“Anyone seen Dalton and Lord Peter?” Gene asked.
“They were in the Queen’s Hall when I passed,” said Tyrene, the captain of the Castle guard.
“Lord Peter sticks to his daily schedule,” Gene said, “come hell or high water.”
“Aye, he does. A creature of habit. But there’s nothing wrong with that.”
“I guess not, but it would bore the crap out of me. Can’t stand to do the same thing every day.” Gene added in a mumble, “Or being married to the same woman every day.”
“Pardon?”
“Nothing, Tyrene, nothing. Just thinking aloud.”
Tyrene nodded and sipped at his flagon of ale. He had heard what Gene had said.
“Sure are beautiful, these girls,” said another party guest appreciatively. “Excuse me, women.”
“Girls . . . women . . .”
“Eh?” Snowclaw turned his snowy head toward Gene.
“Nothing.”
“You sure don’t seem happy.”
“I’m ecstatic.”
“What’s that mean? Oh, it means you’re really happy, doesn’t it?”
“I’m really happy.”
“How come you look like you lost your last friend?”
“I have a headache.”
“What you need is a good scrap.”
Gene drank from his beer stein. “I might at that.”
“Yeah, gets the blood moving.”
“Be nice to find a nice war or revolution.”
“Or just a nice sword fight.”
Gene shook his head. “Listen to me. I’ve become a warmonger. A blood-and-thunder addict. And me a longtime peace activist.”
“What’s a peace activist?”
“A person who professes to hate war, and disapproves of some wars, yet condones certain others.”
“Doesn’t make sense.”
Gene nodded. “Uh-huh.” He drank more beer.
The dancers danced on, circulating among the tables, showcasing their skill and their wares. The “sun” shone down benignly. Puffed clouds moved slowly across the sky. It was a pleasant day. Very pleasant.
“Damn,” Gene said for no apparent reason.
“Eh?”
“Snowy, let’s get out of this joint.”
“Okay by me, Gene.”
Gene raised his voice. “Guys, would you mind awfully if Snowy and I take off? I hate to throw a wet blanket on the festivities . . .”
“Gene, it’s your party,” Phil said.
“Thanks. You’re sure, now?”
“Go ahead. We can do quite nicely without you. We haven’t even gotten to the food yet.”
“Before we eat, though,” someone else said, “we’re going to get roaring drunk and play a little touch football. Right, guys?”
Declarations of enthusiastic agreement.
“And after the feast, poker,” said Phil. “You’re going to miss all the fun.”
“We’ll stop back,” Gene said. “I gotta take care of this headache, is all. Going to go see Doc Mirabilis.”
“Get lost, Gene,” Phil said, raising his glass of stout. “And, again, congratulations. You’re a lucky man.”
“Hear, hear,” came the chorus. Each man raised his glass in a toast.
“Thanks, guys. See you later. Let’s go, Snowy.”
“I’m with ya.”
Gene and his friend, the fearsome white beast, walked out of that pleasant world and entered the Castle. They came through the arch, stepping into the corridor.
Snowclaw asked, “Where are we going?”
“I dunno. Let’s hunt up some danger.”
“Now you are talking. That kind of fun I can understand.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
he crouched in darkness, the lamp long since extinguished. He did not know how many days had passed. The darkness was like an old cloak smelling faintly of mildew. Sometimes the voice would talk to him; mostly it was silent, waiting. Watching.
He felt something scurry across his fingers. Immediately he brought his other hand down, caught the wriggling insect, and brought it to his mouth.
He held it, poised, for several long moments. Then he threw the thing away.
Not yet, he thought. Not quite yet.
He summoned the mind-picture of the power grid he had worked on since he had been entrapped. There were a multitude of connections. As many as he connected, there were still more he forgot.
It’s useless to work magic here, the voice said. I’ve told you repeatedly, but still you persist.
“Bugger off!” he mouthed, then mentally castigated himself for answering. He had sworn off giving the malevolent spirit any satisfaction.
