The World Shuffler (3 page)

“You say you’re not in Artesia?”

“Why don’t you listen! Something terrible has happened—”

“Kindly answer yes or no,” the sharp voice snapped. “Maybe you don’t know there’s an emergency on that could affect the entire continuum, including Artesia!”

“That’s just the point!” O’Leary howled. “No! I’m NOT in Artesia—”

“Oops,” the voice said briskly. “In that case, excuse the call—”

“Pratwick! Don’t hang up!” O’Leary yelled. “You’re my sole link with everything! I’ve got to have help! They’re all gone, understand? Daphne, Adoranne, everybody! The palace, the town, the whole kingdom, for all I know—”

“Look here, fellow, suppose I put you on to Lost and Found, and—”

“You look! I helped you out once! Now it’s your turn! Get me out of this fix and back to Artesia!”

“Out of the question,” the crackly voice rapped. “We’re only handling priority-nine items tonight, and you rate a weak three. Now—”

“You can’t just abandon me here! Where’s Nicodaeus? He’ll tell you—”

“Nicodaeus was transferred to Locus Beta Two-oh, with the cover identity of a Capuchin monk engaged in alchemical research. He’ll be out of circulation for the next twenty-eight years, give or take six months.” Lafayette groaned. “Can’t you do anything?”

“Well—look here, O’Leary: I’ve just leafed through your record. It seems you’re on the books for unauthorized use of Psychical Energies, up until we focused a Suppressor on you. Still, I see you did render valuable services, once upon a time. Now, I have no authority to lift the Suppressor, but just between the two of us—off the record, mind you—I can drop you a hint which may help you to help yourself. But don’t let on I told you.”

“Well—go ahead and drop it!”

“Ah—let’s see: O.K., here goes: Mid knackwurst and pig’s knuckles tho you may grope/There’s only one kind that’s tough as a rope/The favorite of millions from the Bronx to Miami/The key to the riddle is—Oh-oh, that’s it, O’Leary. Chief Inspector’s coming! Got to go! Good luck! Let us hear from you—if you survive, that is!”

“Wait a minute! You didn’t say what the key to the riddle was!” Lafayette rattled the hook madly, but only the derisive buzz of the dial tone answered him. Then, with a sputter, the phone went dead. Lafayette groaned and hung up the receiver.

“Pig’s knuckles,” he muttered. “Knackwurst. That’s all the thanks I get for all these years of loyal service, pretending to be totally absorbed in living with Daphne and wining and dining and riding to hounds, all the while holding myself in readiness for instant action, any time that infernal phone rang ...”

He drew a deep breath and blinked.

“You’re talking nonsense again, O’Leary,” he told himself sternly. “Admit it: you’ve been having the time of your life for three years. You could have dialed Central anytime and volunteered for a hardship post, but you didn’t. Now that things look rough, don’t whine. Pull in your belt, assess the situation, and decide on a plan of action.”

He looked down. The ground, now pooled in dusk, looked a long way below him.

“So—how do I start?” he asked himself. “What’s the first step to take to remove oneself from a world and into another dimension?”

“Of course, you boob!” he blurted with a sudden dawning hope. “The Psychical Energies! Isn’t that how you got from Colby Corners to Artesia in the first place? And I’ll have to cut out talking to myself,” he added s
otto voce.
“People will think I’ve popped my cork.”

Clinging to his perch, O’Leary closed his eyes, concentrated on recollecting Artesia, the smell and feel of the place, the romantic old streets clustered about the pennanted turrets of the palace, the taverns, the tall half-timbered houses and tiny, tidy shops, the cobbles and steam cars and forty-watt electric lights ...

He opened one eye. No change. He was still in the top of a windmill; the barren slope below still led down to the bleak village by the lake. Back in Artesia, that lake was a mirror-surfaced pool on which swans floated among flowering lilies. Even in Colby Corners, it had been a neat enough pond, with only a few candy wrappers floating in it to remind you of civilization. Here, it had an oily, weed-grown look. As he watched, a woman waddled from the rear of a shack and tossed a bucket of slops into the water. Lafayette winced and tried again. He pictured Daphne’s pert profile, the lumpy visage of Yockabump the Jester, Count Alain’s square-cut shirt-ad features, Princess Adoranne’s flawless patrician face and elegantly gowned figure ...

