Bribe the guards? Never. There was no amount she could offer large enough to tempt the two of them to risk losing their comfortable posts in the rich Tastriune household. Wait until they fall asleep? No, they probably slept in alternating shifts.

Resuming her circuit of the building, she soon found herself prowling a secluded back corner of the Tastriune property. Here the moonlight played on trees and ornamental shrubbery, and behind them something else, something solid. Brick or stone walls, she thought, and stole forward to investigate.

Behind the stand of greenery, discreetly veiled from casual view, she found a small brick structure with a peaked wooden roof and a door of painted planking. Surely not an outhouse, not for modern Madame Moneybags. Something utilitarian, though. Toolshed? Potting shed? Cautiously she opened the door, which swung on its well-oiled hinges without a squeak. Darkness smothered the interior.

Her valise contained a box of matches, an item that experience had taught her never to travel without. Now she extracted the box and struck a light, with which she jabbed the black s.p.a.ce. The darkness flinched and she saw a closet-sized compartment, empty but for a big cylindrical metal tank standing solidly upright on its flat base. The tank's domed summit sported something resembling a spigot connected by a short length of heavy hose to a metal pipe rising out of the clay floor. Alongside the spigot glinted a gla.s.s-faced round device with a needle and a calibrated dial. A gauge of some sort?

Luzelle stared. The flame nipped her fingers, she dropped the match, and the darkness jumped back into place. For a moment she stood wondering, and then comprehension dawned. Of course. She was looking at the Tastriunes' gas tank, containing the fuel that fed those newfangled lamps of theirs. Someday, probably quite soon, the gas would be produced and piped commercially, in quant.i.ties sufficient to light entire streets, even entire cities. Or so the optimistic theory ran. She'd believe that when she saw it. In the meantime rich arrivistes ambitious of distinction, like the Tastriunes, were still obliged to install and maintain their own fuel tanks, safely removed from the house itself, for fear of fire or explosion.

Fire? Explosion?

What are you thinking? Her capacity to astonish herself was not yet exhausted. Her capacity to astonish herself was not yet exhausted. Have you gone mad? Have you gone mad?

But the cold, clear section of her mind, the part unreservedly dedicated to victory, seemed to have a.s.sumed control. And that part, deaf to remonstrance and awesomely efficient, was thrusting her hands into her valise to bring forth useless timetables and reservations furnished by the Ministry of Foreign Affairs; crumpling those doc.u.ments and piling them in a corner; lighting a match, and setting the paper ablaze.

The small flames jumped, their flickery light suffusing the small s.p.a.ce. Luzelle plucked her clasp knife from the side pocket of her valise and then, as if from a distance, watched her own hands unfolding the blade and driving the steel point into the hose connecting the tank and pipeline. A faint hiss of escaping gas rewarded her efforts, and a new odor added itself to the atmosphere. Grabbing up her valise, she jumped for the exit, slammed the door shut behind her, and ran for cover.

Rounding the corner of the carriage house, she pressed her back hard to the wall, let herself sink down behind the bushes masking the foundation, and there rested in shadow. She had no idea how long she waited, heart racing and palms sweating. The seconds or minutes or hours stretched into centuries, and presently she began to imagine herself trapped in a dream, for Luzelle Devaire was no arsonist, and surely the scene in the outbuilding could not have been quite real.

The deep, almost m.u.f.fled boom of an explosion drove such fancies from her mind. The brick walls of the outbuilding withstood the force of the blast, but the wooden door went flying, and the roof sundered with a shout. A great blossom of fire unfurled, lit the night for a spectacular moment, and wilted.

I did that? Half disbelievingly she studied the wreckage; brick walls singed but still standing, shattered remains of the wooden roof blazing fiercely. Half disbelievingly she studied the wreckage; brick walls singed but still standing, shattered remains of the wooden roof blazing fiercely.

A door opened nearby, and weak light spilled from the carriage house. The two guards emerged and made for the fire at a run. Seconds later the lights in the mansion windows dimmed out of existence. A distant gabble of excited Aennorvi arose. Another door banged open, and shadowy figures burst from the Tastriunes' house.

She did not pause to observe their actions. The carriage house stood unguarded, but would not remain so for long. She stood. Hugging the shadows, she skulked her way to the open door, where she hesitated only an instant before slipping through.

She cast a quick look about her. The place was big, high ceilinged, and elaborately equipped. Dimly she noted the presence of two bloated carriages, several smaller but no less obviously costly vehicles, a commonplace wagon, an antique sedan chair, and someone's rusty velocipede.