The voice chuckled. Temper, temper. No, supernatural powers simply cannot permeate a structure of this mathematical shape. You are insulated from all help, my friend. Doomed.
So it would seem. He made a few emendations to the design, considered the whole, then dismissed it from his mind. Useless. He had walked a foolish road, and now he would pay the toll.
But not yet. Not quite yet.
He cast a communication spell. A disembodied female voice answered his hail. The voice was distant and distorted.
“Good morning, Mystic Light and Power Company!”
“Hello. I’d like to order some long-distance power, if I might?”
“Hello?”
“Hello! I say, I’d like to order—”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I can barely hear you!”
Rance cleared his throat and tried again, this time shouting: “This is Rance of Corcindor. I want a line to some major magic power. My account should be good. Can you do it?”
“We can deliver anywhere in the Twelve Kingdoms and outlying areas, Mr. Rance. Where are you?”
“In Zin.”
“Zin? Let me check that, sir . . . Sir? I don’t have a Zin on my route map.”
“It’s just a little to the east of—”
“Oh, wait, I found it,” the woman said. “Whoa. You’re way out in the boonies!”
“Yes. Can you deliver power here?”
“Oh, I don’t know offhand, sir. That’s way off our usual delivery routes.”
“My credit is good.”
“Checking your account, I can see that that’s true, sir. But there may be extra charges.”
“I’ll pay them! Please send the power right away.”
“I’ll see what I can do. Sir, looking at your account, I can see that you might benefit from our Frequent Long-Distance Budget Plan. Just say the word, sir, and I’ll start you on the Plan right away!”
“Yes! Yes! Anything, just send the power!”
“Right away, sir! Have the results of this call been satisfactory to you?”
“Eh?”
“I said, have the results—?”
“Yes, yes, yes, fine! Please, I’m in rather a bit of trouble, if you don’t mind.”
So he reinvoked his power grid and concentrated on an alternative configuration for it. He felt . . . perceived, somehow, that this new configuration had possibilities, and that these possibilities must be realized in order for power to flow. But . . .?
This is interesting.
The proscription went back into effect.
No, this is very interesting. It seems magical techniques have advanced considerably since my day.
He felt something warm, furry, and foul-smelling crawl over his crossed legs. The thing sniffed at his crotch, then scurried off.
Amazing. You should be ravenous by now. You should have eaten that rodent in one gulp, fur, teeth and all. But still you sit and ponder. What strength of will!
“The sauce is everything,” he replied.
The voice was silent.
A tremor went through the structure. The rumbling ceased, then all was quiet. In a far corner of the tomb, a mote of dust fell, sounding like thunder.
That was you, was it not?
There was no reply.
Answer me! You have solved the pr
oblem, haven’t you?
Again, silence, darkness.
Do not think you will escape! Even if you succeed in leaving the chamber, you will not leave my tomb with your soul cleaving to your rotten carcass!
All was soundless.
Where are you?
In one corner of the chamber, a beetle defecated.
ANSWER ME!
He did not know exactly where he was. Somewhere in the pyramid, surely. He rose, finding himself in a low-ceilinged passage. He crept slowly forward. He heard the voice calling far off, then nearer. How does a spirit search? He did not stop to think on the matter. Soon, anyway, the point was moot.
There you are! Back into that chamber at once. You disgust me. I always hated a sneak thief. Did I ever describe the torments that thieves were afforded in my reign?
“Be silent, demon. It is time I took my leave of you. Many thanks for your hospitality.”
Not so fast!
Something snorted in the blackness behind him. His sensitive eyes caught a hint of an outline, a shape, huge, menacing, with eyes radiating demonic light, red like superheated metal. He ran, stumbled, and fell down an endless hole.
He came to his senses and struggled to his feet. A bolt of pain shot through him, but he straightened and steadied himself, only to hear the shuffling of enormous feet behind. He gimped off.