Nothing. The telltale bump in the smooth flow of time failed to occur. Of course, he hadn’t been able to make use of the Psychic Energies since Central had discovered that he was the culprit who had been creating probability stresses among the continua, and focused a Suppressor on him; but he had hoped that here he might have regained his former power. And—

What was it that bureaucrat on the phone had said? Something about a clue? And then that gibberish he’d spouted about a riddle just before he’d hung up. Nothing in that for him. He was on his own, and the sooner he faced it the better.

“So—now what?” he demanded of the chill night air.

“For a start, get down out of this nest,” he counseled himself. “Before you stiffen up and freeze to the crossarm.”

With a last, regretful look at the telephone, Lafayette began the long descent to the ground.

It was almost full dark when Lafayette dropped the last ten feet into a dry thicket. Sniffing vigorously, he detected a pleasing aroma of fried onions emanating from the direction of the town. He fingered the coins in his pocket; he could find a suitable tavern and have a bite to eat and possibly a small flagon of wine to restore the nerves, and then set about making inquiries—discreet ones, of course. Just what he’d ask, he didn’t know—but he’d think of something. He set off downslope, limping a bit from a slight sprain of the left ankle, twisted in the descent. He was getting fragile in his mature years. It seemed a long time ago that he had rushed about like an acrobat, climbing over roofs, swarming up ropes, battling cutpurses, taming dragons—and wooing and winning the fair Daphne. At the thought of her piquant face, a pang of dismay struck through him. What would she think when he turned up missing? Poor girl, she’d be broken-hearted, frantic with worry ...

Or would she? The way he’d been neglecting her lately, she might not even notice his absence for a few days. Probably at this moment she was being chattered at by one of the handsome young courtiers who hung around the palace, supposedly getting instruction in knightly ways, but actually spending their time idling over wine bottles, gambling, and wenching ...

Lafayette’s fists tightened. They’d swoop down on poor, unprotected little Daphne like vultures as soon as they realized he was out of the way. Poor, innocent girl; she wouldn’t know how to fend off those wily snakes-in-the-grass; she’d probably listen to some smooth line of chatter and—

“None of that,” Lafayette reproved himself sharply. “Daphne is as true-blue as they come, even if she is a little deficient in prudery. Why, she’d knock the ears off the first slicker who made an improper advance!” She swung a broom for enough years to have a solid punch, too, and she’d kept that trim little figure in shape by plenty of riding and tennis and swimming, once she was promoted to the ranks of the aristocracy. Lafayette remembered her, neat and curvaceous in a scant swimsuit, poised on the end of the diving board—

“None of that, either,” he commanded. “Keep your mind on the immediate problem—just as soon as you figure out what the immediate problem is,” he added.

The town’s main street was a crooked, unpaved, potholed path barely wide enough for a cart to navigate, well dotted with garbage heaps featuring old fruit rinds and eggshells—no tin cans here yet, he noted. Dim lights shone from oiled-parchment windows. One or two furtive-looking locals eyed him from the shadows before slinking into alleymouths even narrower and darker than the main drag. Ahead, a crudely painted sign creaked in the chill wind before a sagging door set two steps below street level. The device was a misshapen man in gray robes and tonsure, holding out a pot. YE BEGGAR’S BOLE was lettered in crooked Gothic characters above the figure. Lafayette felt a pang of melancholy, comparing this mean dive with the cozy aspect of the Ax and Dragon back in Artesia, where he had once been wont to spend convivial evenings with a group of cronies ...

Leaving Daphne at home alone, the realization struck him anew. “At least I hope she was alone,” he groaned. “What a fool I was—but as soon as I get back, I’ll make it all up to her ...” He swallowed the lump in his throat, ducked his head, and pushed through the low door into the public house.

Greasy smoke fogged the air, stung his eyes. An odor of sour beer struck his nostrils, mingled with the effluvia of charcoal and burned potatoes, plus other, less pleasing additives. He made his way across the uneven dirt floor, ducking his head under the low beams from which strings of dried leeks depended, to a sagging counter behind which a slim female in gray homespun and a soiled headscarf stood with her back to him, rubbing at a soot-blackened pot with a rag and humming under her breath.

“Ah ... do you suppose I could get a bite to eat?” he said. “Nothing elaborate, just a brace of partridge, a few artichoke hearts, and a nice light wine—say a Pouilly-Fuisse, about a fifty-nine ...”

“Well,” the woman said without turning. “At least you got a sense o’ humor.”

“Well, in that case just make it an omelet,” Lafayette amended hastily. “Cheese and tuna will do nicely, I think—plus some hot toast and butter and a hearty ale.”

