Still holding the bigger boy by his neck, Stromagg frowned and turned to Jon-Tom. "Uh, this one don't talk no more."

"Put him down." Jon-Tom approached the now apprehensive girl.

"Please, don't hurt me!" She gestured unevenly in the direction of the moaning coil of boy lying on the pavement. "It was all Marko's idea. He said we could make some easy money. He said American tourists never fight back."

Mudge eyed her with interest. "Wot's an American?"

"We're not going to hurt you," Jon-Tom a.s.sured her. "We just need some help getting home." He looked past her. "Your friend said something about a costume ball?"

"A-around the corner. In the hotel."

Thinking hard, Jon-Tom nodded at nothing in particular. "Might work. For a little while. I need some

time to think. Thanks," he told her absently. He started off in the indicated direction. With a wink in the girl's direction that left her feeling distinctly nonplussed, Mudge trotted after his friend. Lowering the unconscious kid he still held gently to the wet pavement, Stromagg proceeded to follow.

The hotel was an older establishment and not particularly large. Motioning for his friends to remain behind, quiet and in shadow, Jon-Tom executed a quick survey until he found what he was looking for: a side entrance that would allow them entry without the necessity of pa.s.sing through the main lobby. He

was further relieved when he saw two couples emerge. One pair were clad in medieval garb, a third wore the guise of a large alien insect with a latex head, and the fourth was dressed in the silken body stocking and pale gossamer wings of a pixie. Having met real pixies, he almost paused to offer a critique of the latter costume, but settled for asking directions to the party. Returning to his companions and explaining the situation, he then boldly led them across the street.

Mudge remained wary. "'Ere now, mate. Are you sure this is goin' to work?"

As they approached the ancillary entrance, Jon-Tom replied with growing confidence. "I've heard about these convention b.a.l.l.s, Mudge. For tonight, many of those attending are in full costume. They'll think you and Stromagg are fellow partic.i.p.ants." He glanced back at the bear. "Try and make yourself look a

little smaller, Stromagg." The grizzly obediently hunched his shoulders and lowered his head. "Also, there will probably be food."

The bear's interest picked up noticeably. "Food?"

No one challenged them as the entered the side lobby. After asking directions of a pair of overweight

warriors who would have cut a laughable figure in Lynchbany Towne, they proceeded to a large auditorium. It was packed with milling, chatting partic.i.p.ants, more than half of whom were in costume.

A few glanced up at the arrival of the newcomers, but no one appeared startled, or otherwise alerted that they were anything other than fellow costumers. While Mudge and Stromagg surveyed the scene with varying degrees of incredulity, Jon-Tom led them toward a line of tables piled high with snack foods.

Sniffing the air, the grizzly's expression brightened perceptibly.

"Beer! Stromagg smell beer." Whereupon the bear, despite Jon-Tom's entreaties, promptly angled off on

a course of his own.

"Let the bleedin' oversized 'ulk 'ave a drink," Mudge advised his suddenly concerned companion. " 'E deserves it, after the work 'e did back at the first tunnel. I wish I could-oi there! Watch where you're goin'!"

The girl who had b.u.mped into him was dressed as a b.u.t.terfly. There wasn't much to her costume, and she was considerably more svelte than the erstwhile warriors the travelers had encountered in the hallway outside the auditorium. Mudge's anger dissipated as rapidly as it had surged.

She gazed admiringly from him to Jon-Tom. "Hey, love your costumes. Did you make them yourselves?"

Looking to terminate the conversation as quickly as possible, Jon-Tom eyed the long table hungrily.

Food was rapidly vanishing from the stained white covering cloths. "Uh, pretty much."

She eyed him interestedly, her wire-supported wings and other things bobbing with her movements.

"You're not writers, or artists, because you don't have name tags on." She indicated the duar resting against Jon-Tom's back. "That's a neat lute, or whatever. It looks playable." She gestured in the direction of the busy stage at the far end of the auditorium. "There's filksinging going on right now. I'm getting this vibe that you're pretty good. I'm kind of psychic, you see, and I have a feel for other people." Her smile widened. "I bet you're a-computer programmer!"

"Not exac . . ." he tried to explain to her as she grabbed his hand and fairly dragged him forward. Mudge watched with amus.e.m.e.nt as his friend was towed helplessly in the direction of the stage. Then he turned and headed for the food-laden tables.

Welcoming Jon-Tom, the flute player currently holding court onstage cast his own admiring glance at the duar. "Cool strings. You need a cord and an amp?"

Aware that others in the crowd had turned to face him, Jon-Tom played-but only for time. "Uh, no.

Strictly acoustic." The flute player stepped aside. "Right. Let's see what you can do." Conscious that b.u.t.terfly was still watching him intently, Jon-Tom decided that a quick, straightforward song would be the easiest, and safest, way to escape the unwelcome attention that was now being directed toward him. As his fingers began to slide across the strings of the duar, a familiar multihued mist began to congeal at the interdimensional nexus. Someone in the forefront of the crowd pointed excitedly. "Hey, look-light show!" Responding with a lame grin, Jon-Tom tried to strum as simple and unaffecting a melody as possible. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to remember the chords to a Barry Manilow tune. At least, he told himself, he would not have to worry about making any inadvertent magic.