She hurried on toward the rear, pa.s.sing a couple of anonymous closed doors, and then she spied the row of big box stalls, six of them, all occupied.

n.o.body needs six horses, no one ought to have that many, she told herself, and made herself believe it.

The animals were awake, no doubt roused by unaccustomed sounds and sights. A well-shaped chestnut head poked inquiringly from the nearest stall, whose door bore a small bra.s.s plate engraved with a name: Ballerina. Ballerina.

She clucked, and the horse whickered softly.

You, she thought. I'll just lead you right out of here, and then- I'll just lead you right out of here, and then- And then? She could ride, but not without a bridle and saddle. She did know how to saddle a horse, she had acquired that skill as a girl, without His Honor's knowledge or consent. It had been a long time ago, but she would still remember-she must.

Tack room? Behind one of those two closed doors she had just pa.s.sed. Dropping her valise, she hurried back to the first door, opened it, and looked into the feed room, then opened the second to discover an impressive collection of leather equipment. She went in and stepped to the wall, where a score of circular brackets supported an a.s.sortment of spotless bridles. Each bracket carried a nameplate, just barely legible in the low light pushing through the open door. Well-organized place. Her eyes hurried. She found the nameplate she sought: Behind one of those two closed doors she had just pa.s.sed. Dropping her valise, she hurried back to the first door, opened it, and looked into the feed room, then opened the second to discover an impressive collection of leather equipment. She went in and stepped to the wall, where a score of circular brackets supported an a.s.sortment of spotless bridles. Each bracket carried a nameplate, just barely legible in the low light pushing through the open door. Well-organized place. Her eyes hurried. She found the nameplate she sought: Ballerina. Ballerina. She plucked a bridle furnished with a simple snaffle from its bracket, and turned away from the wall. Her eyes jumped to the dustcloth shrouding the nearest stand. She yanked the cloth aside to uncover a scrupulously polished hacking saddle, its girth detached and lying across the seat, its stirrup irons pulled up. She lifted the saddle from its stand, and draped it over her arm. Saddle pads? Where were they? She plucked a bridle furnished with a simple snaffle from its bracket, and turned away from the wall. Her eyes jumped to the dustcloth shrouding the nearest stand. She yanked the cloth aside to uncover a scrupulously polished hacking saddle, its girth detached and lying across the seat, its stirrup irons pulled up. She lifted the saddle from its stand, and draped it over her arm. Saddle pads? Where were they?

No time!

The chestnut would have to do without. Sorry, Ballerina. Sorry, Ballerina.

Exiting the tack room, she hurried back to the stall, murmured a few theoretically rea.s.suring words to its occupant, and slipped in. The horse, an elegantly formed mare, displayed neither alarm nor hostility. An even-tempered animal, a prize. Luzelle set the saddle carefully aside, and took the bridle into her hand. No time to warm the bit in her palm, but the springtime temperatures were mild, and the metal tolerable to the touch. Approaching diagonally, she slipped the reins over the pretty red head, then unbuckled and removed the stable halter. Her left thumb pressed unnecessarily; the mare's mouth opened at once, and the bit slipped effortlessly into place, while the crownpiece slid smoothly over the ears. Oh, you red darling. Oh, you red darling. Her fingers flew; buckling, checking. Everything correctly in place. Her fingers flew; buckling, checking. Everything correctly in place.

The not-so-distant clamor of Aennorvi voices reached her ears. A sizable crowd must have gathered around that ruined outbuilding. For a while the fire there would anchor collective attention, but how long could that last? Hurry, hurry, hurry. Hurry, hurry, hurry.

She ran a quick hand along the mare's back, dislodging a stray wisp of straw. Not good enough, but no time for more brushing, no time. Lifting the saddle, she laid it a few inches before the withers, then slid it backward into place. The animal shifted restlessly, sensing strangeness.

"Easy," Luzelle muttered, to the horse and to herself. "Easy."

Her own deftness in attaching the girth almost surprised her. No time to fool with the stirrups, they would have to do for now. She turned the mare gently toward the stall door, and led her through without difficulty. The sight of her valise on the floor beside the door recalled her to certain unpleasant realities. Most of her money reposed within the bag, and she remembered that she had vowed to leave a fair price in exchange for the horse she was stealing-purchasing-not to mention the property she had destroyed. A pretty piece of futility, of course. She might leave cash enough to pay for twenty chestnut mares, but the Tastriunes would never see a single New-rekko of it. The entire sum would disappear into the pocket of the first stableboy lucky enough to find it.