He banged his head on the ceiling. Wincing, he stooped and duck-walked, somersaulting over rubble and blocks of stone. The ceiling lowered again, and he was reduced to crawling. Still the thing behind him followed.
The passage constricted, and he had to force himself through. Dust choked him, scratched at his eyes. The noise behind him did not stop. What had the thing done—made itself smaller? Ahead there was light, and he wriggled toward it.
He squeezed forward and got hung up. He was stuck. Something nibbled at his toes.
He screamed, pushed himself through, and fell out into fierce daylight, sliding down a ramp and onto a ledge. Unhurt, he scrambled to his feet.
He was on a terrace halfway up the side of the pyramid, and he was free. The thing in the hole howled.
Remember the curse!
“Oh, drop dead.”
The voice was faint now, like a whispering.
I am dead! Remember the curse . . .
He sat and shielded his eyes. When the burning in them ceased, he rose and faced the day.
CHAPTER NINE
hochstader paid the driver and watched momentarily as the cab pulled away. It was a cold, wet night. Max pulled the collar of his denim jacket up to cover his neck. They stood in front of a large two-story house with a Tudor facade. It was a stately, imposing residence, nestled in tall trees, surrounded by a painfully manicured lawn.
“Impressive, ain’t it?” Hochstader said, gesturing around. “You’ve done pretty well for yourself.” He crooked a finger at Max. “We have to go around back. Come on.”
Hochstader led the way. The front of the house was illuminated by a streetlight, but shadows toward the rear made navigation difficult. Max barked a shin on a piece of aluminum lawn furniture and sent it clattering.
Hochstader shushed him from the darkness. “This way?” he hissed.
Max turned toward the voice, saw a lighted window, and made his way gingerly over to it.
Hochstader was up on tiptoes, peering inside. “I think we hit it right on the nose. We’re expected.”
“Expected? Who’s expecting us?”
“Him. Come here and look.”
Max peeked in. The room was a book-lined study, lit softly by lamplight. Behind a stately desk near the far wall sat a man in a dressing gown, smoking a pipe. The man looked a lot like Max.
In fact, he looked very much like Max.
Max rubbed his eyes and looked again. The guy could have been Max’s twin brother.
He wasn’t. He was, of course, Max 2.
Light suddenly edged above Max 1’s horizon of understanding. Finally, the import of Hochstader’s ravings sank in. This was another version of himself, another Max, the Maximilian Dumbrowski of this world, this slightly different variation of the theme of Earth.
Hochstader was tapping on the windowpane. He did it twice before the man inside turned toward the window, saw he had visitors, then got up and left the room.
“This way,” Hochstader said. “Back door.”
“You’re late,” Max 2 complained to Hochstader as he let the two men into a dark kitchen. His red plaid woolen robe looked expensive. His appearance was identical to that of the first Max, except for a more recent and fashionable haircut. He was an upscale, cleaned-up Max.
“There’s always a time-slippage factor to consider,” Hochstader said. “Delicate business. You don’t want to meet yourself coming the other way.”
Max 2 grunted. “Well, anyway, I’m ready.”
“Do you have the money?”
“In the study. This way, and keep your voices down. Andrea’s a light sleeper.”
Max, the first Max, was beyond being stunned, and the name hit his mind with a dull thud. Numbly, he followed the other two through the dark house.
In the study, Hochstader nodded with satisfaction at the contents of the attaché case Max 2 held open. Gold coins gleamed in the lamplight. “Good. All here, I presume.”
“One hundred troy ounces,” Max 2 assured him, “as you specified.”
“Fine.” Hochstader looked over at Max 1 and chuckled. “Hasn’t it sunk in yet?”
“So this is how you collect your fees?” Max 1 said through clenched teeth.
“Is this a newcomer?” Max 2 wanted to know.
“You got it,” Jeremy said. “In gold. Paper’s not good for butt-wiping. Funny serial numbers in different worlds.”
“We’re going to swap worlds,” Max 2 told his double. “It’s that simple.”
“Swap . . . worlds,” Max 1 repeated mechanically.
