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Chapter 21

"Now that you're all so nicely loosened up," Keir said, clapping his hands together as he turned to the others, "I think we ought to have a night out. Yore is a wonderful place for tourists. There's plenty to do in the evenings. Since we're only here for one night, we should take advantage of it."

"I think that sounds like a wonderful idea. I would very much like to see nights in the days of Yore," Chuck said solemnly, then broke up.

"You're still giddy," Persemid said, looking peeved that he'd thought of the pun first. "Sounds good to me!"

"Wonderful," Keir said, clapping his hands together. "Are you ready to paint the town red?"

"Yes, indeed," Hiramus said. His Western rig unbuttoned into a sports coat and casual-dress trousers. His hand hovered over his string necktie, as though he couldn't make up his mind, then dismissed the silk strip with a flick of his fingers. The dress shirt became a button-neck henley.

"Oh, well, if we're dressing up . . ." Persemid said. She swept her hands down her sides, and her gingham dress darkened into a black lace frock with a scoop neck and handkerchief hem, and a beaded black shawl. Pipistrella didn't change, but she always looked dressed up. Chuck gave it his best shot, gladly parting with coveralls in favor of khaki trousers and a handsome suede shirt.

"Ready," he said.

"Good!" Keir said. He went from one to the other, handing them each a bucket and a wide paintbrush. Surprised, Chuck nearly dropped the heavy pail, which sloshed, sending up a wave of red.

"What's this?" Chuck asked, gesturing with his brush.

"What did you think you were going to use?" Keir asked. "We're painting the town red tonight!"

"This is really stupid," Chuck said. The heads of everyone passing by swiveled on their necks as they walked away, openly staring. Some of them were laughing. Chuck felt his cheeks burning and had to pat them to put out the fire. He threw an angry gesture at the bucket of paint. "I thought we were going to a party or bar. I can't enjoy myself carrying this around!"

"You don't know until you try," Keir told him sternly. "Come with me."

They stopped in front of a building covered with gray clapboard. Loud music came from its interior, but Chuck couldn't see any doors. Keir started applying red paint to the wall. "Come on, I said! Try it!"

Reluctantly, Chuck dunked his brush and started painting. The irregular boards were dry, soaking up the first layer like sand drinking water. He had to give it another coat. The brush glided down, neatly depositing the second layer of gleaming red. It looked very pretty. The color ought to have looked gory, but instead it imparted liveliness, playfulness, even mischief. He actually started to enjoy himself. After all, painting the town red literally was no more foolish than some of the things people really did when they went out to "paint the town red." He grinned at Keir.

"I could do this all night—" he started to say, when, abruptly, the wall opened up, catapulting him into the middle of a crowd of people dancing to a swing beat. A woman in a circle skirt took him by the hands, and before Chuck knew it, he was dancing, too. Keir swirled by, holding the hand of a pretty, ponytailed woman.

"Do you see?" he called. "You just have to let yourself get into it!"

Chuck followed Keir's lead. When the action in the first dance hall started to slow down and people began to disappear, Chuck grabbed up his brush and pail, and ran to the next place that sounded promising. Yore's main street was lined with shabby buildings pulsing with music, all waiting for patrons to start painting so they could come in and enjoy themselves. Sometimes they had only to touch brush to wall before they were swept into the interior where they might find a loud party dancing under a spinning mirror ball, a hellfire club full of men in wasp-waist tailcoats and women in leather Merry Widows, a children's birthday party, or a New Year's Eve gala with champagne-quaffing celebrants waiting for the ball to drop from a tower. They got their fill of bursting fireworks, rivers of drink and mountains of food. Chuck's first glass of wine burned his throat on the way down. He didn't feel any of the drinks that followed as he joined in the gaiety.

Chuck had always thought he was a man for night life, but he had a thing or two to learn from Sean Draper. Usually so withdrawn, the Irishman seemed to have been given new life as much by Pipistrella's kind interest as Keir's quiet talks. He had a knack for knowing where to find the liveliest dancing or the best food or drink. Chuck learned quickly to follow Sean.

