Keir was busy with Persemid, communing in the silent fashion they shared. Chuck would have liked to talk with the guide, but no longer felt it was right to interrupt when the others needed him. Instead, he had too much time to think about himself. He envied the Dreamlanders at the Temple their ability to feel the protection of a power greater than themselves. In fact, most of the Dreamlanders had that comfort. They knew there was something out there, a situation far superior to the people like him whom they venerated. If only they knew how he hated himself just then, how dangerously strung out he had been before turning to meditation.

The bus came to a rough halt at a stop out in the middle of the countryside. Only one man got off, carrying a tuba around his waist, but plenty of people were waiting to get on. Thousands of travelers seemed to go by Chuck, including a whole football team and a herd of buffalo. By the time Chuck stuck his head out beyond the edge of the high, curved seat, they had all disappeared. He figured they were only nuisances and had vanished to wherever nuisances went, until he heard a low "moo" come from the row behind him.

The bus started up again. They must be taking a local route, stopping at every station. He hated buses. Chuck glanced between the seats at the row ahead of him. Keir the wolf and Persemid must have been imagining creating the world from start to finish.

A surgeon in green operating-room clothes sat down in the seat next to him across the aisle with his hands up.

"Nurse!" he ordered. "Put my luggage up!"

A masked woman in scrubs hurried over with armfuls of bags, including a traditional leather satchel, on a white-draped tray. With hasty yet deft hands, she arranged the cases in the top rack. As soon as she was done, she stepped back deferentially and waited. More passengers poured past them.

"Nurse!" the doctor barked. "Charts!" She darted over to put a clipboard into his hands. He began to peruse it, glancing over now and again at Chuck. "Nurse! Gloves!" Chuck was feeling very nervous now. He started to look around for another seat, to get away from the shouting doctor. He tried to get Keir's attention, but the seats had drawn as close together as a curtain. The bus bumped and jerked.

Suddenly the surgeon was looming over him, becoming bigger all the time.

"We have the technology," the man intoned, now masked and gloved. "We can rebuild him."

"No!" Chuck exclaimed, horrified. "You're not going to operate on me." Springing to his feet, he attempted to fight his way past the doctor into the aisle, but there was no aisle, or anyone else he knew within sight. Even Hiramus was gone. The bus hit a pothole, and he fell backwards.

Before he knew it, he was on his back on an operating table in a speeding ambulance racing through the streets with the siren wailing. He was covered with green draperies, except for his chest, which was bared to show the hole. The bright light shining down into his eyes was interrupted periodically by the head of the doctor. The surgeon, shouting to his nurse all the time, stuffing the gap with all kinds of weird things: hedgehogs, rainbow clays, gobs and gobs of sunscreen squirted out of a bottle, and several pairs of sunglasses.

"No!" he protested. "I don't worship those. Take them out! These aren't the right things! They don't belong to me! This isn't the way to fix it!"

"But we must put them somewhere," the nurse said reasonably, from behind her mask.

"Not in me," Chuck said, fighting to free his arms. "Please, take them out. Take them out! Keir!

Help!"

The tires hit another bump. To his relief, the ambulance surroundings had changed, and he was on a train again. All the operating room paraphernalia was gone. Panting, he sat up, restored to his usual place across from Bergold. Chuck quickly felt his chest. His shirt, now green chambray, was back in place. No one had seen his chest. He was still hollow, but he knew he'd rather have nothing than the wrong stuff.

Persemid was looking at him very strangely. "What's with you?"

"I was in an ambulance," Chuck said, gulping. "They were operating on me. I was calling for Keir, but no one heard me."

Keir looked grave. "I didn't hear you. Persemid and I were speaking."

"I know. I've always hated going to the doctor," he admitted.

"Ah," said Bergold. "A Personal Anxiety Dream. Now, I was in a roller coaster. I've never cared greatly for them. That last stretch of the tracks must have been very dangerous to have affected us all like that."

"You have an answer for everything, don't you?" Sean asked in a flat voice.

"None of the important questions, I'm afraid," Bergold said, with a kind smile for Chuck.

Chapter 24.

As they slowly pulled into the next station, Chuck didn't need to be told that they had arrived at a very special place. Everything was very grand. The station house itself was gleaming, white alabaster brick with brass filigree on the doors and winding all around the corners of the building like golden ivy. Chuck had never seen a train station like it.

"Why is it so fancy?" Persemid asked, her eyebrows aloft.

"This is the personal station used by the Duke of Oneiros," Keir said.

"Is he one of the king's sons?" Sean asked.

