Bergold had performed almost the same transformation as Chuck. In the shape of a huge sea lion, he had nosed dozens of survivors toward the ship, including Mrs. Flannel and Master Bolster. Hiramus had saved dozens by changing the chair he'd been sitting on into an inflatable life raft. Kenner had bodily hauled ten women on board the cruise ship, nearly drowning himself to save them. Everyone was wet and exhausted from effort. Night had fallen. The faint, yellow lights on the ship only accentuated the darkness of the sea and the sky.

"I can't believe one of us could go," Hiramus said, huddled over a cup of hot soup cradled between his long hands.

"I am so sorry," Bergold said. "This is a terrible shock to everyone."

There was a long pause.

"It sounds really terrible," Persemid said, tentatively, "but do you think she even knows? I mean, that she's . . . dead?"

Chuck felt like crying and laughing at the same time. "With Pip, maybe not." He regretted his own behavior. If he'd known that moment on the path was the last he would ever have with her, he wouldn't have been so impatient. If only he'd been able to hold back the hurricane a moment longer!

"Someone's definitely out to get us," Persemid said, her large eyes haunted. "Did you see those faces in that storm? It was as though they were screaming at us. They hated us!"

"You're imagining things," Morit said. He and Blanda had been picked up almost at once by a speedboat operated by a conspirator. The two of them were dry and comfortable. He felt inwardly gleeful. At last, they had had a success! He knew he must stifle his pleasure. The others were holding a kind of wake for their departed companion. Blanda wept quietly into a handkerchief.

"I've never lost a client before," Keir said, pleating and unpleating the skirts of Sean's guide's dress. "I feel awful."

"Not your fault," Sean said, tersely. Although Sean was the chief mourner, he was the one who offered solace to the others. "You've warned us again and again this can be a dangerous place for us.

She took the risks. We all did. You tried to save her. I saw that, and I thank you. All of you."

"I had to try," Keir said, quietly. "I don't know what more I could have done."

"You must all go home, at once," Morit said, feigning deep sympathy, though inwardly he was dancing with glee. "She wouldn't expect you to continue on with a pleasure trip." Chuck Meadows and Persemid Smith were nodding. If he could convince them to leave now, and take word of the death to all the Visitors waiting in the Waking World, no more would ever come!

But he was disappointed, and his disappointment came from an unexpected quarter.

"You're wrong, Master Morit," Sean Draper insisted, looking up, his blue eyes flashing. "We must go on to the end, if only in her memory. She did me a service, see, and I won't forget that." He glanced at Keir, nodded, then turned to the others. "I'm not here on purpose, like the rest of you. The last thing I remember in me waking life was walking down the street in the town where I live. There was a blast, you see. A bomb." Persemid bit her lip, but gestured to him to go on. "Well, I . . . I didn't know at first when I arrived here if I was alive or dead, or if any of this is real. I still don't know for certain. Keir there convinced me I was still alive but hovering on the brink. I had to be the one to make the decision whether or not it was worth surviving. I didn't care, you know. At bottom I was afraid to. But she made me care. I didn't get to tell her," he said, with a half gasp that was like a sob. "I waited too long."

"She knows," Persemid Smith said kindly, taking his hand. He squeezed her fingers.

"I hope so," he said, bowing his head.

"But you must return, in peace, in her memory!" Morit said, feeling he was losing ground. "Go back to the Waking World! It's not safe here!"

"No," Sean Draper said, without looking up. "She came here searching for truth. We'll find it for her."

"Hear, hear," said Chuck Meadows. "When I first got here I resented like mad having the rest of you here, but now that I'm past it, I admit freely how fascinated I've been by the range of experience that contact with all of you, including Pip, brought me. Instead of being sorry I'm not alone, I dread thinking what an empty astral plane would have been like. So we're richer for having known her."

"She was quite a lovely gal," Kenner said, raising a mug of coffee.

"Her memory will always live in the Collective Unconscious," Bergold said, gravely. "Nothing that she did will ever be completely forgotten."

"Right," Chuck Meadows said, resolutely. "So for her sake, we go forward. Right?"

"Right," Sean Draper agreed. "Thank you all." Morit glowered at them.

"I think it's so sweet of you," Blanda said. Morit turned his glare upon her, but she paid him no - attention.

Persemid opened her Indian print bag, now much reduced in size because she'd dealt with many of her issues, and began to dig through it."Pip gave me some silk," she said. "Sean, I think you ought to have it, because I know you'll miss her the most." Puzzled, she came up with a small bunch of flowers. "This is all there was."

