As they emerged into the night air, Persemid came toward them, walking as though her feet hurt.

Sean held her arm. He was still wide awake and lively.

"Are you ready to go back?" Sean asked.

"Without a doubt," said the older man. "I think we have all had as much fun as we can handle for one night."

"Hear, hear," said Chuck.

The four Visitors slogged back to the train. The full moon was about two thirds up one side of the sky, giving them plenty of light to negotiate their path. The rubberiness in Chuck's legs was no longer from having animated features-that had worn off hours ago-but from sheer exhaustion. He had enjoyed the evening thoroughly-well, most of it. Now, he was ready for bed. He was glad to see the welcome shape of a real train. He couldn't have imagined how they would sleep on the backs of elephants.

As Chuck helped Persemid up the stairs, he felt a vibration coming through the car. Puzzled, he pushed open the partition door. A blast of rock music struck him full force, almost knocking him over.

They pushed in against the ferocious sound, and were greeted by the conductor, who was wearing two outsized pads of cotton strapped over his ears under his cap. A flashing strobe light provided staccato views of the darkened interior, where figures were dancing to a band playing at one end of the car.

"Evening, sir!" the conductor shouted.

"What's this?" Chuck shouted back.

"Private party, sir! I am to extend invitations to you all!"

"From them?" Sean yelled, pointing. He looked alarmed. Chuck turned to get a better view. Unlike Sean, he wasn't frightened by the sight. The wild party consisted not of people, but of skeletons. They were dancing, eating food from the refreshment table, talking earnestly in corners, and smoking in doorways. And why not? Chuck thought. They don't have to worry about lung cancer. He stopped to admire the moves of the dancers. Some of those bone-folk were really getting down. It looked like fun, but Chuck wasn't in the mood to keep partying.

"Don't worry," he shouted at Sean. "This reminds me of something at home!"

"You consort with dead people?" Sean asked, his eyes showing white all the way around the irises.

"A kind of Dead," Chuck replied. He caught a glimpse of Persemid near the door. She was grinning. She understood. "They won't hurt you, I promise!" The party car was crowded, but he saw a way through. He signaled to the travelers all to join hands, and pulled them along to the next carriage.

As soon as the partition door shut behind them, the earth-shakingly loud music cut off.

"Good call," Persemid said, "and good night. I can't wait to get off my feet."

The car automatically split into the correct compartments. Chuck waited for the transformation to take his shoes off, glad he didn't have to summon the coordination to do it himself. The floor still vibrated with the music's bass beat. He'd have to ask Bergold in the morning if there was a specific name for that kind of manifestation, or if it was considered a nuisance.The pajama top hung slack against the empty part of his chest. Chuck hadn't thought about the hole in hours. He felt the edges of the flaw, letting his fingers run all around the perimeter through the cloth.

He worried whether it was getting bigger. Should he look? He glanced around the compartment. There was a mirror on the wall above the writing table next to the window. If he lowered the blinds, he could examine the flaw in his chest without anyone to see.

Just as his shaking fingers undid the top button, a conga line of smiling, dancing, multicolored teddy bears came through the wall, accompanied by more music. He buttoned it shut again and spun to confront the intruders.

"Get lost," Chuck said, waving irritably at them. "I'm not in the mood."

The bears didn't mind. Still smiling, they shuffled and stepped out through the window glass, their music following them out into the night. Now that, Chuck thought, was a nuisance.

He was so tired he didn't even want a book to read. It was just as well, since his muscles were so sore he didn't want to go get one. What a day. Chuck flopped back and looked at the ceiling. He noticed that it was carved with a sheep motif. Well, that was handy. He started to count them.

Loud voices erupted in the hallway.

"I'm telling you, the quantum weight of the universe totally offsets the balance of all energy," said a male voice.

"It doesn't change the behavior of matter," a woman said.

Chuck pulled the pillow over his head, but the voices got louder.

"The very assessment of the quanta changes its behavior! If you examine every particle, it changes what it was doing."

That came from right inside his compartment. Chuck pulled the pillow off his face. To his shock, he found himself looking up at two hollow skulls arguing.

"Are you assuming sentience, or contrariness?"

"Would you two mind?" Chuck demanded. "I'm trying to get some sleep!"

The skeletons looked down at him. He didn't know how hollow eye sockets could register surprise, but these did.

"Oh," said the male. "Sorry, man." The pair walked out through the wall, still arguing.

