He shifted position. The moon was low in the sky now. It would be daylight in another couple of hours. He might last for a few more hours after that, but by lunchtime it would be all over—if he was lucky. The trestle tables set up under the trees would be laden with roast turkey and hams and nine-layer chocolate cakes, and pitchers of foaming ale; the holiday crowd would feast merrily, with his dangling body as the principal object of merriment. And back in Artesia City, Daphne would be snuggling up with . . .
"Oh, no, she's not," he reminded himself. "That's one consolation anyway. She's in Central, being trained as a rookie agent."
Yeah—but why?
"Well—maybe she got worried and dialed Central, reported that I was missing—"
Uh-uh. There was nothing in the record about that. Belarius checked.
"Maybe—" Lafayette felt cold fingers clutch at his chest. "Maybe that wasn't really Daphne! Maybe somebody's stolen
her
body, too!"
Guesswork! That won't get you anywhere. Stick to the point!
"Great! What
is
the point?"
The point is you've got about two hours to live unless you do something fast!
"But what?" he groaned between gritted teeth. "So far I've been a leaf in the storm, tossed this way and that by events that have been running wild, out of control. I've got to take over and start running things
my
way for a change. And the first item is to get out of here . . .
He prowled the cage for the fiftieth time, inspecting every joint—and found them all as securely lashed with rawhide as the last time. He checked each stout rail; the smallest was as big as his arm at the elbow, with room between them barely sufficient to pass a water cup. He tried again to rock the cage, on the chance that tipping it would open a seam; it was like rocking a bank vault.
"All right, without a knife, direct measures are out. What about more sophisticated techniques? Like focusing the Psychical Energies, for example . . ."
O'Leary closed his eyes, marshaled his thoughts.
It's worked before. It's how you got to Artesia in the first place, remember? And how you met Daphne. Remember how you wished for a bathtub, and got one—complete with occupant? She certainly looked charming, wearing nothing but soapsuds and a pretty smile. And later, in the pink and silver gown, facing the duchess . . . and later yet, snuggling up in the dark . . .
"But this isn't getting me out of this cage," he reminded himself sternly. "Think about the time you produced a Coke machine when you were dying of thirst in the desert, on your way to Lod's stronghold. Or about conjuring up Dinny, when I needed a ride. I got a dinosaur instead of a horse, true, but as it turned out, that was a lucky break . . ."
Stop reminiscing!
He commanded himself.
You were going to focus your Psychical Energies, remember?
"I can't," he muttered. "Central put an end to all that with their blasted Suppressor. Let's face it, I'm stuck."
That's what you thought when you were in Melange, too—but you were wrong!
"Sure—but that was a special case. I was in another Locus, the rules were changed . . ."
Try! This is no time to give up!
"Well . . ." Lafayette closed his eyes, pictured a sharp-bladed pocket knife lying in the corner of the cage.
Under some litter
, he specified,
in a spot where I wouldn't have seen it. I haven't actually scraped around over there; I don't KNOW there isn't a knife . . . So BE there, knife! A nice little Barlow with a bone handle . . .
If there was a small quiver in the even flow of entropy, he failed to detect it.
"But that doesn't mean it didn't work," he said bravely. "Take a look . . ." He went to the corner in question, scraped away the drifted leaves and bird droppings and straw, exposing bare planks.
"No knife," he mumbled. "It figures. My luck's run out. I didn't have a chance from the beginning. I can see that now."
Sure. But why? Maybe if you could figure out why, you'd have a chance of fighting back.
"Why? How do I know? Because somebody wanted me out of the way, I suppose."
Why not just knock you in the head, in that case? Why all this business of turning you into Zorro?
"Maybe . . . maybe that was just a side effect. If it wasn't just you that was turned into Zorro; if Zorro was also turned into
you
—and it seems like a logical assumption—if you can call any part of this insanity logical . . ."
Then—the whole idea might have been to get Zorro into my body—and I was just dumped into his to get me out of the way.
"It's a possibility."
But why? What would that accomplish?