"Oh, no," Bergold said. "The king has only the one child, the princess Leonora. As a matter of fact, my dear friend Roan is engaged to be married to her. A very beautiful woman. Don't you agree?" he asked Hiramus.

The bearded man nodded gravely. "Lovely and most gracious. I'm sorry we won't be getting to Mnemosyne this time. That is the capital city, where the Palace of Dreams is," he told Chuck.

"One can't do everything," Bergold said. "You must all try to come to Mnemosyne some time. I think you would find much to enjoy."

"Another time," Keir said, with real regret.

The little Historian bowed. "It would be a pleasure to have all of you visit. I would love to show you my home."

The train came to a halt. Chuck was impressed by how spotless the station was. The very stones in the railbed were polished, and the rails had a golden glint. He couldn't see a sign of wear, not a wilted flower or a blade of grass out of place. All the porters were neat and tidy enough to have just been unfolded from a package. All the luggage on freshly painted carts had been shined. Even the newsboys were wearing suits and ties, and their newspapers were ironed crisp.

"Oh, look!" Pipistrella's cry of delight brought his attention back into the car. On the table between them were cream-white envelopes addressed in gorgeous copperplate writing. charles "chuck"

meadows, read the inscription on his. Chuck turned it over, awed by the wax seal on the back.

"I've never had an invitation like this," he said.

"I'm almost embarrassed to open mine," Persemid said. "How beautiful." Hiramus, devoid of sentiment, flipped his open, glanced hastily at his invitation and put it in his inner pocket. Morit scowled at his and shoved it down the table to his wife.

"My, my, Spot!" Mrs. Flannel exclaimed to her pet, presently a white toy poodle. "You and I are bidden to a dinner dance at the ducal palace, at half past seven of the clock. Isn't that marvelous!" The little dog wagged its fluffy tail, mouth open with delight. Mrs. Flannel looked up at her fellow passengers. "I'm so excited. I've never been invited to a ducal ball!"

"We are all invited," Hiramus said, tapping his pocket.Chuck swept a hand at the blue jeans and button-neck shirt he was wearing. "I can't go to a formal party in this stuff."

"Pah!" Keir laughed, throwing back his head. "These things take care of themselves." His seedy tunic sprouted a bow tie. The aura of formality spread outward until he was attired in a full tuxedo.

Chuck felt his collar constrict and looked down at himself. Influence was spreading up his arm from the invitation. The nails on that hand had been trimmed and buffed. Beginning at his wrist, an impeccable, snow-white shirt and jet-black jacket swiftly covered over the casual clothes until Chuck was clad in full evening attire down to a pair of black patent-leather shoes. A quick glance at his back told him he was still wearing his remaining suitcases.

"Keir, can't we leave these here for the evening?"

The guide turned his black eyes on Chuck. "They're still your issues," he said. "But if you concentrate, you can probably minimize them for now."

Chuck slid the straps off his shoulders and stared at the three bags. To his relief, they shrank down into a slim gentleman's trifold wallet that he could easily tuck into his inner breast pocket. It was heavy, but didn't spoil the line of the suit.

"Dang, I feel like Cinderella," Persemid said, her eyes shining. "And don't you dare say a word about pumpkins." True, her figure was as round as usual, but the style of Edwardian gown that influence had provided for her looked far better on her than it would have on the bone-thin Pipistrella.

The ends of her long, red hair had turned upward and folded themselves into a mass neatly coiled around her head and adorned with a jeweled clip and pale-blue ostrich plume. Her luggage all fit into a small blue evening bag she held by a chain. "What are you staring at?"

"You look really nice," Chuck said.

"Thanks," she said, sourly. "Don't say it like it hurts."

"It doesn't hurt to say it," Chuck said. "It's true." Why did talking with her always put him on the defensive?

"We're not going," Morit growled, undoing his bow tie and throwing it on the center table.

"Yes, we are," Blanda said, picking it up and tying it around his neck again. He batted at her hands like a cat, but she paid no attention. "Look, we are all dressed up. And we have an invitation. If you keep saying no, people will stop asking you." He grumbled to himself. He didn't care if no one ever sent him another invitation in his remaining existence. Blanda paid no attention. She busied herself putting on a gorgeous pearl necklace that reached all the way to her midsection, complementing the pale-gold evening dress. Both set off her plump pink cheeks and shoulders so that she looked rather handsome.

As usual, Pipistrella was the loveliest person on the train. Her gown was like something out of an Italian Renaissance painting, with a white silk underdress starting pretty far down her smooth shoulders, enhanced though not covered up by a golden overgown like a coat tied at intervals along the sleeve and fastened right under her bosom, opening to show more of the white dress and tiny white slippers. Pip basked in compliments from everyone else until she was literally glowing. She glided up and down the aisle to enjoy the sway of the silk around her legs. The capelike overskirt embroidered with jewels had a brief train that whisked itself out from underneath passing feet without Pip even seeming to be aware that her dress was ever in danger of being stepped on.

