesavers.”

I wasn’t exaggerating. A change of scenery was exactly what I needed just now. I hadn’t dared dream I would be lucky enough to get it.

“Well, shall we go?”

Melifaro was already dancing in the doorway in anticipation. He didn’t like sitting in one spot for very long, especially after a plan of action had been laid down.

“Yes, yes. Juffin, tell me, am I required to wear these rags of baleful splendor wherever I go?”

I meant, of course, the Mantle of Death. Not the most appropriate attire for a jaunt to the country.

“No. You only have to wear it within the city limits,” Juffin said acerbically. “But I thought you liked your little uniform.”

“I do like it. I’m just afraid the chickens out there will stop laying eggs from fright. Did I say something wrong?”

“Oh my gosh, another mystery!” Melifaro exclaimed wringing his hands. “Max, a hole in the heavens above, what on earth are ‘chickens’? Only turkeys lay eggs. Take it from a country boy!”

While Melifaro looked over my apartment in bewilderment, trying to understand whether it was asceticism or stinginess that had inspired me to settle down there, I cuddled with Armstrong and Ella, delighting in their throaty purrs and murmuring whatever banal endearments came into my head.

Then I went up to the bedroom and rummaged around in the closet until I found some duds that more or less corresponded to my foggy notions of the requirements country living. I went back down to the living room with a half-empty weekend bag in tow.

“I’m ready. I’m afraid you’ve gotten a sad impression of my way of life. I can’t do anything to change it. I love tenement living!”

“What do you mean? It’s great here!” Melifaro cried, brushing off my remark. “No frivolous extras. A real den for a lone hero. Truly, Max, it’s very romantic.”

“Shall we have a drink for the road? I’m the most inhospitable host in the whole darn town. Actually, I don’t have anything to offer you, unless we decide to go out to the Sated Skeleton.”

“I took all we needed from the Ministry. Drink, kamra, and everything else I could grab. Let’s go, Max, or I’m going to collapse. You, no doubt, are even more exhausted.”

“I’m nowhere near collapse. You forget I’m the ‘nocturnal backside. ’ My shift is just beginning. Off we go!”

“You know, Max, there is an aura of evil about you,” Melifaro remarked, getting into the amobiler. “Your nocturnal habits, your fast driving, your gloomy expression, the black looxi, you don’t eat soup, like normal people do . . . Not to mention your absurd habit of killing crown criminals. It’s too much for one person. It’s no wonder Melamori is afraid of you.”

“Afraid of me!”

“Of course, didn’t you know? When I saw how she looked at you, I thought, ‘That’s it, pal. You can go scratch your backside. You’ve got a serious competitor!’ Then I realized that my stakes hadn’t fallen so low. The lady fears you like a nightmare.”

“That’s ridiculous. Why should she be afraid of me? Melamori isn’t one of those prissy city girls who are ready to pee in their pants whenever I go out to the store for some useless crap.”

“That’s just it. She’s no priss. She understands people better than anyone. That’s her job. Ask her yourself. How should I know? Anyway, I think I’ll doze off while we’re driving.”

“Then we’ll be on the road for a very long time. Because the only road I’d be able to find without your advice leads directly to the Barren Lands.”

Of course I was lying shamelessly, since I didn’t even know that road.

“And I thought you knew everything, like Juffin.”

“Everything except addresses, birthdays, and other such nonsense.”

“Too bad. Besides those things, there’s usually nothing to know about people. Well, all right. I’ll be the navigator. You’re not going to tell me anything about what happened today, either, Max? Mystery of mysteries, but I’m dying of curiosity!”

“He was my illegitimate brother,” I answered in a malicious whisper. “And since we both claim the inheritance of our Papa—two old nags and a heap of their manure—I just took advantage of the privileges of office and finished off my rival.”

“Very funny. So it really is a terrible secret?”

“If it were up to me, it might not necessarily remain a secret. But terrible it certainly was. So terrible that it’s not even funny. Actually, if I hadn’t killed him, he would have died anyway. It was something like losing the Spark, only even more unpleasant.”