Almost everywhere he went, Chuck spotted Hiramus sitting quietly in booths against the wall or at the bar, watching him. Chuck found the scrutiny more than a little creepy. Couldn't the guy go and enjoy himself somewhere, and leave him alone? Someone stuck a glass in his hand, and Chuck decided to forget about him. The night was still young, and there was fun to be had. He couldn't waste time worrying about one crotchety old man.

Sean left what seemed like a promising party, and began daubing the sides of a little place that looked like an old, one-room schoolhouse. Within a few strokes they were in the middle of a mahogany-paneled bar with brass rails and a full dinner buffet to one side. Dancers hopped and stepped on a square of floor, but most of the room was given over to drinking and cheerful conversation. Sean made a straight path toward the bar, where a stout, rosy-complected man was holding out a pint glass to him. He had one for Chuck, and everyone who followed in his wake.

"You've got a gift there," Chuck told him, lifting his glass to Sean as they found a section of wall to lean against in the crowded room.

"Oh, I can teach you all how to do it," Sean said easily, hoisting a foaming glass of beer. "You just go with the feeling. Go where it's welcoming you."

Chuck shook his head, now muzzy from smoke and the excellent lager he'd been consuming in the last three establishments. "Sounds too instinctive to me."

"Ah, well, it's easy," Sean said, taking a long draught. "Ah! It's moments like this that I have to remember the good things I should be going back to."

Chuck was puzzled. "Why shouldn't you be going back to them?" he asked. Sean opened his mouth to answer, but was interrupted by the arrival of smiling waitresses who deposited platters of savory canapés and sandwiches on the sideboard near them. Chuck smelled corned beef, and seized the nearest sandwich. "Mmm!"

"I want to thank you, friend," Sean said, finishing his beer and signalling with a slightly unsteady hand for another one.

"For what?" Chuck asked, looking up from his sandwich.

"For treating me like one of your own. I'm not, you know. You've all been very kind. I can't say how much I've appreciated it."

"I'm sorry. I don't know what you mean," Chuck said.

"Oh," Sean said, embarrassed, peering into his glass. "Never you mind, then."

"Come dance with me!" Persemid cried, coming up to pull Sean away. Chuck grinned as the two of them bounded away across the floor. For someone with such short legs, Persemid could cut a very fine rug. Sean was only just keeping up with her. She threw a wink at Chuck. Her red hair glistened, throwing copper sparks off into the air whenever she tossed her head. Chuck grinned. All she had to do was loosen up a little, and let herself have fun. Sean, too, was more at home here than in the places they'd been together so far.

Left alone with his thoughts, Chuck was puzzled by what Sean had just said to him. He wondered if he had missed something. Perhaps his obtuseness was the result of having been colorized that afternoon, but after another half glass of beer, he realized that Sean simply had not explained what he was talking about. Chuck felt sorry for the man. He was so inhibited. Something in his previous experience kept him from reaching out and trying new things without feeling guilty or being scared. It was possible to have life worse than Chuck had it. Inadvertently, his hand started to creep toward the hollow place in his heart.

"So you're a Visitor, huh?" A heavy hand clamped down on Chuck's arm and spun him around. He found himself face to face with a very large, unshaven man with reddened eyes. "You from out there somewhere? You one of the Belly-Button Gang?"

Chuck wasn't about to let anyone twang his navel cord again, so he didn't pull up his shirt. Instead, he smiled.

"That's right. My four friends and I are here to learn, er, about the Dreamland."

"Uh-huh," said the man, weaving unsteadily on his feet. "I hear that in the Waking World, you people only have one face."

"All day long," Chuck said. "It's not at all like this one."

"One face? Every day? All day?"

"That's right. It's normal for us."

"Well," said the man pushing close to him and breathing alcohol in his face, "that would make you freaks." Chuck backed away from him and found his way blocked. He turned around to see an equally large man leaning over him.

