"No," said the King, "it isn't for real. You've found me out. It was just a little stunt, a little after-dinner prank. Surprise, surprise, the joke's on you! But you are good sports, after all, aren't you?"

Mihalik let out his breath in a sudden loud snort. "Maybe I'll throttle you anyway, just for practice," he said.

"Go ahead, Frank, I want to watch," said Cheryl.

"Ha ha, always kidding, you guys," said Proximo. "Well, I guess you want to know what I'm reallygoing to do with you."

"We are developing a certain curiosity," said Mihalik. "I will admit that much."

The King laughed boisterously, obviously tickled. "I don't know," he said.

"Listen," said Cheryl patiently, "whatever you do with us, it will be in the future, because it hasn't happened yet from our point of view. You're supposed to know everything that happens in the future, because you've already been there. You have to know what's going to happen to us. Do we get to our homes all right? Does this ever end?"

Proximo smiled and shook his head. "I don't know. I lie about things sometimes."

Mihalik took another angry step forward. "I can stop that easily enough," he said in a surly voice.

There was a little flurry of activity behind them at the great ebony doors of the banquet hall. Mihalik and Cheryl turned to watch, and they saw Bwana wrestling with a tall, slender cadaverous man dressed all in white. The tall man clasped his hands together and brought them down heavily on the back of Bwana's neck; there was the faint crack of splintering bone, and Bwana fell limply to the polished floor.

The gaunt man strode toward the table, not bothering to bow to King Proximo. "Who's that?" asked Cheryl.

"Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain," said the King sourly, smiling.

"Oh," said Mihalik, "I get it: the power behind the throne."

"The real power," said Cheryl.

"Pleased to meet you," said the starved-looking man. "I'm the Historian. Ignore this fat puddle of jovial blather. What can I do for you?"

Mihalik was pleased by the Historian's businesslike manner. "We want to go home," he said.

The Historian considered the request for a bare second. "Easy enough," he said. "Is first thing tomorrow morning all right with you?"

Mihalik glanced at Cheryl. "Sure," she said.

The Historian took out a small notebook and made an entry. "Right," he said. "Did anybody save me a sandwich?"

A St.i.tch in Time "You know who he looks like?" asked Mihalik, as he sat in the front row and munched popcorn.

"Who?" asked Cheryl.

"The Historian. If he had the right facial hair and outfit, he'd look just like Cardinal Richelieu. I mean the Cardinal Richelieu who tossed me into the Bastille in the iron mask. Some coincidence, don't you think?"

"If you say so," said Cheryl. "What's it supposed to mean?"

"I can't think of anything. It's just a resemblance, I guess. Though, come to think of it. Cardinal Richelieu was a power behind the throne, too." He tossed some more popcorn into his mouth. They were watching the Historian setting up his equipment for a special performance in their honor. King Proximo sat nearby on his throne, glumly laughing at everything that was said or done, but no one was paying him any attention. All eyes were on the Historian. He turned and addressed Mihalik and Cheryl.

"In your era," said the spider-thin man, "your scientists have yet to discover that the universe consists of infinitesimal phantom units, one of which is the chronon. Chronons are not particles, not waves, not wavicles. They don't seem to be made of anything. By manipulating them we can control time: our pa.s.sage through it from past to future or in the opposite direction, or across it, from reality to reality.

Your travels from universe to universe have been entirely in accord with the laws of physics as I have come to understand them. You have not been able to control these adventures because you have no concept of time as a tangible ent.i.ty."

The Historian checked the digital displays of a wide bank of meters; he compared the figures to a sheet of paper on his clipboard and seemed satisfied. "Everything is ready," he announced. "I will demonstrate how simple it is to alter reality." He twisted a k.n.o.b, flicked a switch, and punched a b.u.t.ton.