“How exciting!” Melifaro had an unending supply of good humor. “Fine. Never mind. You can keep your secret to yourself. By the way, there’s a left turn here. Wow, you’d make a great race car driver, mate!”

“What should I know about the customs you keep at home?” I asked, changing the subject. “When Juffin dragged me over to old Makluk’s to pay a visit, I nearly had a heart attack: bearers, palanquins, packs of servants everywhere, dressing for dinner. I shouldn’t expect anything like that, should I?”

“Take a good look at me, Max. How could I be the son of people who observe formalities? Mama believes that every guest has one sacred obligation: to remain full at all times. My father adheres to only one rule: no stupid rules, end of story. Do you know that it’s because of this I don’t have a name?”

“Really? I couldn’t understand why everyone always called you by your last name. I wanted to ask, but I thought maybe the problem was that you had some completely bizarre first name.”

“And you spared my vanity? You shouldn’t have. I don’t suffer from that, and I wish others didn’t, either. I just don’t have a name. When I was born my father had already left on his famous journey. Mama sent him a call every day asking what to name me, and every day he had a new idea. Each day she would ask again, just to make sure—always with the same result. When I turned three, my mother finally got tired of this shilly-shallying, and she asked the question point blank. Well, magnificent Sir Manga was very busy at the time, and his answer was: ‘Why does he need a first name at all with a last name like ours?’ My mama has her own notions of marital harmony. She said, ‘Well, may everything be as you wish, dear. You’ll be the one to protest later on.’ So she didn’t argue with him, all the more since it wasn’t a matter of her name, but of mine! And that’s how I’ve gone through life, though it’s the only thing I have to complain about—that’s for sure.”

“That’s great. I have the opposite situation. I was lucky with my name; but that’s the only thing I’m grateful to my parents for.”

“That’s right—you have just one name, too.” Melifaro nodded sympathetically. “You’re happy with it?”

“Actually, no. But you saw my living quarters. I don’t like anything superfluous.”

“You’re right there, too. Now you have to turn left. Slow down a bit. The road gets bad here.”

“Slow down? Never!” I cried out proudly, as we flew over the bumps and potholes, and the landscape whizzed by.

“Here we are,” Melifaro said with relief when we had come to a high wall hung with fragrant, trailing greenery. “But are we still alive? No, Max, there’s something monstrous about you! And I’ve invited this monster to my own home. But what can I do? I won’t call for Juffin to come to the rescue. He’s even worse. Let’s go, Mr. Bad Dream.”

The inhabitants of the enormous estate were already asleep, so we went out to the kitchen, where we silently devoured everything we could get our hands on. Then Melifaro showed me to a small, cozy room.

“When I was a child, and I was sick, or just sad, I would always sleep here. It’s the best place in the house, believe me. Make yourself comfortable. This room does wonders for people who’ve had a hard day like you have. First, you’ll fall asleep right away, no matter what your ordinary habits are. And then—well, you’ll see for yourself. My runaway grandfather, Filo Melifaro, built this part of the house himself. And he was not the least significant person in the Order of the Secret Grass.”

“Really? Juffin gave me a turban from their Grand Magician as a gift.”

“That’s really something! You’re a lucky man. Try not to lose it—it’s a powerful thing. I’m off. If I don’t go to sleep right now, I’ll expire, that’s for sure.”

And I was alone. A pleasant weariness lay on my chest like a pillow of soft ivy. It was wonderful. I undressed, got down on all fours, and fastidiously examined the local “dream station.” I discovered the blanket and wriggled down into the warm darkness underneath. I felt calm and happy. I didn’t much feel like sleeping, but lying on my back and silently contemplating the ceiling—what could be better!

The dark beams above enchaned me. They seemed to undulate ever so slightly, like waves of a tranquil sea, and eventually their rhythmic motion lulled me to sleep. In my dreams I saw all the places I loved—the city in the mountains, the English park, empty beaches. I didn’t dream about Echo anymore, though. There was nothing surprising about that—Echo had become part of another life, and I roamed its streets awake now.