"You know," Persemid said aloud to no one in particular, but to Chuck in general, "I could really hate her. She's so clueless that nothing ever seems to go wrong for her."

"And here are our carriages," Keir said, pointing out of the window. Chuck and the others hurried down to the platform to see them. Open four-wheel landaus of polished black lacquer and shining silver trim were drawn by pairs of snow-white horses that pranced as they waited for their passengers.

Each held a driver and a footman. The latter jumped down from his perch at the rear of the vehicle, and bowed to the travelers.

They were seated four to a carriage. Chuck would have liked to ride with Pip, whose arm he had taken walking across the station platform, but she was handed into a grand white landau with Bergold, Keir, and Mrs. Flannel. He and Persemid shared a coach with Bolster and Hiramus, who except for the carpetbag at his feet that he had refused to minimize or leave behind, looked more like a painting than a human being, the image of sartorial perfection from a previous century. Chuck thought he might like to see Hiramus and Pipistrella together on the dance floor. He looked several years older than Pip, but that shouldn't matter if they danced well.

The moment that the carriages turned into the grounds of the ducal palace Chuck knew that he had gone way out of his usual social range. They proceeded along a path lined by wrought iron fences with roses twining through them. The way curved through enormous flowering rhododendrons, lush grass like plushy velvet dotted with flowers, pleasure gardens with topiaries in the shape of fabulous creatures. Every twenty feet along the way were matched pairs of iron torches, gleaming a welcome.

Crisp-petaled violet flowers nodded against the foot of the fences. Chuck wasn't sure, but they looked like orchids. A whole driveway full of orchids? The garden alone was worth a fortune. Statues appeared along the way, each a miracle of workmanship. Chuck was overawed even before the palace appeared.

The hall was a classicist's dream. The upper floor's windows were arched. The carriages stopped under a traditional, perfect triangular portico of bright white, held aloft on round, fluted pillars. There, passengers alighted to walk up shallow marble stairs to the entrance. Until Chuck saw the first carriages pull up he didn't realize the building's scale. Dwarfed by the grand roof, the landau looked like a toy. Patinaed doors thirty feet high were flung open, allowing the delicate strains of violin music to drift out into the night air. This place had been made by giants for kings.

The interior walls were adorned in various colors of marble, predominantly a warm red that was cheerful and elegant at the same time, and inlaid with precious stones. In the antechamber, lit by torches, the floor boasted a terrazzo mural of crystals lit from within.

"Where is everyone?" Persemid asked in a low voice. Her question echoed until it ended in whispers in the high, domed ceiling.

As though in answer, two pairs of red-heeled shoes on the floor came to attention beside double doors painted salmon pink. They arranged themselves, one pair on either side of the door, toes pointing toward the visitors. The doors swung open to show a grand ballroom. Beautiful waltz music was coming from inside.

"Ah!" Bergold said, taking Persemid's arm and directing her in that direction. "There are the footmen. A little slow, but on duty where they should be."

"You're joking, right?" Persemid asked.

"No, indeed! Those are the servants. All the duke's retinue is like them," Bergold whispered to them as they entered.

The ballroom was as gorgeous as the rest of the palace. Huge murals edged with gold filled the walls. The ceiling, also painted with classical scenes, was forty feet high. A dome in the middle reached up through angels and Jacob's ladders through clouds to a clear cupola framing the full moon.

Chuck admired the golden floor that shone like polished glass, yet wasn't slippery. It also didn't transmit the sound of dancing footsteps. Except for the music pouring from the orchestra, the place was eerily quiet.

There were no people visible in the room. Only shoes, hundreds of them. But instead of sitting in pairs, they were gathered in small groups, or lined up along the edge of the beautiful floor, on which dozens more pairs were whirling together to the strains of a waltz.

"I hate to state the obvious," Chuck said, "but they're shoes!"

Bergold shrugged. "Typical, really. His Grace likes to surround himself with shallow people. These are so shallow there's little to them but their shoes. They are attracted by charisma or strong influence.

About what you'd expect."

"Well, I like it," Kenner said, heartily. He let out a low whistle through his teeth, and nudged Chuck in the side. "Will you get a load of some of those pairs!"

The duke's guests must have found him attractive, too. With his broad shoulders and healthy outdoorsman looks, he was immediately surrounded by a circle of the most beautiful ladies' shoes.