“O.K.,” the woman said. “Rib me. I’m laughing, ha-ha.”

“Could you manage a ham sandwich?” Lafayette said, a hint of desperation in his voice. “Bavarian ham on Swiss rye is a favorite of mine—”

“Sausage and small beer,” the serving wench said flatly. “Take it or leave it.”

“I’ll take it,” Lafayette said quickly. “Well done, and no rind, please.”

The woman turned, tucked a strand of pale hair behind her ear. “Hey, Hulk,” she shouted. “Saw off a grunt, skin it, and burn it, the gent says.”

Lafayette was staring at her wide blue eyes, her short, finely modeled nose, the uncombed but undoubtedly pale-blond curls on her forehead.

“Princess Adoranne!” he yelped. “How did you get here?”

Two

The barmaid gave Lafayette a tired look. “The name’s Swinehild, mister,” she said. “And how I got here’s a long story.”

“Adoranne—don’t you know me? I’m Lafayette!” His voice rose to a squeak. “I talked to you just this morning, at breakfast!”

A sliding panel behind her banged open. An angry, square-jawed, regular-featured, but unshaven face peered out.

“Breakfast, hah?” it growled. “That calls for some explanation, bub!”

“Alain!” Lafayette cried. “You, too?”

“Whattya mean, me
too!”

“I mean, I thought I was the only one— Adoranne and I, that is—of course I didn’t realize until just now that she—I mean that you—”

“Two-timing me again, hey!” A long, muscular arm that went with the unshaven face made a grab for the girl, missed as she jumped aside and grabbed up a frying pan.

“Lay a hand on me, you big ape, and I’ll scramble that grease spot you use for a brain,” she screeched.

“Now, now, easy, Adoranne,” Lafayette soothed. “This is no time for a lovers’ spat—”

“Lovers! Ha! If you knew what I’d been through with that slob—” She broke off as the subject of the discourse slammed through the swinging door from the kitchen. She skipped aside from his lunge, brought up the iron skillet, and slammed it, with a meaty thud, against the side of his uncombed head. He took two rubbery steps and sagged against the counter, his face six inches from Lafayette’s.

“What’ll it be, sport?” he murmured, and slid down out of view with a prodigious clatter. The girl tossed the makeshift weapon aside and favored Lafayette with an irate look.

“What’s the idea getting him all upset?” she demanded. She frowned, looking him up and down. “Anyway, I don’t remember you, Sol. Who are you? I’ll bet I never two-timed him with you at all!”

“Surely you’d remember?” Lafayette gulped. “I mean—what’s happened? How did you and Alain get into this pig sty? Where’s the palace? And Daphne—have you seen Daphne?”

“Daffy? There’s a bum with a couple screws missing goes by that name, comes in here sometimes to cadge drinks. I ain’t seen him in a couple weeks—”

“Not daffy, Daphne. She’s a girl—my wife, to be exact. She’s small—but not too small, you understand—nice figure, cute face, dark, curly hair—”

“I’ll go fer that,” a deep voice said blurrily from the floor. “Just wait till I figure out which way this deck is slanting—”

The girl put her foot in Hulk’s face and pushed.

“Sleep it off, ya bum,” she muttered. She gave Lafayette an arch look and patted her back hair. “This dame got anything I ain’t?” she inquired coolly.

“Adoranne! I’m talking about Daphne—the countess—my wife!”

“Oh, yeah, the countess. Well, to tell you the truth, Clyde, we don’t see a lot o’ the countess these days. We’re too busy counting our pearls, you know how it is. Now, if you got no objection, I got some garbage to drag out back.”

“Let me help you,” Lafayette volunteered quickly.

“Skip it. I can handle him.”

“Is he all right?” Lafayette rose and leaned across the counter to look down at the fallen chef.

“Hulk? You couldn’t bust his skull with a horseshoe, even if the horse was still wearing it.” She grabbed his heels and started backward through the swinging door.

“Adoranne—wait—listen to me—” Lafayette called, scrambling around the counter.

“I told you—Swinehild’s the name. What’s this Adder Ann jazz all about?”

“You really don’t remember?” Lafayette stared at the familiar, beautiful face, so unfamiliarly smeared with soot and grease.

“I’m leveling with you, bub. Now, if you’re done clowning, how’s about clearing out of here so’s I can close the joint up?”

“Isn’t it a little early?”

Swinehild cocked an eyebrow. “You got other ideas in mind?”