This time it was very easy for me to pass from one dream to another. I changed dreams at will. When I was bored by walking in the park, I stepped over to the beach. Sad and lonely among the sandy dunes, I suddenly found myself in the cabin of the cable car. Several times I thought I heard the quiet laughter of Maba Kalox nearby, but I couldn’t find him anywhere. Even this seemed like a remarkable incident to me, however.

I woke up before noon, feeling absolutely free and happy. Events of the recent past seemed to me to be part of a good adventure film, the future didn’t scare me, and the present suited me to a tee. After I had washed, I wrapped myself in a skaba and looxi of fiery bright colors, which I had picked out yesterday for the vibrant contrast they made with my malevolently glowering uniform, and sent a call to Melifaro.

You’re already up? You’ve got to be kidding! And I’m still so tired I can’t move! Well, go downstairs and drink some kamra with my esteemed father. Or by yourself, if he’s already gone. I’ll join you in an hour and a half.

I went down to the living room, where my eyes were met by a remarkable spectacle. A fellow of enormous proportions, his eyes downcast, stood by the table, wheedling and moaning.

“But Father, why?”

“Because it will be better that way,” answered his elder in the voice of someone losing his patience. It belonged to a shortish, elegant man whose red hair was woven into a luxuriant braid. I swear to the World, the braid extended all the way to the floor! Sizing up the situation, I realized that this must be Sir Manga Melifaro, the author of the Encyclopedia I so ardently admired.

“A good morning to you, gentlemen.”

I was beaming with pleasure as I entered the living room. This was strange, since I am usually shy around new people, and I can’t stand introductions.

“Good morning, Sir Max Baxba, greet our guest.”

“Good morning, Sir Max,” the sad giant repeated obediently.

“Well, all right. Go to your trader, boy. Only remember—we need six horses. Six, not twelve! As far as I’m concerned we don’t need them at all, but since you have your heart set on it. But not a dozen! Is that clear?”

“Yes, Father! Goodbye, Sir Max. You’ve brought me luck!” And the giant, already cheerful, bounded out of the room.

“My eldest, Sir Max,” Sir Manga said with evident disbelief. “A child of ‘youthful passions,’ as they say. I can’t fathom how I produced something like that!”

“You are truly a man of passion, Sir Manga,” I smiled, and poured myself some kamra. It was as good as the kamra from the Glutton, hands down.

“I can’t believe it myself. Besides Baxba and Melifaro, which would be more than enough to break a father’s heart, I have another, middle son—Sir Anchifa Melifaro. I’m embarrassed to admit that he’s a pirate. And one of the most cutthroat, if I’m to believe the dockside rumors. Although he’s quite as homely and diminutive as I am myself.”

“That’s good for a sailor,” I said. “It’s best to travel light, and insofar as it’s hard to leave one’s own body at home, it should be as compact as possible.”

“You no doubt bonded with my youngest,” Sir Manga grinned. “You’ve both got the gift of gab.”

“Moreover, he just has a last name, and I only have a first name. Together we make up one whole person.”

“True, that. Were you really born on the border of the County Vook and the Barren Lands? I don’t recall meeting any young fellows like you there.”

“Me either,” I had to shrug indifferently. “Maybe I’m just one of a kind.”

“It looks that way. Sir Max, I’m afraid I owe you an apology.”

“Sinning Magicians, why?”

“While Melifaro’s still sleeping I can let you in on a secret. Recently he asked me about some customs of your countrymen. Now I understand why he needed to know.”

“Close friendship rituals?”

“Exactly. Did Melifaro already engage in some strange antics?”

“No, but someone else did.”

“A hole in the heavens above, Sir Max! You see, I’m quite vain. And when there’s something I don’t know . . . In short, I couldn’t shame myself in front of my youngest son. I had to think up a story about singing some idiotic songs outside at midnight.”

