"Then why aren't you more different?" Pipistrella asked, in her mild voice.

"I am who I am," Persemid said, bluntly. "Take it or leave it. That Bergold man-where is he, by the way?-was right on the money. I've got a pretty strong base shape. I'm not going to waste my time worrying about my appearance, like some people I could name."

"Who is that?" Pip asked, and smiled vaguely as the others stared at her in disbelief. Chuck had been spending so much time on his own problems, he hadn't bothered to guess why the other Visitors were on the journey with him. Maybe Pip's problem was her total lack of awareness.

"Mmm," said a heap of old rags on the floor in the corner. Chuck was surprised the pile moved and stood up. It turned out to be Keir. More dowdy and unlovely than usual, he went through his amazing range of alterations as he looked over each of his clients, beginning with a disreputable-looking fallen angel with mussed feathers, and ending as the sweet-faced, middle-aged woman. She looked tired and was dressed in a housecoat and slippers instead of the usual neat dress or skirt.

"We had too good a time last night, my dear friends," Keir said, sitting down primly in a straight- backed seat that manifested itself in between the rows of seats. "Particular thanks are due to our man Sean, here."

Sean looked abashed. " 'Twas nothing," he mumbled into his scaly neck.

"Speak clearly, dear," Keir chided him. "It was not nothing, I assure you. It's not often even I have more than I can handle. There must be some coffee around here somewhere." He reached up to ring the bell for the conductor.

Behind him, Chuck heard a loud noise, like an engine roaring. He sprang up in time to see the rear wall burst open, catapulting Bergold, Morit, Blanda, Kenner, Mrs. Flannel, Master Bolster and approximately seventy small boys and girls into the car. Shrieking as they hit the floor, the children got up and raced about. Where they passed, gilding and light fixtures appeared on the plain wooden walls and a richly-colored pattern wove itself into the carpet. They didn't slow down when they reached the end of the car. Instead, they ran straight through it, the force of their passage tossing the paneling like waves. When the wood settled, it was carved into handsome beading with mahogany wainscoting that ran around the perimeter to waist height. Above, the wall was painted deep teal, and was decorated with gold-framed paintings. The finished car was smaller than their usual compartment, but fewer people were in it, so there was no crowding.

"Bless my soul!" Bergold exclaimed, standing up and brushing off his plump person. Like Persemid, he was dressed as a Mandarin, but with Nordic features and coloration. "I was just having tea with a group of fellow scholars in the caboose, when the winds of change swept me up and dropped me here!"

The conductor appeared at his side and produced a whisk broom, with which he dusted Bergold's shoulders and round black hat. "We regret the alteration, sir. There is no first-class service today between South Yore and North Phantasie, so everyone's seat was temporarily reassigned. Premium service has now resumed in its entirety."

"Is that what happened?" Morit demanded, extracting himself from heaps of crib blankets that blew into the car with him. He threw them forcefully across the room. They fluttered away, adhering themselves to the window frames as damask curtains. "I will demand a portion of my ticket be returned to me. I was assured that our passage would be first class all the way around!"

"I am so sorry, sir," the conductor said, turning to him with a rueful expression. "Some of our equipment fell prey to a nuisance or some other such interference, sir. You may be assured that we will endeavor to make certain that it does not happen again, but things do change."

"Oh, it wasn't so bad," Blanda said. "I like kiddies. They were so energetic! Weren't they, my love?"

Morit growled, as usual. Chuck wondered again how the Nightshades had ever gotten together, when he was so grumpy and she was so nice. Probably no one else would even talk to him.

"When do we reach Phantasie?" Keir asked.

The conductor retrieved his watch from his vest-front pocket. "We arrive in five minutes, sir."

Keir sighed. "No time for coffee." He answered Chuck's puzzled look with a sheepish grin. "I know what I said about the symbolism of food, but some things are hard even for me to do without."