Following his nose, Stromagg found himself approaching a bar near the far side of the auditorium. As he approached, someone thrust a tankard toward him. "Here you go, big guy. Have one on me." The man dressed as Henry IX pressed a full tankard into the grizzly's paw. Accepting the offer, Stromagg took a suspicious sniff of the contents. His face lit up and he proceeded to drain the container in one long swallow. Looking on admiringly, the fan who would be king beckoned his friends to join the new arrival.

Scarfing finger food as fast as he could evaluate it with eyes and nostrils, Mudge was distracted from his gorging by the tapping of a furry forefinger on his shoulder. A ready if nervous retort on his lips, he turned-only to find himself struck dumb by the sight that confronted him.

The girl's otter costume was not only superbly rendered, it was, in word, compelling.

Twirling a whisker, he slowly put aside the piled-high plate of goodies he had commandeered from the table. "Well now. And wot might your name be, darlin'?" Peering through the eye cut-outs in the papier-mache head, the girl's gaze reflected a mix of admiration and disbelief. "And I thought I had had the best giant-otter costume in England!" Her eyes inspected every inch of him, a.n.a.lyzing thoroughly. "I've never seen such good sewing. I can't even see the st.i.tches, or where you've hidden the zipper." Her eyes met his. "Costumers are good about sharing their secrets. Could you spare a couple of minutes to maybe give me some pointers?"

Mudge considered his platter. Food, girl. Food, girl. Cookies. . . .

-IV-.

Onstage, Jon-Tom found himself, despite his reservations, slipping into the free-wheeling spirit of the occasion. Partic.i.p.ants were dancing in front of him, twirling in costume, reveling in his music-making. So self-absorbed were they that they failed to see the small black ball of vapor that emerged from the center of the duar to flash offstage and vanish in the direction of the farthest doorway. Judging from its angle of departure, Jon-Tom guessed it to be heading fast in the direction of the underground stairway from which he and his companions had emerged earlier that same evening. Raising his voice excitedly while still strumming, Jon-Tom sought to alert his companions.

"Mudge, Stromagg! I think I've done it!" Ignoring the applause of the flute player, who took up the refrain, and the admiring stare of b.u.t.terfly girl, he leaped off the stage and plunged into the crowd. There was no telling how long the revitalized, recharged tunnel would last. He and his friends had to make use of it before the thaumaturgic alteration was discovered by some wandering late-night pedestrians.

Stromagg wasn't hard to locate. The bear had by now gathered a small army of awed acolytes around him, who looked on in jaw-dropping astonishment as the grizzly continued to chugalug inhuman quant.i.ties of beer with no apparent ill effects.

Well, maybe a few.

Arriving breathlessly from the stage, Jon-Tom looked around uncertainly. "Stromagg, it's time to go.

Where's Mudge?"

Weaving slightly, the more than modestly zonkered ursine frowned down at him and replied, in the tone

of one only slightly interested, "Duhhh?"

"Oh great!" Latching on to the grizzly's arm, Jon-Tom struggled to drag him away from the crowd.

Behind him, tankards and gla.s.ses and Styrofoam cups rose in admiring salute. "We've got to get out of here while we have the chance."

There was no sign of Mudge on the auditorium floor, nor out in the hallway, nor in an annex room.

Confronting a partic.i.p.ant made up as an exceedingly stocky, slime-dripping alien, Jon-Tom fought to keep Stromagg from falling down.

"This may sound funny, but have you seen a five-foot-tall otter come this way?"

"Nothing funny about it," the gray-green alien replied in an incongruously high-pitched voice. It jerked a thumb down the hall. "I just saw two of 'em."

"Two?" Jon-Tom's confusion was sincere. Then realization dawned, and he broke into a desperate sprint.

"Mudge!"He found his friend in the third room he tried: an empty office. Bursting in, he and Stromagg discovered Mudge and the otter other in a position that had nothing to do with pa.s.sing along the finer points of advanced amateur costuming. Jon-Tom's outrage was palpable.

"Mudge!"

Rising from the couch, his friend looked back over his shoulder, not in the least at a loss.

" 'Ello, mate." He indicated the shape beneath him. "This 'ere is Althea. We been discussin' matters of

the moment, you might say."

Stark naked except for otter mask and furry feet, the girl struggled to cover herself as best she could.

Though surprised by the unexpected intrusion, she did not appear particularly distressed. Rather the contrary. Ignoring her, an angry Jon-Tom confronted his companion.

"What the h.e.l.l do you think you're doing? Aren't matters complicated enough as it is?"

Hopping off the couch and into his short pants, the otter proceeded to defend himself. "Back off, mate.

Me and Althea 'ere weren't 'aving no problems. It were all perfectly consentable, it were."

"That's right." Rising in all her admirable suppleness, she reached out with one hand to grab hold of

Mudge's right ear. "And now that I've fulfilled my half of the bargain, it's time to see how your outfit is put together." She pulled hard.

Yelping, Mudge twisted around as his ear was yanked. "Owch! 'Ave a care there, darlin'."

Looking puzzled, the girl's gaze descended. Grabbing a fistful of fur in the otter's nether regions, she

pulled again. Once more the otter let out a hurt bark. A look of confusion crossed her countenance, to be