“That fellow sang them at midday. Besides, I work the night shift, so I couldn’t be present for a midnight serenade. But I came to an agreement with him. He promised to limit himself to the music that sounds in his irreproachable heart.”

“Praise be the Magicians! Because I got carried away and told him that—”

“That on the Last Day of the Year we had to clean each other’s toilets? That certainly came as a surprise to me.”

“Oh no, Max. I could never have said anything of the sort! I know a thing or two about the Barren Lands. There are no toilets to speak of, much less to found a friendship on!”

“Hm, so that was a collaborative invention. Melifaro swore on the veracity of your story.”

“Don’t give me away, Max! It could be very awkward,” Sir Manga begged, laughing heartily.

“Throw you to the lions to be torn apart limb from limb? Never!” I swore. “But only on the condition that you let me taste some of that dish over there.”

I helped myself to the tiny crumbling pastries in culinary ecstasy.

After breakfast I left the house without waiting for Melifaro to wake up, and wandered about the countryside until I got hungry. I rolled around lazily in the grass, sniffed the flowers, and filled my pockets full of little colored stones. I stared at the clouds in wonder. In short, it was one of the pleasantest days of my entire life.

In the evening I met Melifaro’s mother, whose monumental stature gave away the secret of the giant Baxba’s origins. At the same time she was so beautiful that it took my breath away. Not a human being, but a sculpture; moreover, a vibrant, life-affirming one.

I was surprised at myself. I fell asleep just after midnight like a good boy! And I had a serious motive. That night the little room treated me to another round of magical dreams. And I was worn out after a long day of prancing through the fields and meadows.

Morning began with a race with the wind in the amobiler. I had to deliver Melifaro, who had overslept, to the House by the Bridge in record time. He received no pleasure from the race, as he was in dreamland, blissfully unaware in the back seat. I had a hard time persuading the Diurnal Representative of the Venerable Head not to carry on his engaging pastime in his own office after we finally arrived. Upon my success, I went home to enjoy the advantages of my nocturnal schedule: I crawled under the covers again, back in the company of Armstrong and Ella.

At sunset I reported to the House by the Bridge and was pleasantly surprised. Lady Melamori had already returned, cheerful and ready for new feats of derring-do and renown.

“Well, you’re a sight to behold!” I said from the doorway. “You owe me a walk, my Lady, remember?”

“I remember. Shall we go now? Sir Juffin will let you go.”

“Sure I’ll let you go,” the gloomy voice of the boss resounded through the door to his office, slightly ajar. “I’ll be here till late, anyway.”

“Has something happened?”

“Has something happened? The annual report to the Royal Court happened. In a dozen days this blasted year ends, remember? But in a disaster of this magnitude, you can’t assist me, unfortunately. So enjoy life—but only till midnight.”

I whistled ecstatically—there were still five hours left until midnight, by my calculations. Somehow, things had recently taken a sharp turn for the better. It even made me a bit wary.

“I have just one condition, Sir Max,” Melamori announced as we were about to leave. “No amobilers. I’ve heard frightening tales about your driving.”

“All right,” I agreed. “We’ll go on foot, along crowded, well-lighted streets. When the full moon rises and I start turning into a werewolf, you can call for help. By the way, you can follow the example of Melifaro and drop the ‘Sir’ when you address me. Why stand on ceremony with werewolves?”

Melamori smiled, somewhat taken aback.

“Oh, I can’t simply call you ‘Max.’ I wasn’t raised that way.”

“But I can call you Melamori. Practice for ten minutes or so—and I’ll just be rude for the time being, all right?”

“Of course, Sir Max. You probably think I’m silly, but—actually, your suggestion about a crowded place is just what I had in mind. For the time being.”

“‘For the time being.’ That sounds promising. Onward, my lady!”