"Forget-me-nots," said Keir softly, with a gentle touch on Sean's shoulder. The young man took the posy and put his other hand over his face. "Let's leave him alone, my friends."

Chuck, Persemid and the others tiptoed away. The auditorium next door was darkened. Morit reached out and pulled them all into it. An appreciative crowd was already seated there, letting out sounds of pleasure as image after image was thrown up onto a movie screen.

"These are vacation images I have taken of Elysia," Morit said, taking his place behind the projector. "I know you will enjoy seeing them, so you will have an idea of what to expect when we arrive. The people are very friendly there." He picked up the control and jabbed the button with his thumb.

Chuck felt as though he had become trapped in a kind of nightmare. Carefully framed photographs of drearily dull family scenes, like Morit washing a car, or Blanda baking a cake, flashed before him.

One of the frames was a map marked elysia. In shape, it was much like the lower part of the state of Michigan without the thumb. The terrain was flat, and a pattern of rivers ran through it like veins.

Place names stood out, marked in red beside large black dots.

"I have hundreds of slides of each of these attractions." Morit turned to look deliberately at Chuck.

"I think you can see Enlightenment at the northern edge of the province. I think it will still be there when we arrive. You won't want to miss it."

Resigned to his fate, Chuck brightened a little bit. He was touched that even the grouchy Morit was trying to cheer them up after the loss of Pipistrella. He cleared his throat. "Thanks. I'm looking forward to seeing your homeland."

"Not so much as I am eager to show it to you," Morit said, courteously. He punched the button again. The screen showed a front yard in which concrete statues of two deer stared blankly at the camera.

"It ought to be fine there this time of year," Bergold said, settling himself comfortably in a high- backed couch. "In Mnemosyne we've had no bad reports from Elysia for a very long time. Things must be nicely stable."

"You have no idea, Master Bergold," Morit said. And, indeed, he knew that for a fact. No bad reports had gone to the crown because hundreds of his friends and supporters had been preventing anyone and everyone from leaving Elysia, sometimes by violence, for weeks. It wasn't as hard as it sounded, since the province was bounded on every side by bottomless gorges or the Lullay River. In fact, the situation was growing nicely unstable, but he was quite sincere about wishing to have the Visitors walk right into it, if he couldn't rid himself of them in the meantime.

Chapter 31.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the conductor's mellow voice rang out over the loudspeakers in the debarkation lounge where most of the passengers were waiting the following afternoon, "I am very sorry, but the Unfriendly Islands will not permit us to dock. We will have to move on to our next point of interest, another several hours' sailing. I promise you that stop will be worth your while. In the meantime, please avail yourselves of the ship's amenities."

A chorus of groans arose. Morit sprang to his feet. He had received word that the remainder of his comrades-in-grudge had massed upon the Unfriendly Islands. They were ready for an all-out assault upon the Visitors that they guaranteed would be successful.

"What do you mean, we can't land?" he asked. "I demand you put us ashore immediately!"

The conductor spread his hands helplessly. "I'm very sorry, sir, but you can see for yourself."

Morit looked out the nearest porthole at the islet slowly dropping away behind them. Chains were stretched across the harbor entrance, and catapults with fireballs burning in their iron baskets stood ready should anyone attempt to dock. That was intolerable. He could not wait to get away from the Visitors. Their ongoing mournfulness was beginning to annoy him. That the ubiquitous cruise staff saw it as their mission to continue to enforce jollity among the passengers just made their presence all the more annoying. He longed for the day when they and the Visitors were all gone, not just one of them, and he could return to his everyday existence. True, misery continued to follow him wherever he went. Even though he had come out of the water around the Sunset Isle almost dry, his closet and suitcase were filled with seawater. His supposedly permanent-press white duck trousers resembled elephant skin, and his deck shoes came out squelching with every step. He continued to suffer so some undeserving wretch in the Waking World wouldn't have to! Soon, he would be able to hug the secret satisfaction of having struck that vital blow for himself and the other helpless victims in the Dreamland.

He stormed to the telegraphy desk and scrawled a wire to his compatriots that the next opportunity must not be missed. The desk clerk read the message and nodded resignation before reaching for her keyboard. She was one of them. She would spread the word. Morit had already counted dozens of conspirators among the crew and passenger complement. The rest of the Visitors could not be allowed to leave the ship until it was well inside the borders of Elysia.

Morit turned to his wife. She was standing by, evincing mild curiosity, though not enough to ask him what he'd written.

"Since we're stuck here, let's go get lunch."

"Whatever you say, dear," Blanda said. "Everyone's been so nice, I don't mind not going ashore on something called the Unfriendly Islands. Don't you feel the same way?"