He's human, Chuck thought indulgently, then with a sense of dismay. The faith in the infallability he'd always assumed Keir to possess diminished slightly. At some point he needed to open up to his guide about his problem. But how would he feel if he told Keir the whole story, and he could do nothing? But Bergold was right: Keir was his sponsor in the Dreamland. He ought to know before something went horribly wrong. Chuck had to tell Keir, and soon.

Chapter 23.

"Ready?" Keir led the group toward a lofty building that gleamed in the sunshine like a pearl. He turned to grin at Chuck, his bright black eyes glistening with enthusiasm. "I've always thought of this as one of the most interesting places in the Dreamland. It reflects so much of our world I have no doubt as to the close ties between us."

Chuck had to stop and admire the glorious building. The gold letters at the top of the alabaster archway over its gilded doors said temple of adoration. Not only the perfectly kept, wide, green lawn separated the Temple from the surrounding town. The place itself inspired awe and worship. The shining building, rising behind a pool like the grandest of lilies, had a splendid aura, commanding respect from all who beheld it. It was without a doubt the grandest, most glorious place of worship he had ever seen.The others were similarly struck by the building's majesty. Before stepping onto the golden path leading to the door, they abandoned their dishabille of the morning. Sean lost his scaly skin, and appeared in a business suit with a positively sober tie. Hiramus became Victorian again, wearing a banker's suit with a conservative waistcoat. His hair and beard were both parted in the middle.

Pipistrella looked like an object of adoration herself, wearing a light pink sundress that outlined her body and a translucent scarf on her waist-length tresses of rich, golden-brown hair. Persemid gave her companion a frustrated look, but appeared properly respectful in an ankle-length blue dress with full skirts that was almost medieval in cut. Chuck, too, thought himself into a Sunday suit, down to a pair of shiny black shoes that pinched so much they had to be respectable.

A couple of cassocked beings waiting a dozen yards from the entrance looked passersby up and down, then waved them through. Chuck gave the guardians a good, hard stare as he approached. They were gargoyles! Gray stone monsters with horns in the middle of their heads and pointed mouths with jagged teeth. They were guarding the Temple! He paused, wondering if he should turn back. Ahead of him a woman in evening dress and two men in tuxedos approached the beasts with confidence.

To his surprise, the stony-faced beings halted the three.

"I beg your pardon, madam and gentlemen," said the first gargoyle, in a sober and respectful tone.

"Appropriate clothing, please."

"Oh! So very sorry," the woman said, changing into a street dress. The gargoyle bowed its head and backed off. Neither stone beast moved as Keir and his party passed by.

The feeling of awe grew stronger the closer Chuck got to the doorway. He couldn't make himself step over the threshold. This was a perfect place. No one as flawed as he was should enter.

"I can't," he told Keir, who appeared in the modest incarnation of Sean's mother. "Go on without me."

His expression not changing a whit, Keir immediately took on the shape of Chuck's personal adviser. He gestured the others inside.

"You all go ahead. Enjoy." He pulled Chuck to one side to let the next crowd of people past them.

"Want to tell me about it, son?"

Chuck glanced around for a private corner to talk. There were alcoves just big enough for two people in between the buttresses in the walls. Keir watched his eyes, and pulled Chuck toward the nearest one. Keir flattened his hands on the air, and an opaque folding screen appeared behind them, blocking the gaze of the curious.

"So, what's the problem?"

Chuck explained, opening his dress shirt to let Keir see. ". . . And it's scaring the heck out of me.

Nothing I do seems to make any difference. In fact, it's been getting worse. I'm afraid that pretty soon there'll be more hole than body." He knew he sounded helpless, and he hated it. "I don't know what to do."

"I should have suspected," Keir said, frowning. He ran a pensive finger through his beard. "This is worse than I could have foreseen."

"But what's being torn out of me?" Chuck asked. "This isn't like the luggage, is it? I'm supposed to get rid of all that. But this is me, personally. I should be in one piece. I mean, one contiguous part."