We walked very chastely and modestly through the center of Echo. Only I kept having the feeling that something was missing. Then I realized: Melamori didn’t have a bag or a purse that I could offer to carry, to display my chivalry. Nonetheless, at the very end of our sojourn we enjoyed the local version of ice cream in a small artificial garden on the Victory of Gurig VII Square. Thus, the illusion of childhood revisited was complete. I felt I had grown younger by about twenty years, and Lady Melamori, all things considered, by ninety. Our babbling conversation was playful and innocent, until I felt it was proper to touch upon a matter that greatly interested me.

“Melamori, I’ve wanted to ask you for a long time—”

“Don’t, Max! I think I know what you want to ask, dear Sir, uh, yes—”

“Really? I’ll bet a crown that you can’t guess what it is.”

“Can’t guess!” she cried, her voice growing shrill.

I had found the perfect ruse. She was as reluctant to let a wager slip as a habitué at the horse races.

“You wanted to ask why I was afraid of you,” she blurted out. “Hand over the crown!” She blushed with pleasure at this absurd, small victory.

“Take it, my lady,” I plunked down a gold coin on the table where we were sitting. “Shall I wrap it into something, or are you superstitious?”

“Please do. I’m not superstitious, but . . . you never know.”

“Excellent! But I’ll bet ten crowns that you don’t know yourself why you’re afraid.”

“Don’t know? I’m not so crazy as to be afraid of who-knows-what nonsense. It’s just that you, Sir Max, are—I don’t know what you are! And the unknown is the only thing I’m afraid of. You lose, Sir Max. Money on the table! I’ll treat you to something a bit more pricy. Would you like some King’s Sweat?”

“How about some King’s Piss! Whatever is it?”

“The most expensive liqueur available. Over the counter, that is.”

“Fine. We’ll order some of your ‘Sweat.’”

“Not mine, the King’s! Anyway, it looks like you have managed to loosen my tongue after all, Sir Secret Investigator.”

“Frankly, I don’t understand. I’m a fairly ordinary person. Well, not without a few quirks that may be explained by my origins. Sir Manga Melifaro could deliver a whole lecture on the subject.”

“I don’t give a flying buttress about his lectures. Let him read them to Lookfi, he adores any sort of ethnographic nonsense. Try some of the liqueur, Max. It’s truly out of this world, despite the dubious name. But it’s time for us to go. Sir Juffin is bored without you, Sir Max . . . uh, just plain Max.”

The liqueur really was superb, though I’m not very fond of liqueur in general.

Naturally, I accompanied the damsel home. This is probably the custom in all Worlds, even when the lady is the incomparable Master of Pursuit. Along the way we were silent, until Melamori decided to dot and cross the leftover i’s and t’s.

“There’s nothing amiss, Max. It’s just that I have some doubts that I can’t completely dispel—not that I attach much credence to them, either. Of course, you’re no evil spirit. And you’re not a Mutinous Magician, recently returned to Echo. That’s obvious. But you still don’t strike me as being a normal person; even one with eccentricities. I really can’t figure you out. I like you very much, if you wish to know. But I sense some sort of threat emanating from you. Not just a vague, general kind of threat, but one that concerns me, personally. Though it’s hard to say for sure. Sir Juffin could probably help me, but he doesn’t want to. You know how he is. So I have to sort it all out myself. And I will, a hole in the heavens above you!”

“Go ahead and sort it out,” I said. “And when you’ve sorted it out, share the information with me. Because I for one am not aware of this hypothetical ‘threat.’ Do you promise?”

“I promise. But this is the only thing I can really promise. Good night, Max.”

With that Melamori disappeared behind the massive, ancient doors leading to her living quarters. And I went to the House by the Bridge, unsure about how to interpret the results of our evening together. On the one hand, they seemed more than promising. On the other . . . Well, time would tell. In any case, I would have to remind Lonli-Lokli to teach me some of those breathing exercises. I sensed that I would need some superhuman self-discipline in the near future.

A few days later, when it had started to seem that the incident involving my countryman had receded into the past, a call from Sir Juffin Hully got me out of bed somewhat earlier than I would have wished.