“You still have the one-bedroom apartment near the university, right?”
“Max,” Hochstader said, a bit exasperated, “don’t you realize who this is? It’s you! A you that could have been if you’d had a bit more luck. Look around. Great house, isn’t it? In this universe, you’re a resounding, unqualified success.” He turned to the other Max. “Right?”
Max 2 nodded. “Right. And I have Andrea. In this world, we were married. I have my own agency. Dumbrowsky Taylor Burke. Most of our accounts are blue chip, strictly top drawer.”
Max 1 rubbed his temples and sat down heavily in a green leather armchair. “None of this,” he said in a lost little voice, “makes any sense.”
“He’s just a little freaked,” Hochstader said, strolling over to the bookshelves. “He’ll come around.”
“But why?” Max 1 blurted, looking up at his double. “Why would you want to trade places with me?”
“The grass is always greener,” Hochstader murmured, running a finger along a shelf of leather-bound volumes. “Like I said, Max. People always want something different.” He angled one book out from the shelf. “You have any porno here?”
“It’s a long story,” Max 2 said, “but let’s say I need a change. The pressure, the obligations . . . going into business for yourself isn’t the easiest thing in the world. I’m not sorry I did it, but it’s wearing kind of thin. Frankly, I’m bored with my life. But it would be all new to you.”
“But how could you leave Andrea? Or is she going with you?”
“No, she stays.” Max 2 seated himself on the matching sofa. “Look, you have to realize that I’ve been with Andrea ten years. A lot can happen to a relationship in that time, let alone a marriage. I need a change. I need freedom. I’d give anything in the world to be in your shoes. You’re free, no strings, no obligations. You can do what you want. Live in a garret, write poetry—anything.”
“But Andrea . . .”
“I’ve had Andrea,” Max 2 said forcefully. His tone was more than a little bitter. “You’ve been pining away for her for ten years, or so Hochs
tader tells me. I want to be free of her.”
Hochstader walked over and stood between the twins. “You two had better swap clothes.” From somewhere upstairs came the sound of running water. “Quickly, too, I’d say.”
Max 2 rose. “Right,” he said, and undid his robe.
Max 1 looked at Hochstader, then at his doppelganger. “No,” he said firmly. “I’m not going through with it.”
Max 2 wheeled on Hochstader. “You said it was all arranged.”
“Oh, he’s just a little zoned out,” Hochstader said. “He’ll come around.”
“No,” Max said, thumping the armrest with a fist. “This is insanity. I won’t do it.”
Max 2 stood with arms akimbo, glaring at Hochstader. “We had a deal!”
Hochstader sighed. “Yes, we did.” He withdrew a strange weapon from his overcoat pocket. “And I’m afraid I can’t let you queer it, Max.”
Max 1 looked at the gun pointed at him. It was fairly conventional at the grip and trigger end, but the business end terminated in a bell-shaped flange made of fine woven gold wire.
“What the hell’s that?” he asked, paling.
“A pocket de-tuner. We’re an anomaly in this universe. All it takes is a little tweaking to send either of us spinning out of it. That’s what this thing does, but it has the accuracy of a blunderbuss. Watch.”
Hochstader aimed the thing at a lamp on a table in a far corner. Max heard a faint high-pitched whine. Both lamp and table promptly ceased to exist, along with a geometrically precise ellipsoidal section of oak paneling on the wall. “Oops. Sorry about that,” he said to Max 2. “The field shape needs adjusting.”
“Forget it,” Max 2 said.
Max 1 shot to his feet. “Where’d they go?”
“No way to tell with this baby,” Hochstader said. “Some backwater universe, probably. I usually use this thing for getting rid of trash. It also comes in handy for settling arguments.” Hochstader swung the gun around to Max 1 again. “Feel a sudden urge for a fresh change of clothes?”
“Uh, yeah,” Max 1 said, taking off his denim jacket. “Now that you mention it . . .”
Hochstader said to Max 2, “Or I could just zap him.”
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