"That's the good news," Keir said. "That hole shows where all the bad things that you want to get rid of have gone away. Negativity. Destructive feelings and tendencies. Out with the bad air, in with the good."

"But it isn't being replaced by anything," Chuck said, looking down in worry. "There's no good air coming in. I've tried filling it in, but nothing stays." He felt a moment of panic. Could the hole be bigger than it was a moment ago? The sharp forefinger of his guide jabbed him in the arm, getting his - attention.

"Don't obsess," Keir said, tapping his lip with his fingertip. "This problem has a solution. We just don't know what it is. Something you're doing unconsciously is preventing it. You're not letting the positive take the place of the negative vibes. This situation makes it all the more vital for you to achieve your goal. We must reverse this process before you leave here or," he looked very worried, "I don't know. If you were a Dreamlander I'd say you might break apart and go to pieces."

"Literally?" Chuck asked, his voice rising to a squeak on the last syllable.

"It could be," Keir said, gravely. "You need to try and think positively. It has to be a natural process. Otherwise, you'll tend to attract bad things, too."

"I'll try," Chuck said, buttoning his shirt. The cloth flapped over the hollow. How could he think positive thoughts when his doom was eating him away from inside?

"Hold your head up," Keir advised him blithely. "I'll keep an eye on you."

Keir's reassurance wasn't the comfort Chuck hoped it would be. He found the idea of coming apart terrifying, almost paralyzing. He tottered along lamely behind Keir to the entrance, almost afraid to walk normally. It could be if he jostled himself too hard he would end up dismembered on the aisle.It wouldn't do to cower. He wasn't going to solve his problems moping around feeling sorry for himself. If he fell apart, he fell apart! There, that was a positive thought. He took a deep breath.

Raising his chin, he strode into the Temple after Keir.

An amazing variety of people had found their way to the Temple of Adoration. Pilgrims carrying palm fronds sat on benches just inside the door of the porch with bowed heads. The dust on their clothes and bare feet testified that they had come a long way. Flocks of schoolchildren in white shirts and blue trousers or skirts were herded along by schoolmistresses in modest, knee-length dresses.

Vergers in sober brown robes swung censers giving off sweet smoke. Yet, Chuck's nose told him there was another strong smell, a familiar one. He couldn't put a name to it, but it was something he ran into every day at home.

The place was as big as a cathedral, and furnished like one. Stained glass windows let in just enough light to give the huge chamber an otherworldly look. Stone and wood alike were engraved or painted with a motif of infinity symbols. Two aisles ran along the sides of the building, enclosing two rows of wooden pews separated by the nave. Soft-footed worshipers came and went, peace on their faces. The mournful sound of plainsong came from the choir of black-clad monks in the stalls near the central altar. Chuck was curious to see what passed for a holy icon in the Dreamland, where the dreams of people from every religion in the world mingled. He joined a long file of devotees queuing up to pass before the altar.

Chuck was keyed up with anticipation when his turn came. He pushed through the crowd to the edge of the rail surrounding the central dais to see the object of devotion, and found himself gawking.

Given pride of place in the middle of the silk-covered altar was a pair of sunglasses. Votaries bearing huge offerings of flowers, polishing cloths, gilded and chased storage cases laid them down in a growing collection at the altar's foot. A pair of enormous eunuchs with yellow skin, wearing only silk trousers and turbans waved vast ostrich-feather fans that wafted the strange odor toward the visitors at the back of the hall. With growing disbelief, Chuck finally recognized it as the smell of plastic. He realized that the motif in the reredos wasn't of infinity symbols, it was double lenses in frames. When one monk in the choir raised his cowled head to turn the page in his missal, he was wearing sunglasses just like the ones on the altar. Chuck couldn't believe it.

When the service ended he approached the monk. "Excuse me," he said. "I'm a Visitor from the Waking World." The religious's eyebrows shot up, and he removed the dark spectacles. Behind them, he was a young man in his early twenties with clipped dark hair and sincere brown eyes.