"Now, just a moment," Chuck said. "We can't help that. I've been changing while I've been here." He smiled uneasily as more big men clustered around. "You folks sure are lucky."

"You patronizing us?" the first man asked, poking Chuck in the middle with a knuckle. "You people think you're better than us?"

"No!" Chuck said. "I didn't know you existed at all! I mean, I never realized people in dreams thought."

"Yeah, right! You think you can walk in here," the knuckle punctuated every syllable, "and lord it over us because you think you're more real than we are?" Chuck looked over the man's shoulders, hoping for a quick retreat. Instead, more angry faces crowded in on him. They got closer and closer, pressing Chuck between them until he felt his body squeezed out like toothpaste.

"Guys, I have the greatest respect for you," Chuck wheezed, his voice reedy and thin, shrinking away from the man's raised fist. The first man, looming over him, started laughing.

"You're pathetic, do you know that? Sad, miserable, one-faced, phony bum . . ."

Chuck cringed at every word of abuse, feeling smaller and smaller as the insults mounted up. The men seemed to grow bigger and more threatening. No, they weren't—he was shrinking! Every time they laughed at him, he lost height, dropping below chest level, then belt level. The taunting voice followed him, loud as an air-raid siren, ". . . your superior attitude makes us sick, you know that?" Chuck shrank until he was no higher than the men's shoes.

Their abuse had made it possible for him to escape. At that size, he could run between their feet. He saw a gap appear as his tormentors milled around, looking to see where he had gone. Chuck saw his opening, and started running. At only six inches in height, he was vulnerable. The gigantic boots and shoes started stomping and trampling. Chuck dodged just in time to keep from being squashed by a cowboy boot, and found himself running a gantlet of threshing soles.

"Get him!" the voice roared.

Like a matinee hero pursued by an avalanche, Chuck made for the door. Suddenly, he felt himself lifted up by the scruff of his neck. This was it then, he thought, curling up and throwing his arms over his head. He was going to die now.

Instead of being crushed, he was set down heavily on a flat surface.

"Your turn!" a little girl cried. Chuck opened his eyes, only to have a brief view of a little girl in a pink paper crown before his vision was cut off by the introduction of a blindfold. He had been dropped into the middle of a children's birthday party. "Go on! See if you can pin the tail on the donkey!"

"All right," Chuck said. A ribbon with a tack stuck in one end was placed in his hand, and he was spun in a circle. Accompanied by helpful shouts from the other kiddies at the party, he staggered forward, hands out, feeling for the target. Suddenly, a sharp pain jabbed him in the side.

"Ow!" He swept off the blindfold to see dozens of partygoers, homing in on him with more pins. Theirs looked longer and sharper than rapiers. Their eyes glittered as they raised their hands to strike. Chuck shrank back. A hand reached in, grabbed him by the arm, and yanked him out of the circle.

"There you are," said Hiramus peevishly. "Keir wants us all to go back to the train. It's almost dawn."

"What?" Chuck said. He looked back at the party. The children had gathered around a little boy wearing the blindfold, and were shrieking with laughter as he lurched around with his arms held out before him. They all looked so innocent. Could those little ones really have been trying to kill him? "I think you just saved me from being skewered."

"Think nothing of it," Hiramus said. "We should go."

"Where's Keir?" Chuck asked.

The corners of Hiramus's mustache turned upward in a wry smile. "Seeking Miss Pip, I believe."

Chuck turned wearily toward the door. "At least I don't have to wait up for her."

As they emerged into the night air, Persemid came toward them, walking as though her feet hurt. Sean held her arm. He was still wide awake and lively.

"Are you ready to go back?" Sean asked.

"Without a doubt," said the older man. "I think we have all had as much fun as we can handle for one night."

"Hear, hear," said Chuck.