Wake up, Sir Max! the voice of my boss boomed through my sleepy brain. There are things in the World that are much more interesting than the dull slumber you’ve been plunged in for six hours straight. A visit to Maba Kalox, for instance. I’m coming to pick you up in an hour and a half.

I leaped out of bed as though on fire. Ella meowed indignantly at the disruption. Armstrong didn’t even twitch an ear.

I bathed, dressed, and downed a mug of kamra in record time—a quarter of an hour. That still left time for me to sit down in a chair and properly wake up.

“Maba says he’s ready to answer a few questions. We’re in luck, Max. The old man doesn’t keep his promises very often!” Juffin seemed quite pleased. “Have you already begun your training with Sir Shurf? You might need to exercise some self-control.”

“I’ve just started, but it will be enough for me just to see Sir Maba. His face is the most effective tranquilizer I know.”

“You’re right about that, lad. Although this is, of course, an illusion. In fact, I don’t know a more dangerous creature; or a more peaceable one,” Juffin mused, leaving me completely confounded.

It didn’t take as long for us to find Sir Maba Kalox’s house as it had the first time. The living room was empty, but the master of the house came out to greet us in a few minutes.

In his hands, Sir Maba held an enormous tray that he was examining curiously.

“I wanted to surprise you with something tasty, but this seems to be quite inedible.” He hurled away the tray, and I shrank back, anticipating a thundering crash. But the tray disappeared before it reached the floor.

“I know you don’t like repetition, Maba, but we would be thrilled to be offered some of that red potion you treated us to last time,” Juffin suggested hopefully.

“Well, by all means—if you are such dullards that you spurn new sensations.” Sir Maba crawled under the table and drew out a pitcher and three small, delicate cups. They looked familiar.

“You haven’t caught on yet, Max? Maba has compassionately stuck his nose into your own past,” Juffin said laughing.

“Of course! Sinning Magicians, these are the cups from Mom’s best tea set! I’ll tell you a secret, Sir Maba: I hated it! And the rolls you served us last time—they sold them in the greasy spoon across the street from the editorial office where I used to work! Gosh, I’m slow.”

“Probably just not very observant. Besides, you weren’t expecting evidence of things from your world. A person usually sees only what he is expecting to see beforehand. Remember that for the future!” With these words he pulled a pie out from under the table.

“My grandmother’s!” I exclaimed with absolute certainty. “My grandmother’s apple pie! Sir Juffin, now you’ll understand that my homeland isn’t all that bad!”

“No, Max,” Sir Maba said, surprising me yet again. “Not your grandmother’s, but her friend’s. The one who gave your grandmother the recipe. I thought the original would be better than the imitation. Now then, as you have already understood, boys, I solved the riddle. Congratulations, Max. You have created a Tipfinger! Which is quite extraordinary for a novice in our profession. For that matter, is quite extraordinary any way you look at it.”

“What have I created? What’s a Tipfinger? How could I have created something when I have no clue what it is?”

“That’s how it usually works,” Juffin observed. “I don’t think the creator of the universe had any clue what a ‘universe’ was, either.”

“I hate giving lectures, but for the sake of such a promising student, I am willing to abandon my scruples,” Sir Maba said with a sigh. “Everything boils down to this—that in the World there are many ineffable creatures. Among them are Tipfingers. It isn’t that they are so terribly hostile to human beings; but we are too different to arrive at a mutual understanding. Tipfingers come out of nowhere and feed on our fears, anxieties, and forebodings. Occasionally they take on the appearance of a particular person and visit his acquaintances, scaring them with the most uncharacteristic capers, or simply with a look. I can tell you whose appearance you unwittingly gave to the Tipfinger you created. You saw his face only once, on the street, when you were a small child. The face scared you and you began to howl. Then you forgot it, until it came time to open the Door between Worlds. You were well-prepared for this event—you lost no time or energy on unnecessary doubts. I think you both simply chose an opportune moment, Juffin. My congratulations—that took real skill. In fact, Max, you not only opened the Door, you also planted this uncanny creature there, so you would have something to fear. You thought that the unknown had to be terrifying. And insofar as Juffin had not prepared any nightmares for you, you rectified his oversight yourself—unconsciously, of course. I could explain things in more detail, but you wouldn’t understand beans about it, no offense. But you, Juffin, I’ll dream you up tonight without fail and show you everything. It’s very exciting! By the way, Max, until now no one knew exactly where Tipfingers came from. With your help we cracked another mysterious nut. They are the offspring of someone’s inclination to fear of the unknown.”