"You are very welcome, brother," the monk said, gesturing to Chuck to step aside so more devotees could approach the center. "How may I serve?"

Chuck watched the crowd uneasily. "I have a question. I hope it's not offensive. Tell me, what exactly is it you're doing here?"

"As a Visitor you ought to recognize our work," the monk said, a trifle surprised. "We are privileged to have received the manifestation of truths we have been shown from the Waking World.

Your world. If we have an abiding philosophy, it is service to the Sleepers. To you." He gave Chuck a look of pure adoration. Chuck squirmed. "The Temple includes shrines to all sorts of things held in veneration in the Waking World. Our relics change all the time. At present, it is the holy eyewear. We seek its protection from the harsh rays of the sun."

"There must be some kind of mistake," Chuck said. "These aren't sacred to anyone, not where I come from."

"No?" the monk said, in mild surprise. "We have witnesses who have experienced visions of the wars between one true frame and another. Philosophers have entered into forceful arguments of glass versus plastic lenses. And some of us have found the blessed way-" here he held his hands upturned and looked beatific "-of scratch resistance."

"Uh," Chuck said. "Thanks. Have a nice day." He turned away hastily.

"You-vee-ay and you-vee-bee, brother," the monk said, donning his dark spectacles again.

A small sign on the west wall said gift shop. He went through the door into a small though well- kept room presided over by women in dark cassocks and wimples. He looked at the offerings, feeling uncomfortable. There were devotional cards with pictures of the sunglasses, books and treatises on the Holy War that had been fought by the adherents to the styles of two well-known international manufacturers that Chuck recognized. At the end of the counter, Chuck saw Bergold trying on different frames before a looking glass held for him by a holy sister.

"How long has this been going on?" Chuck asked, in a low, embarrassed whisper. "I mean, sunglasses!"

"Oh, not long," Bergold said. "Last time I was here it was wristwatches. I still have the souvenir timepiece I bought then. Not that it's retained its original appearance, of course, but it still keeps good time."

"I hate to see all these serious people venerating something so trivial," Chuck said, troubled, watching the processions progress up the aisle. A monk, carrying a purple velvet pillow with a pair of clip-ons passed by, flanked by acolytes bearing candles and banners.

"Form follows function," Bergold said with a smile. "Next week, or next year, you could return to this spot, if the Temple is still in this spot, by the will of the Sleepers, and there might be a pair of slippers on display, with books on sacred footgear on sale. What purpose does it serve, you may ask?

Such things give comfort to somebody. A lot of people, if it has elicited a manifestation here in the Dreamland. Things change very slowly here in comparison with the Waking World. We might have time to savor and appreciate the quality of things that you have already dismissed and moved on from."

"I noticed," Chuck said, thinking of the Victorian train. "But sunglasses?"

The bespectacled nun behind the counter who had sunglasses pushed up on top of her wimple smiled at him.

The now familiar sensation of a change in influence swept through with a booming noise like the report of a large brass gong. The grand, European cathedral became a temple open to the four winds.

The gray, fluted pillars rounded and became deep red. Chuck could see into the chamber again. The huge guardians of the altar were still huge, but they wore yellow tunics buttoned up to the neck, and the altar was carved of red lacquer. Even the gift shop itself simplified. The sister now presided over open wicker baskets filled with books, cards and gifts. She and her fellow religious in attendance were now wearing saffron robes and sporting shaved heads, but still wearing sunglasses. That was the only surviving relic of the Temple's previous form. Chuck shook his head.

"This is too weird."

"Why is it weird, my friend? Sunglasses protect your eyes, don't they? They secure one against harm."

"Well, not in any way that deserves a church," Chuck said.

"Not to a similar degree, but you can understand the use of the symbol, can you not?"

Chuck didn't want to. "It seems, well, improper."

"And yet here it is, in the dreams of millions of people," Bergold said, spreading out his hands.