"Bah!" Morit exploded. Her good humor in the face of his delayed plans annoyed him so much that he wasn't paying attention when he swung around the corner and ran directly into Persemid Smith.

Everything they were carrying went flying.

"Oh!" the redheaded Visitor exclaimed, helping Blanda gather up her knitting bag and purse. "I'm sorry. I was so deep in my own thoughts I didn't look where I was going. Did I hurt you?"

"No," Morit said ungraciously, retrieving his straw skimmer. The Visitor looked up in surprise at his uncompromising tone. She met his eyes briefly, and retreated, her face flushing. Without a glance back, he stalked on toward the restaurant, leaving Blanda behind him to make her foolish apologies.

Persemid stood gawking after the Nightshades. It looked as though they had been arguing when they came around the corner and ran into her. She wasn't surprised Morit hadn't apologized. He was a contentious type of man. Blanda behaved like a doormat, but Persemid guessed from Morit's expression of apoplectic fury that Blanda was holding her own in the discussion. She had a mild voice that ought to have been soothing, but it always touched off something in her nerves, giving her a measure of sympathy for Morit.

But something different had happened this time. When her eyes met his, she felt as though the deck lurched underneath her feet. In that moment, she saw inside her head momentary flashes of dozens of times in her life she had been frustrated and disappointed, usually when someone else had stepped over her invisible barrier and violated her personal space. They had all been private moments that no one else knew about, and somehow they had been inside his head. She had seen them. How? What could it possibly mean? Did she know Morit in the real world?

Persemid felt the cold of a ball of ice rolling down her spine as she came to an inescapable and harrowing conclusion. She ran to find Chuck.

He was on the top deck, perched on a padded stool at the bar. Since they had failed to save Pipistrella, he had been spending more and more time up there, telling his troubles to the bartender. At that moment he was watching the lanky, dark-skinned man mix a drink. The 'tender pulled down bits of several things from containers on a shelf behind the bar: pieces of fluff, a dash of battery acid right from a six-cell lead-acid battery, a chunk of ball-peen hammer, a section ripped from the picture of a sunrise on a calendar pinned to the wall, two inches of rainbow, and a cherry. Throwing these things into a blender, the smiling man flicked the switch. Chuck held up a finger to forestall Persemid's outburst as the whining roar drowned out all other sound. The bartender poured out the drink. It was mostly orange with a swirl of prismatic light running through it. Chuck took a sip and his back straightened up. He gasped out, "That packs one heck of a kick."

"It's de hamma," the bartender said proudly. "My own recipe."

"Outstanding," Chuck said. "Thanks!" The bartender beamed with pride.

Persemid couldn't wait a moment more. She grabbed Chuck's arm and pulled him away from the counter. Over by the band Kenner was dancing with his latest girlfriend, and Mr. Bolster and Mrs.

Flannel sat on deck chairs near the rail chatting, with Spot, a fox terrier, racing back and forth between them. Persemid didn't want any of them to overhear her.

"I have to talk to you," she whispered, urgently. "I know we haven't been getting along too well, but you're the only one around here who talks like a real person. I just ran into Morit. I think I'm the one who's dreaming him!"

"That hostile so-and-so?" Chuck asked, sipping his drink. "No, I can't see it. Besides, it would be too much of a coincidence that he's right here with us. There are millions of people in the Dreamland."

"You don't know me very well," Persemid said, embarrassed and angry that she had to talk about issues so private. "When I looked at him, I saw things in his eyes."

"What things?" Chuck asked, curiously.

"Things that have happened to me," Persemid said, reddening. "I . . . well, there's been times when I've been treated unfairly. I was passed over for a promotion I should have gotten. In his eyes I saw the way I was feeling then, sort of brought out in symbols, and . . . what I wanted to do to the jerk who gave my job to someone else who wasn't qualified to do it. Other memories, too. You don't believe me," she said, tossing her head pugnaciously.

"I do believe you." Chuck sipped the drink thoughtfully. "Whew! I never thought any of us would meet any of our . . . what should we call them? Creations? Did you talk to him?"

"No!" Persemid said, with a horrified expression. "I don't know if he guessed, but if he's me, he'd be smart enough. He might know. I feel awful. That's me, here in the Dreamland. That awful, angry man!"

"He's not all of you," Chuck said. "He's just one facet of your personality. Something . . . you want to work out."

Persemid frowned, drawing her eyebrows down over the bridge of her nose to glare at him-but he was right. She'd read enough books on dream interpretation to understand that.

"But I'm not dreaming right now," she pointed out. "My body is at home, and I am projecting myself here."