Am I responsible for the dishonesty of the servants? inquired the wholly committed portion of her mind. inquired the wholly committed portion of her mind.

Then there was the matter of the valise itself-a roomy, hard-sided container, difficult to carry on horseback.

Impossible to carry. She would have to leave the valise.

My clothes! My sewing kit and nail file! My clean underwear!

All replaceable.

Already she was down on her knees, rooting through the contents of her bag. The pa.s.sport and well-lined wallet slid into the inner pocket of her broadcloth jacket. A generous fistful of New-rekko notes remained in the valise, but the surviving maps and doc.u.ments furnished by the ministry, together with the little box of ammunition, dropped into the pockets already containing the Khrennisov, the clasp knife, and the matches. Nothing remained to reveal her ident.i.ty. Another moment or two of searching, and she would probably lay hands on the miniature sewing kit- No time!

Which way out? The exit farthest from the site of the explosion. Rising, she tightened the girth, then led the chestnut through the carriage house to the huge front door, where she shoved the bar aside and pushed. One of the great wooden halves swung wide, and she coaxed the mare on through.

Heavy smoke weighted the cool night breeze. Ballerina snorted and tossed her head.

"Quiet," Luzelle begged in a whisper. Just another minute, and I'll have us out of here, with n.o.body the wiser- Just another minute, and I'll have us out of here, with n.o.body the wiser- That minute was not to be hers. The light glowing through the open door caught her squarely, and she was spotted at once. Somebody nearby started yelling. No chance now of an inconspicuous exit.

As a young girl she had learned to ride decorously sidesaddle, in accordance with His Honor's dictates. She might never have known any other way, had not the first matriarch of the Uiiviisian plainswomen taken pity and taught her to ride astride. Now she hiked her long skirts and petticoat high, indifferent to the indecent display of lace-trimmed muslin drawers. Tossing the ma.s.s of fabric over one arm, she grabbed the pommel, swung herself up into the saddle, clapped her heels to the mare's flanks, and sped off at a gallop.

The yelling furor behind her intensified, and she heard the deep-throated baying of dogs, but these sounds were receding, and soon they were gone, lost in the steady rhythm of hoofbeats. Luzelle slowed her stolen mount to a walk. Her heart was pounding-with exhilaration, she realized. What would His Honor have said? A shameless laugh broke from her.

And what would Karsler say? For some reason the thought popped into her head, and the laughter died on her lips. She did not know why she should think of him at such a time, but she could see his face very clearly in her mind, and there was no condemnation there, but something in the steady clarity of his eyes reproached her. For some reason the thought popped into her head, and the laughter died on her lips. She did not know why she should think of him at such a time, but she could see his face very clearly in her mind, and there was no condemnation there, but something in the steady clarity of his eyes reproached her.

A ridiculous fancy. As if a Grewzian overcommander, of all people, would presume to pose as some sort of moral arbiter. Comical, really. But she was not smiling.

She noticed then that she was tired. The rush of excitement sustaining her throughout the last half hour or so had ebbed, and now she wanted a clean feather bed and deep sleep. But she would have neither for some time to come.

She needed to leave Aeshno at once-both for the sake of the Grand Ellipse and her own safety. Madame Tastriune's elegant chestnut mare was quite recognizable, its present rider not unnoticeable, and the authorities would be looking for her now.

East to Bizaqh, next designated stop along the Grand Ellipse. East, beyond the reach of the strevvio strevvio, the trains that did not run, the horses that could not be bought, the decent transportation that did not exist.

Her sense of direction, always solid, told her that the waterfront from which she had come lay to her left. Lifting her face to the night, she studied the skies. There above, to her right, to the east, shone the constellation known in Vonahr as the Princess; demoted during the revolution to the Laundress, but lately restored to her original rank.

Turning her mount toward the Princess, she rode east. Time pa.s.sed, and Aeshno fell away behind her. She was out on the dusty highway under the stars and the moon, the road clear before her, and pursuit before morning unlikely. She was tired, but not to the point of exhaustion, and she knew she could ride on for hours if necessary. With any luck she would happen upon a roadside inn well before midnight.