"I guess it's all right," Chuck said, slowly. "I mean, we sort of worship cars, and no one thinks that's wrong."

"I think you are misunderstanding the equation here," Bergold said. "It's not really the object of devotion that is important, it is the worship itself. People are opening themselves up to a higher power than themselves." Sometimes literally, Chuck noticed. One man knelt down, pulled open his shirt and his chest, dividing himself in two parts like a book to absorb the rays of goodness coming off the altar.

Chuck felt embarrassment at witnessing such an act of devotion, yet awed that someone felt so deeply.

At bottom, though, he felt a parallel with his own situation, and wished he'd had so satisfying a solution. Bergold must have guessed what he was thinking.

"How's the problem?" Bergold asked kindly, nodding toward Chuck's chest.

"About the same," Chuck said quickly. He wasn't good at sharing shame. "Um, Keir thinks I could fall apart. Could that really happen?"

"Oh, yes," Bergold said seriously, putting his purchase into a pouch at his belt. "I've seen it happen myself. Where was it?" He took out his little book. "Yes, it was in Dithering in the province of Oneiros, I think it was. Fellow's two legs went walking off in opposite directions, and all his other parts blew every which way. A clear case of Terminal Indecisiveness. Of course, that's not your problem, but the result could be the same."

"What happened to him?" Chuck asked, as they went out into the sanctuary.

"Oh, he discontinued, poor man. He couldn't go on like that."

" 'Discontinued.' Is that like 'died'?"

"In a way, in a way," Bergold said. "We can die or discontinue. Either way we cease to be." Chuck felt the hollowness seem to pervade every inch of his body. He didn't want to think of that happening to him. He was afraid. Bergold put a kindly hand on his arm. "You just need to be rebuilt from within.

It will moor everything nicely once again, and you won't have to worry about going to pieces. Don't suffer your fears alone," Bergold said, nodding toward the altar. "Open yourself to help." Chuck frowned at him, but the Historian turned away, to go look at an urn on a pedestal.

Chuck went to sit down in one of the pews. He put his hands together in the way he had been taught as a child, but he felt stupid praying in front of sunglasses, and felt selfish praying for himself, but he was so lost. Bergold was right. He needed to believe in something. From where he sat, he couldn't see the sunglasses on the high altar. He convinced himself it was not the object he was praying to, only using it as a focus. He was looking for the higher powers beyond. He hoped he could find them before it was too late.

Keir collected Chuck and herded him back toward the terminal with Persemid, Sean and Pipistrella.

Still thoughtful after his meditative moment, Chuck would have liked to be alone, but instead of the handsome train with private compartments, he saw a huge tour bus waiting for them. Chuck didn't like buses, and kept hoping all the time it took him to climb aboard that it would change back into a train.

No such luck. The seats, arrayed in rows of four across with an aisle up the middle, were molded plastic with thin padding and narrow arms that dug into Chuck's thigh. They were comfortable enough, but were permeated with that unmistakable bus smell, diesel mixed with the odor of people.

He looked down the narrow aisle for his fellow passengers. Because of the high headrests on each seat it was difficult to see people. At last he spotted Hiramus almost at the rear of the vehicle, sitting bolt upright with a sour expression on his long face. Chuck had almost reached his row when the bus lurched forward unexpectedly, all but throwing him into the aisle seat Hiramus had left for him. He waited until the jerking had stopped before getting up to put his bags in the upper rack. The bearded man had his carpetbag on his knees, and was clutching it to him with a protective arm.

"Not my usual form of transportation," Hiramus said, barely moving his lips.

The others found their seats. Pip had a new bag from the gift shop, and showed off two pairs of sunglasses. Chuck didn't want to hear her recitation of how she came to choose one each of the disputed styles, so he stared out of the window past Hiramus's newspaper.

The scenery on the outskirts of Phantasie was nothing much to look at. Chuck was worried about his chest, but the bus had no private section or lavatory where he could go to check how he was doing.