Nothing happened; that is, nothing seemed to happen for a few seconds. Then, on the eastern horizon,where an unfamiliar constellation hovered, the night sky began to lighten. Dawn came swiftly -- too swiftly. The sky turned pale blue, then gray, then white, then orange, then... then something wrong came up over the edge of the world: a double sun, a magnificent and awful spectacle in the sky. There was a small white star and a much greater red star, each pulling spiral jets of fiery matter from the other. They climbed higher and turned the world into a landscape of freakish colors. The gra.s.s looked black, all the flowers were the wrong shades, and people's faces looked feverish and fearful. There were cries of dismay, but the Historian smiled calmly and raised one hand. "No need for alarm," he said gently. "I haven't permanently changed our reality; I've merely transported us to another reality. Here the sun is a double-star system, and the earth is in a peculiar orbit far enough away to sustain life. It was easy for me to ignore certain factors -- the concentration of radiation from the giant star, for example, could kill us instantly if I hadn't chosen a reality where such radiation doesn't exist. There are an infinite number of realities, remember; and included among them are plenty in which the physical laws of our universe do not apply. I may construct an alternate reality out of any set of conditions, no matter how nonsensical they seem by the standards of our own experience. It is merely a matter of applying strict and coherent principles. Of course, these principles are a secret, handed down from Historian to Historian. It would be disastrous if everyone could change reality as he saw fit, anytime he grew tired or displeased with the world as it is."

King Proximo clapped enthusiastically. "Well done, well done! I salute your double star. You are an artist, a genius! You are the greatest Historian of all time. Now take us back to our own universe."

The Historian studied his king for a moment; Mihalik sensed that the two men despised and feared each other. "At your command, Your Majesty," said the Historian. He turned the k.n.o.b, flipped the switch, and punched a b.u.t.ton. The stars, a little above the horizon, became one, turned yellow, shrunk to normal size, and disappeared. It was once again night; the same unfamiliar constellation hung in the s.p.a.ce where the sun had undergone its transformations.

Proximo's courtiers and the rest of the Agency workers leaped up and cheered. The Historian raised his hands modestly, then graciously accepted the ovation. He walked to where Mihalik and Cheryl were sitting. "Well," he said, "what did you think?"

"I'm still stunned," said Mihalik. "I dropped my popcorn."

"Sorry," said the Historian, pleased by Mihalik's reaction. He turned to Cheryl. "And you, young lady?"

"It wasn't what I expected, that's for sure," said Cheryl. "I don't know what I expected, really. I'd give anything to have the ability to change reality--"

"Some people are prepared to kill for that knowledge," said the Historian. "Of course, they're very easy to deal with. I just switch to a reality where these particular people don't exist. As I said, this science is the ultimate synthesis of all man's knowledge; it can be used for the ultimate good or the ultimate evil."

"We thought the same thing in our own time," said Mihalik, "about thasers and the charm bomb."

The Historian smiled indulgently. "Men have always believed that times were as bad as they could ever get, that life was as hazardous as it was possible to imagine. Of course, they were often correct about that -- life as any person knows it may well be as bad as he can imagine, because he cannot foresee the next turn of the screw, the next thing that will make his existence even less secure. Yet I feel confident that nothing will ever surpa.s.s the power of the chronon. I have King Proximo's testimony that I have in my frail human hands the consummate force. The only safe thing to do with such a force, we've decided, is to make of it neither tool nor weapon, but art. The position of Historian is nearer that of an entertainer than a scientist. I am considered a great artist, a sensitive creator of imagined possibilities, rather than a technician wearing a white lab coat who fools around with electronics and the philosophy of science."

"What you do beats holoshows all to h.e.l.l," said Mihalik.

"Thank you," said the Historian. "It should be apparent to you now, my friends, that I, and not King Proximo, am the one who may aid you in your long and weary quest for your true homes." "I hadn't even let myself dare hope," said Cheryl.

The Historian smiled. "Don't let your hopes get too high even now. I cannot promise anything with absolute certainty. As I said, what I do is an exact science. The manipulation of chronons is a complex operation, but governed by certain laws and procedures. However, the infinite number of potential realities means that singling out specific universes can be a time-consuming process. For instance, what I did tonight -- changing our sun into a double star -- was child's play. There is an infinite number of realities in which our sun is part of such a system. It is a lower-order infinity, to be sure, but an infinity nonetheless; I could choose any one of them. However, setting you into precisely the universe you came from will require more searching. That is, of course, unless you're willing to accept a reality that is indistinguishably close to your own. One in which, for example, the leaves of a single tree in some vast forest are arranged differently."

"That would be fine," said Mihalik. "As long as the difference would never become apparent to me -- to us, I mean."