* * *

The four Visitors slogged back to the train. The full moon was about two thirds up one side of the sky, giving them plenty of light to negotiate their path. The rubberiness in Chuck's legs was no longer from having animated features—that had worn off hours ago—but from sheer exhaustion. He had enjoyed the evening thoroughly—well, most of it. Now, he was ready for bed. He was glad to see the welcome shape of a real train. He couldn't have imagined how they would sleep on the backs of elephants.

As Chuck helped Persemid up the stairs, he felt a vibration coming through the car. Puzzled, he pushed open the partition door. A blast of rock music struck him full force, almost knocking him over. They pushed in against the ferocious sound, and were greeted by the conductor, who was wearing two outsized pads of cotton strapped over his ears under his cap. A flashing strobe light provided staccato views of the darkened interior, where figures were dancing to a band playing at one end of the car.

"Evening, sir!" the conductor shouted.

"What's this?" Chuck shouted back.

"Private party, sir! I am to extend invitations to you all!"

"From them?" Sean yelled, pointing. He looked alarmed. Chuck turned to get a better view. Unlike Sean, he wasn't frightened by the sight. The wild party consisted not of people, but of skeletons. They were dancing, eating food from the refreshment table, talking earnestly in corners, and smoking in doorways. And why not? Chuck thought. They don't have to worry about lung cancer. He stopped to admire the moves of the dancers. Some of those bone-folk were really getting down. It looked like fun, but Chuck wasn't in the mood to keep partying.

"Don't worry," he shouted at Sean. "This reminds me of something at home!"

"You consort with dead people?" Sean asked, his eyes showing white all the way around the irises.

"A kind of Dead," Chuck replied. He caught a glimpse of Persemid near the door. She was grinning. She understood. "They won't hurt you, I promise!" The party car was crowded, but he saw a way through. He signaled to the travelers all to join hands, and pulled them along to the next carriage. As soon as the partition door shut behind them, the earth-shakingly loud music cut off.

"Good call," Persemid said, "and good night. I can't wait to get off my feet."

The car automatically split into the correct compartments. Chuck waited for the transformation to take his shoes off, glad he didn't have to summon the coordination to do it himself. The floor still vibrated with the music's bass beat. He'd have to ask Bergold in the morning if there was a specific name for that kind of manifestation, or if it was considered a nuisance.

The pajama top hung slack against the empty part of his chest. Chuck hadn't thought about the hole in hours. He felt the edges of the flaw, letting his fingers run all around the perimeter through the cloth. He worried whether it was getting bigger. Should he look? He glanced around the compartment. There was a mirror on the wall above the writing table next to the window. If he lowered the blinds, he could examine the flaw in his chest without anyone to see.

Just as his shaking fingers undid the top button, a conga line of smiling, dancing, multicolored teddy bears came through the wall, accompanied by more music. He buttoned it shut again and spun to confront the intruders.

"Get lost," Chuck said, waving irritably at them. "I'm not in the mood."

The bears didn't mind. Still smiling, they shuffled and stepped out through the window glass, their music following them out into the night. Now that, Chuck thought, was a nuisance.

He was so tired he didn't even want a book to read. It was just as well, since his muscles were so sore he didn't want to go get one. What a day. Chuck flopped back and looked at the ceiling. He noticed that it was carved with a sheep motif. Well, that was handy. He started to count them.

Loud voices erupted in the hallway.

"I'm telling you, the quantum weight of the universe totally offsets the balance of all energy," said a male voice.

"It doesn't change the behavior of matter," a woman said.

Chuck pulled the pillow over his head, but the voices got louder.

"The very assessment of the quanta changes its behavior! If you examine every particle, it changes what it was doing."

That came from right inside his compartment. Chuck pulled the pillow off his face. To his shock, he found himself looking up at two hollow skulls arguing.

"Are you assuming sentience, or contrariness?"

"Would you two mind?" Chuck demanded. "I'm trying to get some sleep!"

The skeletons looked down at him. He didn't know how hollow eye sockets could register surprise, but these did.

"Oh," said the male. "Sorry, man." The pair walked out through the wall, still arguing.