Chuck heard a wild yell from the next chamber, and guessed they had invaded Sean's bedroom.

Persemid's irritated voice rose up.

"Just throw them out!" she shouted, hoarse with sleep. "Do you want me to come and do it?"

Chuck dropped back onto his pillows. Silence fell, almost. He thought he could still hear low voices. He got up and threw open the door to the corridor. No one was outside. He opened door after door that appeared in the paneled walls, finding kitchenette, bathroom, fold-down ironing board, and finally, a walk-in closet where four more skeletons were having a quiet, serious conversation, the kind Chuck himself recalled having in college at two or three in the morning.

"All right," he said, pointing to the door. "Beat it."

Reluctantly, they filed out through the solid door. He heard their voices echoing down the corridor, and then silence. He opened the door to make sure they were really going. They were. Chuck shut the door and locked it. He knew it was a futile gesture, but it made him feel better to make it.

He was alone now. If he wanted to look, he could. He stood before the mirror, dithering, trying to make up his mind whether he would rather see the horror, or just worry whether it was getting worse.

He searched in the mirror for answers. The face looking back at him now looked an honest thirty years of age. He wasn't a teenager any more. Well, that wasn't so bad. The problem was what lay hidden.

Slowly, hoping all the time he had been imagining the problem, he undid the buttons of his pajama jacket. No such luck. In the middle of a taut chest with absolutely admirable muscles was a big zero.

He couldn't believe that it didn't hurt. The margins of the hole felt as ordinary as a shoulder or a knee, but it looked so creepy. How odd to be aware of it. If this had happened when he was really dreaming, he'd undoubtedly accept it without thinking, but now it scared him half to death. As he had feared, the hole was a little larger than earlier. Then, he could cover it with the palm of his hand. Now, the edge peeked out along the side of his hand.

In the fruit factory he'd enjoyed that glorious time when his whole body had been made of rubber.

If he could recapture that ability at this moment, perhaps he could pull himself together and close up the hole. He willed himself to be as stretchy as he had been before, thinking elastic thoughts.

Something changed; he could feel it like a springy sensation in his stomach. He plucked at his cheek, which wowed out to balloon size and flapped back with a sound like a cartoon gate clacking. When he shook his head from side to side, his ears rattled. That should do it. Chuck took the sides of his chest in each hand and pushed. The edges of the hole met, smooshed into a single long line, and vanished.

Chuck smiled and let go. Sproingg! It opened up again. Chuck looked at it in dismay. Symbolism, Keir had said. This gap was the symbol for what was wrong in his life: all his failures, his sorrow, his inability to experience joy. If he didn't fix it soon, it could kill him.He tried pushing it closed again, and pictured a big needle stitching it up. The stitches duly appeared, making his chest look a lot like an old-fashioned football. As soon as he let go, the cord unraveled, leaving an end hanging loose. Frustrated, Chuck filled the emptiness up with handfuls of upholstery, pieces of paneling, even stuffing in handfuls of solid air. He gave it all he had: good vibrations, good thoughts, visions of construction sites, surgery, even road resurfacing. Nothing lasted more than a moment. He still ended up gazing at the inside back of his pajamas through the hole.

Chuck couldn't try any longer. The weariness he'd been fighting hit him like the heap of fruit. He slogged over to the berth and fell into it. His blankets curled around him, and the pillow snuggled under his head at just the right angle.

He was dozily aware when the train lurched and started to move. Keir must have found Pipistrella, Chuck thought sleepily. I'm glad I don't have his job.

The moon shining through the curtains on his window was a little higher in the sky than it had been the night before. Would he be able to reach Enlightenment before his time was up, or would he fall apart before he ever reached the place? Chuck went to sleep with the uneasy sensation that he'd swallowed something wrong, and it was making the place around his heart ache.

Chapter 22.

More shrill whines split the air.

"Mama, he's hitting me!"

"She's on my side of the seat!"

"No, I'm not!"

"Yes, she is! She's putting her finger on the cushion!"

Morit held his hands to his ears, but the annoying voices cut right through. His blood pressure was rising. He was on the verge of getting up and chasing the miserable brats to strangle them, but it wouldn't do any good. His arms and legs in this body were very short and slow. He'd never catch any of them. They would disappear right from between his hands, and by the time he turned around, there would be more, filling the air with their unbearable noise. That was the way his life always was, a Personal Torment Dream every single day. Misery, misery, misery, and no one understood or cared.