"For one thing—assuming Zorro's the culprit—it would put him in the palace right now, occupying your place, using your clothes, your toothbrush, your bed—"
Let's drop that line of thought for the moment! OK, so Zorro found a way to steal bodies. He conned the Red Bull into handing me the Mark III Shape Changer, and I was boob enough to push the button. Then what? It still doesn't explain things like the Stasis Pod, and the old geezer in blue robes . . .
"Ye gods!" O'Leary blurted. "That's who the photo was, back in Belarius' office! The old man in the tank—but without the beard!"
6
Now we're getting somewhere
, Lafayette assured himself.
We've established a connection between Central and Artesia—that Central, or at least Belarius—doesn't seem to know anything about.
"Right—and if you recall, he got a bit paranoid as soon as he caught you staring at the photo of . . . what did he call him? Jorlemagne. Wanted you to rat on him, spill the beans—implying you were in it with him—whatever 'it' is."
But that doesn't explain why this Jorlemagne was lying around in a cave like Sleeping Beauty in an electronic bunk bed making strange noises at anybody who disturbs him.
"Wait a minute; let's see what we've got: Back at Central, there's been some skullduggery. Belarius is upset about something done by Jorlemagne, who's dropped out of sight. This may or may not tie in with the Focal Referent, which Belarius may not know anything about, probably the latter, since he's under the impression it weighs umpteen tons . . ."
Wait a minute. It seems I remember him correcting me when I called it a Mark III. He insisted it was a Mark II. So . . .
"So—maybe what you had was a new model, miniaturized. But—why wouldn't Belarius know that? After all, he's Chief of Research, and the Focal Referent was his baby."
I don't know. But at the same time he's having trouble with this Jorlemagne absconding—presumably with a newer model FR than even Belarius knows about—funny things started happening in Artesia. And Artesia is where Jorlemagne is. So—
"So all I have to do is get to a phone and dial my special number, and tell them where to pick up their boy!"
Fine—except you'll still be Zorro—and somebody else with your face will be filling in for you at home!
"Maybe Central can fix that, too.
"I can't wait that long! I have to get back and see what's going on! There's got to be a reason for that sneaking phony to have stolen my body! I want to know what it is!"
Meanwhile—how do you get out of this cage?
"Yeah—there
is
that," O'Leary muttered. "I can't cut my way out—and I can't wish myself out. It looks like the end of the trail. Damn! And just when I was beginning to see a little light."
There's still a lot of loose ends. What about Lom—the kindly old geezer who picked you up and fed you—and then picked your pocket?
"Yeah—what about him? Bavarian ham, yet. And Danish butter. Nobody in Artesia ever heard of Denmark or Bavaria. Or New Orleans, either!" O'Leary smacked his fist into his palm. "It's obvious! Lom's a Central agent, too."
And when he found the Focal Referent on you—he naturally assumed you were the thief—or that you were in it with Jorlemagne—
"So he took steps to get rid of you. Dumped you in Thallathlone."
Uh-huh. But I got away—by a fluke—and wound up back here. Nice work, O'Leary. Which is better—a nice cool cell in Thallathlone, or the Death of the Thousand Hooks?
"In another few hours it won't matter, one way or another," O'Leary sighed. "Well, I've had a nice run, while it lasted, but it had to end. I parlayed it from a dull job in a foundry to six years of high living in a palace; I guess I should be satisfied with that. Even if I'd known how it would end, I wouldn't want to change it. Except maybe this last part. It seems like a dirty way to go. This is one time the miracle isn't going to happen. But since there's no hope the least I can do is pull myself together and die like a man."
The moon had set; through the inky black, Lafayette could see nothing except the glow of the guard fire a hundred yards away, and a single candle in a wagon window.
Something passed between Lafayette and the light. Stealthy footsteps sounded from the darkness, coming toward him.
"Hey," he protested, discovering a sudden obstruction in his throat. "It's not time yet."
"Hssst!" Someone was at the bars—a small, silvery-haired figure.
"Lom!"
"Quite right, my boy. Sorry I took so long." There was a rasp of steel against hard leather; a knifeblade threw back a glint from the distant fire. Lashings parted; bars were pulled aside. Lafayette crawled through, ignoring the pain in his scraped knees.