"Your mind is open and receptive," Chuck said. "You're probably broadcasting the same wavelengths you would be if you were asleep. And Keir did say that some things take on a reality of their own. He's been doing his own thing at the same time you've been doing yours."

Persemid shuddered at the thought of her insecurities becoming an actual force of nature. She ought to be grateful they manifested themselves as a man instead of a hurricane or a tidal wave.

"What should I do?" she asked.

"Should we do anything?" Chuck asked. "If you did create him, he's trying to accomplish something your subconscious feels is necessary."

"But that's only if he gets to work it out without interference, especially mine. What if he saw the same thing I did? He couldn't live with knowing I exist. He might . . . do something."

"We have to tell Keir."

"He won't confirm whether Morit is . . . is me or not."

"Well, he won't say so directly," Chuck said, uncertainly. "But he'll know if you're right. He knows everything." But even as he said it, Chuck was no longer so certain of Keir's infallibility. He and the others had to rely more and more upon themselves. On the other hand, that was probably part of Keir's agenda. "I'm sure he'll tell you you've got nothing to fear from Morit. Come on, the guy's part of you. He's been almost nice since Pip . . . disappeared. He wouldn't want anything to happen to you. Then he'd disappear, too. Deep down inside, everyone wants to survive."

"That's just it," Persemid said, wrapping her arms around herself in spite of the afternoon heat.

"Maybe I don't. I'm afraid of what's deep down inside my psyche."

"We all have dark places in us," Chuck said, trying to sound soothing, even though he harbored similar feelings of unworthiness. "I'm sure Morit is no big problem." But he looked uneasy. Persemid jumped on his uncertainty.

"Look, what if he's involved with those attacks on us?"

"I don't see how," Chuck said, slowly. "To tell you the truth, I'm far more suspicious of Hiramus."

"What? The old man? He's one of us. A Visitor."

"Yeah, but he's turned up everywhere that I was attacked! I look up, and he's the first thing I see, almost every time. I saw him just before that island dunked us."

"Really? But he's had attacks made on him, too."

"He never said so," Chuck said. Persemid stopped to think.

"You're right. He just said we have to be careful."

"Yes. A fat lot of good it did Pipistrella. And he's been following me," Chuck said, with dawning clarity, as he recalled the bearded shadow. It made sense now. "I'm sure it's been him all along."

"Yes, but he's a friend of Bergold. He's a really nice guy. Bergold wouldn't have a friend who was a murderer."

"But what's he hiding?" Chuck asked. "He hardly ever talks to any of us. And that carpetbag of his-if anyone touches it, even by accident, he growls like a wolverine. He's got the influence to kill us all if he wanted to.""Forget Hiramus," Persemid said, firmly. "We have to find Keir, and hope Morit didn't see what I did."

Reluctantly, Chuck left his drink on the bar. Persemid grabbed his arm and pulled him toward the stairs leading belowdecks. A small island appeared ahead off to starboard. Chuck glanced at it. A pretty place, with a strip of white sand beach running around its perimeter and palm trees sprouting up through forests of green ferns. But either the ship was steering a wild course, or the island was deliberately trying to get in its way. Leaving a wake frothing with whitecaps behind it, the island put on a burst of speed and nipped under the bows of the cruise ship.

Klaxons began blaring. The deck juddered underneath their feet. Chuck jumped down the last few steps and helped Persemid down after him. People were racing in every direction like ants running from a stirred nest. He and she started running for the safety of their cabins. Head down, Chuck didn't see the body coming out of a side corridor at the same time he passed it. He caught a glimpse of Hiramus's bearded face as the three of them collided. Hiramus's precious carpetbag flew out of his hand, hit the ceiling, and opened, showering a collection of beards, wigs, false eyebrows, pots of makeup, costumes and fans everywhere. The older man hastily knelt to start gathering them up.

"I knew it," Chuck exclaimed, furiously. "I told you this guy isn't what he seemed. This stupid bag is full of false faces!" Chuck hoisted Hiramus to his feet. His current body was ideal for manhandling another, being tall, big-boned and muscular. He shoved the bearded man into a corner. "Are you responsible for this chaos? Are you trying to kill us?"

"No, quite the opposite," Hiramus said, speaking with amazing calmness for someone hanging by his neck. "I'm trying to find out who is trying to do it. I'm the King's Investigator. My name is Roan Faireven. Do you think you might let me down now?"

Chuck let his arms drop to his sides as the tall man stood up and brushed himself off.

"You're Roan? We've been hearing about you since we got here. But you're never supposed to change. You've looked different every day since we've been on this trip."