Retribution for the Visitors could not come soon enough. He resented being shut up with horrible little children, who were no doubt there to express the concerns of one or another sleepers in the Waking World. Why him, indeed? What about his happiness?

Though the sign on the wall said super terrific prime premier first class, Morit doubted whether it was true. The seats were less comfortable than before, and there was no service. The run-down car hadn't been cleaned in some time. The food was terrible, expensive stodge. His breakfast, cold eggs and greasy bacon, had been served off a cart by a snot-nosed teenager who never made eye contact with him, and asked for two biros-two biros!-for the meal. The coffee tasted like bicycle lubricant.

The remainder of it was growing cold in a cup on the narrow shelf by the window. He'd tried to drink it countless times while it was hot, but the children kept banging into his elbow, spilling it down his front. As a result, he had brown stains that he couldn't conceal on the front of his white shirt. His command of influence was insufficient to eradicate them. He was too annoyed to let Blanda try.

The other factor which made him doubt his whereabouts was the lack of other passengers, especially the Visitors. Except for Blanda, he couldn't find another adult whom he thought was real.

All the ones in the crying car were little more than influence-altered lengths of fence, preventing the little pests from straying outside the limits but providing no other guidance. All the Visitors were somewhere else, undiscoverable by him, anyhow.

"I'll bet it's almost certainly somewhere better than here," Morit said, not for the first time.

"This is very nice," Blanda said, looking up from wielding her knitting needles. The children never cannoned off her, or she'd have been skewered on her own half-finished sweater. "The walls are a very pleasant color, and it's a pretty pattern in the rug. There's such a lot of room. Plenty of space to move about in."

Just then, a boy with brown hair and freckles chased his pigtailed sister straight into Morit. She spilled a glass of milk on his legs. He jumped up, brushing at the mess and swearing.

"My love!" Blanda exclaimed, shocked. Morit sat down. He continued to think angry thoughts, looking daggers at the children, but they didn't hit their targets.

And as for the paint job and carpet, he was unimpressed. The materials were notable only for their resistance to damage and stain, not aesthetic beauty, and as for having plenty of room, it only gave the young nuisances extra yards to use as a launch pad. He rang the bell mounted on the wall. The conductor, wearing rubber wading boots secured over his shoulders with suspenders, appeared at once by his side.

"How may I help you, sir?" he asked, heavily.

"Where is everyone?"

"Still asleep, sir," the conductor answered, in a singsong voice, because he'd recited the same information again and again to Morit since shortly after dawn. "The night stretched out very long. It's taken up part of the day. We had to make up time to remain on schedule, sir. I'm sure they'll all be around again soon."

"But it's nearly noon!"

"Not yet, sir," the conductor said, checking the gold watch in his pocket. "This is reserve morning time. We'll reset the clocks as soon as we reach Phantasie and the Temple of Adoration."

"Oh, that will be nice," Blanda said when Morit sat down. "The Cloudings up the street visited the Temple last year. They had such pretty vacation pictures." She tried a sleeve against his arm for length.

He shook her off.

"I hope that's not for me, is it?" he asked. "I hate orange."

"It won't be orange when I'm finished," Blanda assured him placidly. "You know I like to work with bright colors. Would you like it to be another brown one?"

Morit nodded curtly, his mind already occupied with plotting. He was frustrated. His comrades were supposed to have tried to destroy one or all of the Visitors during their time out on the town the night before in Yore. So many opportunities had presented themselves while he had been watching, but nothing had been done. Why not? He could have done it himself any number of times. He hadn't been able to sleep all night, angry and jealous that the Visitors had had no further trouble. Everyone had had a good time but him.

Shrieks erupted as a little girl launched herself off the next seat toward the chair back to back with Morit. She missed. Her flailing hands grabbed a handful of Morit's hair and yanked it out as she fell.

"Aaarggh!" Morit yelled, springing up, waving his arms. He'd kill the little monster!

"Dear!" Blanda exclaimed, taking his arm and pulling him down into his seat. The child recoiled and fled down the aisle into the crowd. As much as he hated the Visitors, he would rather have been with them than here. There were worse things in the world, and he got them all. At least the Visitors were polite to him-when they weren't interfering with his life. He could hardly stand it until the surroundings would change again.