"Let's be off," Lom whispered. "You and I have things to discuss, my lad."
1
The stars were fading in the first gray paling of the dawn. Lafayette huddled, shivering, beside the tiny fire Lom had built under a sheltering rock ledge.
"Sorry there's no coffee this time," the old gentleman said. "You look as though you need it, indeed."
"New Orleans style?" O'Leary queried.
"Umm. Rather good, wasn't it? Never fear, we'll soon be back at my digs, and—"
"They don't have New Orleans coffee in Artesia, Lom—or German ham, either."
"I'm afraid I don't quite understand . . ." Lom looked genuinely puzzled.
"New Orleans is in Locus Alpha Nine-three. So is Bavaria—and Denmark."
Lom shook his head. "Dear lad, I merely read what it said on the labels. I don't even know what an old Orleans is, to say nothing of a New one."
"Where did you get the stuff, Lom? There's no handy supermarket around the corner from that peak of yours."
There was a pause.
"Oh, dear," Lom said.
"Well?"
"I . . . I should have known it was wrong. But after all—there seemed to be no owner. There it was, piled in the cave—and—and I—well, I appropriated it. My only defense is . . . I was hungry."
"You
found
it?"
"Please believe me. It would be dreadful if you got the wrong impression."
"Yes—wouldn't it . . ."
"Are you hinting at something?"
"Not hinting, Lom. I want to know where you fit into all this."
"You're being frightfully obscure, my boy—"
"I'm not your boy—in spite of your rescuing me. Come clean, Lom: what do you want from me?"
"I? Why, nothing at all. I felt responsible for you, in a way, and did my best to help you—"
"How did you find me?" Lafayette cut in.
"Ah—as to that, I employed a simple device called a Homer. It makes bipping sounds, you see, and—"
"More electronic gadgets, eh? Where'd you get it?"
"Concealed in a small grotto."
"Grotto?"
"Cave. I hope I didn't do wrong by using it to save you from a horrible death—"
"Another lucky find, eh? That's your answer to everything. Well, I suppose it's possible. Every cave in Artesia seems to be stuffed full of loot. But that still doesn't explain how you carried me from wherever I landed up to that eagle's nest. A mountain goat couldn't have climbed those cliffs, even without me on his back."
"Climb—Oh, I see what you were thinking! No, no, I should have explained. You see—there's a stairway. An escalator, as a matter of fact. No trick at all, just had to drag you a few feet and push the button." Lom beamed.
"Oh, that clears everything up," Lafayette said. "Swell. You didn't climb, you used the escalator. How stupid of me not to have figured that one out."
"You—you sound dubious."
"Who are you, Lom!" O'Leary demanded. "Where do you come from? Why did you cut me out of that cage?"
Lom drew a breath, hesitated, let it out in a sigh. "I," he said in a dismal tone, "am a failure." He looked across the flickering fire at Lafayette. "Once, I occupied a . . . a position of considerable trust. Then . . . things went badly for me. There was a robbery, so arranged as to make it appear that I—that I was the thief. I escaped barely ahead of the authorities."
"And?"
"I . . . made my way here. Foraging, I stumbled on the, er, supplies of which you know; I found the route to my isolated hideaway. Then—
you
dropped from the skies. I naturally did what I could for you."
"Then?"
"Then you disappeared. Poof! I searched for you—and at last I found you, as you know. And here we are."
"You left out one small item. What did you do with the Mark III?"
"Mark who?"
"Maybe you didn't make off with the till, back where you came from," O'Leary said. "But there was a gadget concealed in a secret pocket of my coat. You took it while I was unconscious. I want it back."
Lom was shaking his head emphatically. "You wrong me, my boy—"
"Just call me O'Leary."
"Is that your name?" Lom asked quickly.
"Certainly—"
"Then why did you tell the young woman—the one who seemed to dislike you so—that it was Zorro?"
"Because it is. I mean, she knows me as Zorro—"
"But that's not your real name? Curious that you have the letter Z embroidered on your shirt pocket—and on your handkerchief—and your socks."
"I'm in disguise," Lafayette said. "Don't try to change the subject. Where's the Mark III?"
"Tell me about it," Lom suggested.