The moon inched across the sky and her vision turned inward to focus upon a.s.sorted faces. Karsler's with its unexpressed reproach. Madame Tastriune's, with more of the same. Szett Urrazole, killed in an explosion, another explosion, nothing to do with gas tanks. Girays v'Alisante, and his questions. The Festinette twins, somewhere far ahead, giggling in triumph. Grandlandsman Torvid Stornzof, monocle flashing like sunlit ice. Others, many others, coming and going, but Girays and Karsler always hovered near, linked in her imagination despite their dissimilarities, and often she found herself thinking of them both at once, wondering where they were and how they fared.

10.

"...THUS THE INTERVENTION of the Lanthian resistance delayed our arrival by many hours," Karsler Stornzof concluded his explanation. "The inconvenience was considerable, but I must admire the ingenuity of our enemies." of the Lanthian resistance delayed our arrival by many hours," Karsler Stornzof concluded his explanation. "The inconvenience was considerable, but I must admire the ingenuity of our enemies."

Perfectly in chivalrous character. Girays v'Alisante bent a sour smile. Twenty-four hours in Karsler Stornzof's company, and he had yet to detect a crack in the knightly facade. Nor had he caught the faintest whiff of conscious hypocrisy, and his nose for that scent was keen. It seemed that the Grewzian took his heroic role quite to heart. Perhaps he had read too many sugared articles about himself in those fool gazettes.

A pity the Lanthian ingenuity the overcommander so admired hadn't succeeded in prolonging that island interlude another day or two. On the other hand, Stornzof's a.s.sistance with the two-seater had proved invaluable; essential, in fact. He could never have managed the mechanical monstrosity on his own, Girays inwardly admitted. Even powered by two riders, the contraption generated endless grief. Reluctant locomotion. Clanking, screeching, squealing protest. Poor balance. Unreliable steering. Nonexistent braking. And unremitting obstinacy, as if this man-made conglomerate of iron, wood, and leather housed the soul of a malevolent mule.

The present instance was a perfect case in point. The miserably rutted, muddy Aeshno-Eynisse Road that wound its way among countless rock-strewn hills now ascended a sharp grade, and the two-seater was fighting every inch of the way. In such a place, an old-fashioned velocipede propelled by the thrust of its rider's foot against the ground would have been more practical. But the two-seater was equipped with the supposed advantage of pedals, and modernity was exacting its toll.

The afternoon sun blazed st.u.r.dily overhead. The sweat was dripping into his eyes, and Girays raised a hand to his face. No sooner had he relinquished his hold on one of the leather handlebar grips than the big front wheel hit soft mud, twisted sharply on its pivot, and the two-seater lurched for the side of the road. With a muttered oath he reclaimed the grip, yanked the iron tire around, overcompensated, and sent the vehicle lumbering off at a new angle. He pulled again, managed to straighten the tire, but could not control the violent shuddering of the heavy frame. The two-seater shook, bucked, and screeched. Despite all such metallic protest, uphill progress scarcely slackened.

It was the force from the rear, Girays realized. He alone could never have pedaled up the slope. If left to his own devices, he would have dismounted and walked the two-seater gradually to the summit or, more likely, left the hunk of junk lying at the side of the road. Under the eyes of a Grewzian rival he could do neither, and now found himself obliged to acknowledge what he had already suspected-that Stornzof's efforts were keeping them on course, and that Stornzof was carrying a good deal more than half the burden.

He might have consoled himself with the theory that the rear position offered a mechanical advantage, perhaps a more efficient exploitation of applied force, had personal experience not taught him otherwise. The rider in front controlled the steering, thus claiming dominant status, and it was presumably for this reason that the Overcommander Stornzof had suggested early on that the two riders periodically alternate seats. It was just such conspicuous, subtly self-laudatory fairmindedness that doubtless struck certain impressionable observers as wonderful. wonderful. Girays had now ridden both front and back, and knew for a fact that the two positions were equally demanding. And no imaginary mechanical advantage could be used to explain away the superior performance of a Grewzian athlete considerably larger, some ten years younger, and just plain stronger than himself. Girays had now ridden both front and back, and knew for a fact that the two positions were equally demanding. And no imaginary mechanical advantage could be used to explain away the superior performance of a Grewzian athlete considerably larger, some ten years younger, and just plain stronger than himself.

Actually the front seat was better. There, Stornzof wasn't in his line of sight.