Chuck heard a wild yell from the next chamber, and guessed they had invaded Sean's bedroom. Persemid's irritated voice rose up.

"Just throw them out!" she shouted, hoarse with sleep. "Do you want me to come and do it?"

Chuck dropped back onto his pillows. Silence fell, almost. He thought he could still hear low voices. He got up and threw open the door to the corridor. No one was outside. He opened door after door that appeared in the paneled walls, finding kitchenette, bathroom, fold-down ironing board, and finally, a walk-in closet where four more skeletons were having a quiet, serious conversation, the kind Chuck himself recalled having in college at two or three in the morning.

"All right," he said, pointing to the door. "Beat it."

Reluctantly, they filed out through the solid door. He heard their voices echoing down the corridor, and then silence. He opened the door to make sure they were really going. They were. Chuck shut the door and locked it. He knew it was a futile gesture, but it made him feel better to make it.

He was alone now. If he wanted to look, he could. He stood before the mirror, dithering, trying to make up his mind whether he would rather see the horror, or just worry whether it was getting worse. He searched in the mirror for answers. The face looking back at him now looked an honest thirty years of age. He wasn't a teenager any more. Well, that wasn't so bad. The problem was what lay hidden. Slowly, hoping all the time he had been imagining the problem, he undid the buttons of his pajama jacket. No such luck. In the middle of a taut chest with absolutely admirable muscles was a big zero. He couldn't believe that it didn't hurt. The margins of the hole felt as ordinary as a shoulder or a knee, but it looked so creepy. How odd to be aware of it. If this had happened when he was really dreaming, he'd undoubtedly accept it without thinking, but now it scared him half to death. As he had feared, the hole was a little larger than earlier. Then, he could cover it with the palm of his hand. Now, the edge peeked out along the side of his hand.

In the fruit factory he'd enjoyed that glorious time when his whole body had been made of rubber. If he could recapture that ability at this moment, perhaps he could pull himself together and close up the hole. He willed himself to be as stretchy as he had been before, thinking elastic thoughts. Something changed; he could feel it like a springy sensation in his stomach. He plucked at his cheek, which wowed out to balloon size and flapped back with a sound like a cartoon gate clacking. When he shook his head from side to side, his ears rattled. That should do it. Chuck took the sides of his chest in each hand and pushed. The edges of the hole met, smooshed into a single long line, and vanished. Chuck smiled and let go. Sproingg! It opened up again. Chuck looked at it in dismay. Symbolism, Keir had said. This gap was the symbol for what was wrong in his life: all his failures, his sorrow, his inability to experience joy. If he didn't fix it soon, it could kill him.

He tried pushing it closed again, and pictured a big needle stitching it up. The stitches duly appeared, making his chest look a lot like an old-fashioned football. As soon as he let go, the cord unraveled, leaving an end hanging loose. Frustrated, Chuck filled the emptiness up with handfuls of upholstery, pieces of paneling, even stuffing in handfuls of solid air. He gave it all he had: good vibrations, good thoughts, visions of construction sites, surgery, even road resurfacing. Nothing lasted more than a moment. He still ended up gazing at the inside back of his pajamas through the hole.

Chuck couldn't try any longer. The weariness he'd been fighting hit him like the heap of fruit. He slogged over to the berth and fell into it. His blankets curled around him, and the pillow snuggled under his head at just the right angle.

He was dozily aware when the train lurched and started to move. Keir must have found Pipistrella, Chuck thought sleepily. I'm glad I don't have his job.

The moon shining through the curtains on his window was a little higher in the sky than it had been the night before. Would he be able to reach Enlightenment before his time was up, or would he fall apart before he ever reached the place? Chuck went to sleep with the uneasy sensation that he'd swallowed something wrong, and it was making the place around his heart ache.

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Framed

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Chapter 21

"Now that you're all so nicely loosened up," Keir said, clapping his hands together as he turned to the others, "I think we ought to have a night out. Yore is a wonderful place for tourists. There's plenty to do in the evenings. Since we're only here for one night, we should take advantage of it."