I really understood almost nothing of these explanations, though a thing or two did actually sink in.

“But that ghost, the one that lived in Xolomi, that’s what he called Lonli-Lokli! He said to me, ‘You brought the Tipfinger here, fellow!’ Could our Shurf also really be—”

Sir Maba burst out laughing.

“Ah, Maxlilgl Annox! Don’t give it another thought. That was his favorite curse. He called nearly all adepts of other Orders ‘Tipfingers.’ And your Lonli-Lokli, back in the day, as far as I know, was . . . where did he seek the Power, Juffin?”

“In the Order of the Holey Cup.”

“That’s right, the Mad Fisherman. He made some heavy-duty mischief in his day.”

“Sir Lonli-Lokli? Heavy-duty mischief?” I was flabbergasted.

“Why are you so surprised, Max? People change. Take a look at yourself. Where is the pathetic little chap who trembled at the approaching footsteps of his boss?” Sir Maba said with a grin.

“This is true.”

“By the way, I saw how you put the old man out of his misery. The waterfall was priceless! That was the best show I’ve seen since the beginning of this dreary Code Epoch.”

“You saw that?” I was becoming accustomed to this nature of surprise.

“Of course! It’s my hobby—keeping track of the fates of my former colleagues. That’s why I couldn’t pass up such a performance. But don’t you entertain any illusions about the future, young man. I never intervene. I only observe. That’s why Juffin Hully exists—to intervene. For the time being we have some differences of opinion on life.”

“Which has never prevented you from accepting fees for your, let us say, ‘consultations,’” Juffin interposed drily.

“Of course not. I love money. It’s so pretty. Actually, as for your personal Tipfinger, Max—you’ll have to kill it sooner or later. It’s not good to litter the Universe with any old thing. Besides, a Tipfinger in the Door between Worlds is an unprecedented outrage. There you have my consultation; and just try to accuse me of taking money from the King’s coffers without deserving it!”

“Oh, that’s a good one. Suddenly he’s the guardian of the State Treasury!”

“How does one kill a Tipfinger?” I asked.

“When you kill it, you’ll know it. Don’t worry, Max. Theoretically, the matter can wait for a few hundred years. But sooner or later, you just won’t have any other choice. Life is very wise. By that time, you’ll certainly know what to do.”

“Well, if you say so, then I will,” I said. “You have confused me once and for all.”

“That’s how every good story must end, Max. When a person stops understanding something, he’s on the right track,” Juffin assured me. “We won’t take any more of your valuable time, Maba. All the more since we’ve already eaten everything up. Don’t forget: you promised to dream me up tonight.”

“I won’t forget. Farewell.”

I was expecting some kind of escapade or outburst, but nothing of the sort happened. Sir Maba Kalox left the living room by the same door he had entered, and we went out into the front hall.

“Have I been promoted?” I asked. “Have I been accepted into the ranks? Somehow there don’t seem to be any more surprises in store.”

“Are you sure, Max?” Juffin said, smiling, as he threw open the door into the garden.

“Of course, I—” I stepped over the threshold and froze. Instead of the garden we found ourselves in our own office.

“Well, what do you think of that?” Sir Juffin Hully winked at me. “Never let down your guard when you’re dealing with Maba Kalox.”

I sat down in my chair and started to practice those very breathing exercises that the unflappable Sir Lonli-Lokli had taught me. I had only the faintest hope that they would help.