Girays pedaled on grimly. Presently the two-seater crested the rise, leveled briefly, then commenced a teeth-rattling descent. It was much easier now. In fact the vehicle was coasting along effortlessly, picking up speed as it went. There was a sharp clank as the front tire dipped into a hole in the road. The wheel twisted, and Girays reflexively twitched it back into line. He was getting better at steering, he decided. He would be an expert before the trip was over. The two-seater's uncontrollable acceleration, which would have alarmed him a scant twenty-four hours earlier, now struck him as exhilarating. The breeze cooling his moist face was agreeable. For the first time he began to see the potential pleasure in this sport. With a decent velocipede perhaps, definitely a mono-seater, on a properly maintained road- The two-seater neared the bottom of the slope, and now it was practically flying, squealing along so rapidly that the broad wet patch overspreading the roadway was under the iron tires almost before Girays had noted its existence. A ma.s.sive spray of mud flew, spattering his face and filling his eyes. He felt the handlebar jerk beneath his hands, the front wheel swiveled, and the two-seater skidded, careering across the roadway at a wild diagonal until a plangent clang proclaimed the impact of metal on stone.

The front tire had struck a large rock. The two-seater overturned and Girays fell, hitting the soft mud with an ignominious plop. For a moment he sprawled p.r.o.ne where he had landed, the breath knocked out of him. Then labored respiration and thought resumed. Some sort of weight was pressing his back and squeezing his lungs. Raising his head, he glanced about to discover that he had fallen beneath the two-seater, whose rusty bulk pinned him where he lay. The contraption was heavy, but he could surely wriggle his way out from under it, provided he had broken no major bones- The thought had barely resolved itself before he felt the pressure on his back ease, and he looked around again to see Karsler Stornzof lifting the two-seater and moving it aside. But for the muddy splotches on his boots and the dirty speckling across his uniform, the overcommander remained unsullied. When the two-seater overturned, he must have managed to land on his feet.

"Thank you," said Girays, and the words all but stuck in his throat.

"You are injured?" Stornzof inquired.

"I think not." Girays sat up carefully. He was sore in places, but everything seemed to work. "A few bruises, nothing more."

This was not entirely true, for his pride had suffered some laceration. He had been steering the two-seater, he should have avoided the mud; he was responsible for the accident. He met the Grewzian's eyes, expecting to encounter accusation or resentment, but found nothing there beyond a certain thoughtful, oddly impenetrable composure.

"I believe you are correct. I shall see to the machine, then." Stornzof turned away.

Girays hauled himself to his feet. The overcommander, he noted with grudging approval, had the tact to withhold offers of a.s.sistance neither wanted nor required. He seemed, in fact, generally devoid of Grewzian boorishness. Indeed, but for the slightly stilted speech, the fellow might almost have been Vonahrish.

Brushing a few clots of mud from his coat, Girays inquired, "Ready to continue?"

"On foot, I fear," the other informed him. "Come, see here."

Girays approached with reluctance, and spotted the trouble at once. It would have been hard to miss-the collision had damaged the front tire severely, indenting a section of the iron circle and mangling several spokes.

So his incompetence had disabled their vehicle. Under the eyes of a Grewzian overcommander described as wonderful. wonderful.

Stornzof, however, displayed no sign of rancor, remarking only, "I am certain this could be hammered back into shape quite easily."

"Do you have a hammer?"

"It is not a thing I ordinarily carry."

"Strangely enough, neither do I."

"Should we encounter a coach along this road, the driver may well possess a toolbox."

"Perhaps, but we can hardly afford to sit and wait for a coach. Is it possible to walk the two-seater?"

"Let us put it to the test." So saying, Stornzof effortlessly righted the fallen vehicle, grasped the handlebar, and advanced. The front tire clanked woefully. A grating protest underscored each revolution, until Stornzof paused to alter the position of a bent wire spoke. The second big tire and the little flying balance-wheel at the back were undamaged. The two suitcases remained securely strapped to the rear carrier.

"Some effort is required, but this can be done," Stornzof reported. "We need not abandon the machine."

"I'll push it along for now," Girays stated. He was prepared to push the wretched heap of sc.r.a.p to Aveshq and back, if that could redeem his blundering.

"As you wish."

The Grewzian stepped aside and Girays took his place. He discovered at once that Stornzof had been right. The damaged two-seater, unwieldy at best, was now a misery to handle, but it could be done.

He pushed and the two-seater moved. The Grewzian walked beside him. The road before them wound southeast.