"This is just an ordeal," a tall man sitting at the window whispered. "Be patient." Morit looked at him in surprise. He'd thought no one here was real. He peered at the man, who was narrow-faced with yellowish skin and a thin mustache that hung down to his jaw on both sides. The stranger was no one Morit recognized, but the anti-Visitor movement was growing all the time. New members of the conspiracy could have been engendered out of pure fumes from the hatred.

"Message for you, sir." Morit looked up at the pimply-faced porter who held out to him a tray bearing an envelope. He glanced back toward the window. The stranger was gone. Morit took the envelope. The young man remained standing nearby. Morit threw a couple of pencils on the tray and tore open the letter.

His coconspirators in Yore had tried to kill the Visitors, many times, so the missive told him defensively. All the attempts had failed. Not because they were poorly plotted, but something or someone kept foiling them. Most likely the combined might of the Visitors was turning all efforts against the users. And a certain amount had to be put off to Sleeper's whim. Naturally, the Seven would defend their own. Morit's comrades complained they were still trying to find some of their number who had helped engineer the fruit avalanche, and many of the assassins who had gone into the dancing crowd at the disco had never been seen again. Should the remaining members move full speed ahead to prepare for the fail-safe attack, or continue to try separate attacks along the rest of the Visitors' route?

Angrily, Morit jumbled the letters together and began to spell out words in cursive, stringing them along the page with impatient movements. He did not want to rely on the fail-safe. The attempts were to continue until they succeeded. He wanted the Visitors disposed of as soon as possible. There might even be opportunities that very day-that night! Watch for them! He smacked the page down onto the little table, making his cold coffee jump in the cup, and folded the revised letter into thirds. Sealing it with his thumb, he handed it to the waiting page.

The young man took the note, opened it, and read it. His shoulders sagged. "Very well, sir. It's getting difficult, though."

Morit gave him a stern look. "Do it anyway. You know what is at stake."

"Yes, sir. We do." The porter bowed himself out of the room.

Chuck came out of his cabin, scratching his belly, which was covered in thick fur. He was only able to scratch all the way down to the place that itched because his fingernails had turned into long, curved claws. Ordinary fingernails could never have made it through the pelt. He touched the hole in his chest with a clawtip. It was invisible under the eight-inch-long fur. He had to mention it to Keir now, today, before it got much worse.

Not that he felt bad that morning. He had wakened up in a narrow bed in a narrow room more like a monk's cell than the opulent suite he'd gone to sleep in, but he retained distinct memories of some good partying. Maybe too good. Even his tongue was furry. When he saw the others he mustered as much cheerfulness as he could, which was about ten percent of his normal complement.

"G'morning," he growled, and was surprised at the depth and resonance of his voice.

"Are you always this much of a bear in the morning?" Persemid asked, merriment in her almond- shaped eyes. "I'm sorry. I couldn't resist the joke. Have you seen yourself?"

Chuck glanced into the window glass as he sat down. He was a bear. There was a smudge of red paint on the whiskers under his nose, and more paint ground under his fingernails, er, claws. He'd sure tied one on the night before. There was still a string with tin cans attached to one leg. He sat down in his accustomed place to undo the knot. It got tangled up in his claws, until Hiramus bent down to untie it for him.

"Thanks," Chuck said.

"My pleasure," said Hiramus. He sat back, still as precise in his movements as a clock, but slower, as though the spring was partly wound down. Everyone looked the worse for wear, but Chuck was surprised at how much they had all changed overnight. For several days they had all remained ordinary in appearance, but this morning something had broken loose. Sean, obviously nursing a headache, was covered entirely in shaggy bark like a living tree, almost frightening to behold. Pipistrella seemed diaphanous to the point of transparency, as if she'd used up too much of her being during the last few days. Hiramus looked like an old-fashioned schoolmaster down to the mortarboard, round spectacles and robe with half-sleeves over a hollow chest and a little pot belly. Persemid remained the most like herself. She looked like a Chinese doll, with long, shiny hair in a braid, but her high-necked happi coat was buttoned over a rounded bosom, and her queue had overtones of red, like lacquer on an antique box.

"We're all getting too familiar with each other," she said. "We're done using our 'company manners.' Now we'll just have to deal with one another as we really are."

"I don't think that's a correct assessment at all, young lady," Hiramus said, looking more donnish than ever as he peered at her over his glasses. Sean let out a sharp yelp of laughter, and Chuck couldn't help but grin. It sounded like Persemid had hit the nail on the head.