"Well, good evening! I must say you're all looking splendid tonight." The pumps and high-heeled mules quivered and leaned toward one another as if whispering about the handsome man in their midst.

"My name's Kenner. I'm from Rem. You probably can't tell, but I'm an expert in several forms of martial arts. And I can bench-press two-eighty." The shoes tittered again. He reached out to the daintiest pair of pale pink slippers, that were hanging slightly back behind the circle. "I wonder if you would do me the great honor of dancing with me?"

The right slipper immediately dug its toe into the floor and swiveled as though trying to work up the confidence to accept his invitation. The other pairs made way as the little slippers came forward.

Kenner bowed deeply, and led the way out onto the floor. The others waited impatiently until he had made a circuit of the hall before each stepping forward to take their turn.

Chuck felt as though he was being crowded, and looked down to discover he was the center of attention amidst a large flock of shoes, including ladies' shoes both narrow and broad, a pair of cavalier's boots, numerous black leather half-boots, and one single elegant shoe that walked with a limp. He didn't know quite what to do. Converse with them? He found himself babbling just to fill the silence.

"Uh, hi. How are you all doing?" Chuck pulled at his formal collar. "How's the weather been here?

Well, folks, I'm happy to be here in the Dreamland. It's always nice to know where the things you use every day are made, but between you and me I don't want to see where they made the monster that used to live under my bed. Bada-boom. Heh heh." His laugh died away uneasily.

Silence. Now he knew how stand-up comedians felt in a difficult house. Without voices, how could he know if they were bored or not? How did anyone tell with shoes? Did they stick their tongues out at him? But they didn't leave. He glanced around to the others, to see how they were handling the odd situation. Bergold seemed to be having a pretty good time, bowing and smiling his way around the ballroom, but Chuck had yet to see a situation where the little Historian didn't feel at home. The couple from Elysia hung close to the refreshment room. Morit was drinking a lot of punch, and to judge by his red face, might have been doctoring it to make it a little more interesting. He seemed very uncomfortable. Blanda was enjoying herself enormously, tugging on her husband's arm to point things out to him. Nice lady, Chuck thought. She deserved better than Morit.

Hiramus did dance with Pip. His movements were as precise as those of a Swiss watch, but Chuck had to admit he was a fine dancer. Chuck felt a twinge of envy. Everything Hiramus did, he did well.

Her lovely face aglow, Pip glided and flew about the floor like a fairy. It was a wonder that she stayed on the ground. Persemid waited her turn in the shadow of the pillars near the door.

"Isn't this lovely?" asked Mrs. Flannel, waving to Chuck from a row of chairs. The old woman was dressed in beaded black with black lace mitts on her thin, little hands. He was glad to hear a real voice, and went to stand beside her.

"It's beautiful," Chuck said, sincerely. "I've never been invited to a place like this."

"And the music! So inspiring, don't you think?"

"Oh, yes," Chuck agreed. He glanced up toward the bandstand. He probably shouldn't have been surprised that it, too, was empty of humanity. The musical instruments hung in midair, operating - themselves.

Bolster, ever the gentleman, came to bow before Mrs. Flannel.

"May I have the honor of this dance?"

"Oh!" she tittered. "I would love to!" She turned to Chuck. "Would you watch Spot?"

"Certainly!" he said. Mrs. Flannel's pet, which was on the chair beside hers, hardly needed watching, having become an irregularly shaped rock about the size of his fist, but if it made her feel more comfortable, he'd be delighted to help. Chuck smiled as the two of them joined the others on the floor.

He thought he was getting used to the weirdness of the Dreamland, but this party was the strangest thing he'd experienced yet. No one was speaking aloud except for the visitors, yet the Dreamlanders were having no trouble communicating with the other guests. He guessed that they were so used to people changing shape they understood instinctively whatever form of communication each form took.

He wished he had that ability. He wondered why the Sleepers had decided everybody here ought to be shoes for a while. It must be symbolic. Like Bergold said, these people were shallow. He was sorry there wasn't a book on dream interpretation among the pitiful collection on board the train.

A few yards to his left, Bergold was telling an animated story to a circle of mens' and womens'

shoes. The tapping of their toes sounded like polite tittering. They were communicating, just in a fashion he was not accustomed to dealing with. Chuck became aware that a pair of pale blue kidskin pumps were hovering near him. They leaned closer, communicating a question. A request. What could it be? Did they, or rather, the lady they represented, want to dance?

"Uh," Chuck said, uneasily. "I'm not very good at waltzing." His conscience prodded him. He had a responsibility to ask ladies at a formal ball to dance. It was only polite. It was one of the reasons he'd been asked. "Um. May I have this dance?"