The Historian shrugged. "In that case, I can virtually guarantee success."

"Oh, Frank!" cried Cheryl happily. She threw her arms around Mihalik's neck and kissed him.

Mihalik was unhappy about such displays in public. "Must I remind you, Cheryl," he began. He got no further; she let her arms fall to her sides and turned away, hurt and near tears. "I'm sorry, Cheryl, really I am. I just can't help remembering that you're not my Cheryl, however much like her you are. If we allowed ourselves to take such liberties, it would be a kind of faithlessness to the other Frank and the other Cheryl."

"Moral tap dancing," said Cheryl, sniffling.

The Historian looked uncomfortable. "If you'll excuse me," he said, his eyes cast down, "maybe we could talk again tomorrow and begin to make some tentative plans. I'll need a certain amount of data from you both, in order to set up my calculations."

"Sure," said Mihalik. "We'll both be at your convenience."

"Wonderful," said the man in white. "It will be nice to perform some practical good for a change, though my artistic displays are fulfilling in their own way." He nodded to them both and went back to his equipment.

Strawberries and Champagne Return with a Vengeance It was eight o'clock in the morning. Mihalik had gotten into the habit of staying in bed as late as he could, because he never knew how long he'd have to go without sleep. Emergencies and changes in circ.u.mstances had been coming thick and fast, so he stocked up on food, water, and energy whenever possible. When the knock came on his door, he didn't really want to wake up; he always rose to some situation he didn't want to be reminded of. The knock came again, louder this time. Mihalik couldn't help it; he awoke grumbling. "All right," he said. He swung his legs out of the wide bra.s.s bed, dragged on the Agency clothes, and went to the door.

"Good morning," said a young woman. "I'm Corporal Roxas. I'm here to answer any questions you may have about the Agency, about your responsibility to King Proximo, or anything else that may have occurred to you since last night."

"Right," said Mihalik. "Come in, make yourself comfortable. Can I get some breakfast?"

"Just call down and they'll bring it up in a few minutes. Anything you like. Let your imagination run away with you." He ordered orange juice and Spoon-Size Shredded Wheat, something his father had written once on a sc.r.a.p of paper when Mihalik was very young, but which didn't exist any longer in his world. Mihalik had always been fascinated by the notion of shredding wheat: how had they done it? It was a lost technological secret. They must have had to use a teeny tiny shredder, he thought. Grains of wheat were small stuff.

While they waited for the breakfast to be delivered, Mihalik did ask a few questions. "What do you mean by my 'responsibilities to King Proximo'?"

Corporal Roxas smiled. "You don't think all this comes cheap, do you?" she said, with a gesture thatincluded the room, the imminent breakfast, the terrific view, the entertainment of the night before, the clothes, the little bars of soap in the bathroom, everything.

"I thought I was a guest," he said. He wondered how he could possibly pay any kind of debt. All he had was the clothes on his back, and they already belonged to King Proximo.

"You're a guest in the most euphemistic sense," said Roxas.

"I don't carry cash," said Mihalik, "and my checkbook is behind in another universe."

She waved a hand in dismissal. "The King isn't looking for that sort of payment. He has all the material wealth imaginable. He needs your loyalty and your help, in his constant battle against those who seek to undermine his leadership."

"Agents of Queen Hesternia?" asked Mihalik. "Here?"

"Well, her spies, of course, but there are other enemies. A man as influential and powerful as the King attracts commensurate opponents."

"Who are we talking about, precisely?"

She waved a hand again. "Oh, the Historian, for example."

"I didn't think they were best buddies."

"You're very perceptive, Frank. You don't mind if I call you Frank?" She smiled prettily.

"Of course not," he said.

"You don't mind if I take off my tunic? It's so warm in here." She began to pull the silver and blue tunic over her head. She was wearing nothing under it.

"Uh, miss, I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't do that. I come from a rather puritanical society, and I'm just not comfortable in rooms with half-naked corporals. It's an embarra.s.sing flaw, I know, but you have to take me, imperfections and all."

"Oh, Frank, I'll take you any way I can get you," she murmured, slipping the tunic back on. She stood up and came to him, sitting beside him on the sofa. "Can't you see? I'm crazy about you."

"Don't kiss me."