THE HOURS Pa.s.sED and the scenery altered. The hills sharpened, the bare granite blushed pink, the gnarl-limbed shrubs gave way to blue-grey conifers, and the first creeping daggers appeared. The creeping dagger vine-infamous for its hardihood, its uncanny rapidity of growth, and the murderous keenness of its countless thorns-figured prominently in Aennorvi history. According to popular belief, the plant had been created by the legendary sorcerer Aekropi at the behest of a local prince bent on punishing the infidelity of his beautiful but excessively vivacious young wife. Confining his princess and her lover to a small stone cottage somewhere in the heart of the forested hills, the prince had summoned Aekropi, who had loosed the creeping daggers. The vines had grown at magical speed, blanketing the cottage within the s.p.a.ce of a single night, imprisoning the occupants and condemning them to uninterrupted togetherness for the term of their unnaturally prolonged lives. The cottage had long since lost itself amid the spreading vines, but locals swore that travelers in the hills could still sometimes catch the echo of screaming mutual recrimination. and the scenery altered. The hills sharpened, the bare granite blushed pink, the gnarl-limbed shrubs gave way to blue-grey conifers, and the first creeping daggers appeared. The creeping dagger vine-infamous for its hardihood, its uncanny rapidity of growth, and the murderous keenness of its countless thorns-figured prominently in Aennorvi history. According to popular belief, the plant had been created by the legendary sorcerer Aekropi at the behest of a local prince bent on punishing the infidelity of his beautiful but excessively vivacious young wife. Confining his princess and her lover to a small stone cottage somewhere in the heart of the forested hills, the prince had summoned Aekropi, who had loosed the creeping daggers. The vines had grown at magical speed, blanketing the cottage within the s.p.a.ce of a single night, imprisoning the occupants and condemning them to uninterrupted togetherness for the term of their unnaturally prolonged lives. The cottage had long since lost itself amid the spreading vines, but locals swore that travelers in the hills could still sometimes catch the echo of screaming mutual recrimination.

The truth of this tale was perhaps open to question. There could be no doubt, however, that the Aennorvi general Ulyune had used creeping dagger plants to choke the Zirigar Pa.s.s, thus blocking the advance of the invading Bizaqhi army less than two hundred years earlier, for this was a matter of historical record. Nor could there be any doubt that the nearly indestructible vines were more than a minor nuisance, for the finger-length thorns were indeed sharp as poniards, and the crimson fluid they exuded was toxic.

"Let us halt for a time," Stornzof suggested.

"Very well." Girays let nothing show on his face. His arms, shoulders, and back ached with the effort of wheeling the crippled two-seater over the hills, but he would never have permitted himself to beg a respite.

They moved to the side of the road, where Girays muted a groan of relief as he laid his burden down. He seated himself in the gra.s.s beside the two-seater, and Stornzof did likewise. Both carried water flasks purchased in Aeshno, and both drank from them now.

Drawing a handkerchief from his pocket, Girays mopped the dirt and sweat from his face, then let his eyes wander. The blue-grey conifers loomed about him, and now he saw that the trunks were wound with creeping daggers. The boughs were likewise enc.u.mbered, and everywhere the vigorous vines looped through the air from tree to tree, enclosing the forest in a living net. The ground was carpeted with blue-grey needles, many of them darkly beaded. At first he took the sticky beading for resin from the trees, but closer inspection revealed the presence of the mildly venomous scarlet secretions of countless thorns.

He felt a slight vibration through the ground beneath him, and there could be but one explanation.

"Coach coming," said Girays.

His companion nodded. They stood. Moments later the Aruneside District No. 3 mail coach rounded a bend in the road and came hurrying into view. Both men hailed it urgently.

The driver saw them. His eyes fastened on the Grewzian overcommander, his teeth showed, and he flashed the obscene Feyennese Four Fingers. The mail coach sped by without slackening its speed, and soon disappeared.

"It is the uniform," Stornzof observed quietly. "It is a liability here in Aennorve. Had I been wiser, I should have stood out of sight."

He was right about that. So the golden Grewzian demiG.o.d was capable of error. Girays regarded his companion with a kindlier eye.

"We'd best move on," he said. He would have preferred to rest a while longer. His strained muscles complained.

Stornzof inclined his head. "I will wheel the machine now."

"If you insist," Girays yielded, disguising his elation. The fellow was remarkably decent, for a Grewzian. "But at this point I think we'd best consider leaving the two-seater. It's become clear we'll find no means of repairing the wheel out here in the middle of nowhere. If we can't fix it, then we're better off without it."

"That is true enough. But I am not yet ready to give up hope of salvaging the machine. I believe that the opportunity will soon arise. I think it is close at hand." His listener's expression must have communicated incomprehension, for Stornzof added, "It is a feeling that I have."

"I see. A feeling."