"Is it her? Is that what you're afraid of? That auburn-haired wench next door? I'll scratch her eyes out.

I'll drop her off the three-hundredth floor observation platform. Oh, Frank, can't you tell? I've been waiting for you all my life."

He was saved by another knock at the door. "Breakfast," he guessed.

"Frank, how can you think of food at a time like this?"

"According to my estimate," he said as he went to the door, "that crummy supper we had last night was our first meal in more than two and a half million years. I can't live like that." He opened the door and an Agency private nodded to him, standing by a service cart with a covered tray. Just as the private wheeled the cart by Mihalik into the sitting room, the front door of the adjoining suite opened. A tall, dark-haired, good-looking Agency lieutenant came out, an angry look on his face below a red hand-shaped mark across one cheek. He gave Mihalik a quick sullen look and went stiffly but speedily down the carpeted hallway. Mihalik gazed after him. Obviously he had been pulling on Cheryl the same thing that Corporal Roxas had tried to pull on him. He thought of the hand print across the lieutenant's face: good for Cheryl! Mihalik grinned. He closed the door.

"Your breakfast, sir," said the private.

"Thanks, kid. Do I tip you or something?"

"No, sir, it's been my privilege."

"Great. Now beat it."

"Yes, sir."

"And take this soiled dove with you."

Roxas was furious. "What?" she cried.

"Get out," said Mihalik calmly. "I caught a glimpse of your pal next door quick-marching toward the rear. Ol' Cheryl was in no more mood for your phony pa.s.sion than I was. Now leave me alone. Cheryl and I have some serious planning to do."

"The King will hear of this," threatened Roxas. "So will the Historian," said Mihalik. He was gratified again by her apprehensive expression; evidently he'd hit a sore spot. Getting out the door before anything more could be said, she nearly upset an end table and a pink alabaster lamp. She didn't give him another glance, and the door slammed behind her. A moment later Mihalik knocked on the communicating door between the two suites.

"Who is it?" called Cheryl.

"It's just me, honey," said Mihalik. "I had this Agency vamp in here, but I got rid of her as soon as I figured out what she was up to."

"They sicced one on me, too, Frank. Wait a minute and I'll unlock this." She opened the door, and they smiled at each other, unsure who was going to visit whom. Finally Mihalik stepped across into her sitting room. It was identical to his. The remains of a large and elegant breakfast, complete with two half-full champagne gla.s.ses, lay on the table.

"Sharp guy, though," said Mihalik. "Saw him when I opened the door to get my breakfast."

"How did he look?" asked Cheryl.

"Pained," said Mihalik. "They'll have to put his self-respect in a cast and give him crutches." They both laughed. "What time are we supposed to see the Historian?"

"Nine. We have time to finish breakfast and relax a little."

"It won't take me much time to finish my breakfast," said Mihalik. "I didn't go overboard. I just got a bowl of cereal."

Cheryl smiled. "That lieutenant brought me a spiced baked apple plopped in heavy cream and Eggs Sardou and cream cheese crepes topped with strawberries flambeed in kirsch. And a pitcherful of mimosas -- champagne and orange juice. It's wonderful, Frank, even better than an aspirin in c.o.ke."

Mihalik nodded. "You have any of those crepes left, honey? I'm getting spoiled, I really like strawberries. We'll never see another one after we go home."

Cheryl sighed. "I know. I haven't even touched the crepes. Mr. Wonderful didn't give me time -- he made his pa.s.s during the baked apple. Let's finish off the breakfast. I'd rather share it with you, anyway."

They kissed and Mihalik felt a familiar blossoming of affection until he recalled that this Cheryl belonged to someone else. His emotions were confused, and he dealt with them by hiding them away out of sight. They sat at the table in Cheryl's suite and began to eat the excellent breakfast the Agency had provided. Halfway through the eggs, while Mihalik was still spooning the strange yellowish sauce to one side, the telephone rang.

"Don't answer it," he said.

"I have to, Frank," said Cheryl regretfully. "It may be someone important. I mean, how many people could know we were here?"

"The King or Bwana or your lieutenant, wanting to make a date to apologize for his behavior. He'll make another pa.s.s then, too."

"I know that, Frank."

"If it's my mother, tell her I'm not here."