"I think that sounds like a wonderful idea. I would very much like to see nights in the days of Yore," Chuck said solemnly, then broke up.

"You're still giddy," Persemid said, looking peeved that he'd thought of the pun first. "Sounds good to me!"

"Wonderful," Keir said, clapping his hands together. "Are you ready to paint the town red?"

"Yes, indeed," Hiramus said. His Western rig unbuttoned into a sports coat and casual-dress trousers. His hand hovered over his string necktie, as though he couldn't make up his mind, then dismissed the silk strip with a flick of his fingers. The dress shirt became a button-neck henley.

"Oh, well, if we're dressing up . . ." Persemid said. She swept her hands down her sides, and her gingham dress darkened into a black lace frock with a scoop neck and handkerchief hem, and a beaded black shawl. Pipistrella didn't change, but she always looked dressed up. Chuck gave it his best shot, gladly parting with coveralls in favor of khaki trousers and a handsome suede shirt.

"Ready," he said.

"Good!" Keir said. He went from one to the other, handing them each a bucket and a wide paintbrush. Surprised, Chuck nearly dropped the heavy pail, which sloshed, sending up a wave of red.

"What's this?" Chuck asked, gesturing with his brush.

"What did you think you were going to use?" Keir asked. "We're painting the town red tonight!"

"This is really stupid," Chuck said. The heads of everyone passing by swiveled on their necks as they walked away, openly staring. Some of them were laughing. Chuck felt his cheeks burning and had to pat them to put out the fire. He threw an angry gesture at the bucket of paint. "I thought we were going to a party or bar. I can't enjoy myself carrying this around!"

"You don't know until you try," Keir told him sternly. "Come with me."

They stopped in front of a building covered with gray clapboard. Loud music came from its interior, but Chuck couldn't see any doors. Keir started applying red paint to the wall. "Come on, I said! Try it!"

Reluctantly, Chuck dunked his brush and started painting. The irregular boards were dry, soaking up the first layer like sand drinking water. He had to give it another coat. The brush glided down, neatly depositing the second layer of gleaming red. It looked very pretty. The color ought to have looked gory, but instead it imparted liveliness, playfulness, even mischief. He actually started to enjoy himself. After all, painting the town red literally was no more foolish than some of the things people really did when they went out to "paint the town red." He grinned at Keir.

"I could do this all night—" he started to say, when, abruptly, the wall opened up, catapulting him into the middle of a crowd of people dancing to a swing beat. A woman in a circle skirt took him by the hands, and before Chuck knew it, he was dancing, too. Keir swirled by, holding the hand of a pretty, ponytailed woman.

"Do you see?" he called. "You just have to let yourself get into it!"

Chuck followed Keir's lead. When the action in the first dance hall started to slow down and people began to disappear, Chuck grabbed up his brush and pail, and ran to the next place that sounded promising. Yore's main street was lined with shabby buildings pulsing with music, all waiting for patrons to start painting so they could come in and enjoy themselves. Sometimes they had only to touch brush to wall before they were swept into the interior where they might find a loud party dancing under a spinning mirror ball, a hellfire club full of men in wasp-waist tailcoats and women in leather Merry Widows, a children's birthday party, or a New Year's Eve gala with champagne-quaffing celebrants waiting for the ball to drop from a tower. They got their fill of bursting fireworks, rivers of drink and mountains of food. Chuck's first glass of wine burned his throat on the way down. He didn't feel any of the drinks that followed as he joined in the gaiety.

Chuck had always thought he was a man for night life, but he had a thing or two to learn from Sean Draper. Usually so withdrawn, the Irishman seemed to have been given new life as much by Pipistrella's kind interest as Keir's quiet talks. He had a knack for knowing where to find the liveliest dancing or the best food or drink. Chuck learned quickly to follow Sean.

Almost everywhere he went, Chuck spotted Hiramus sitting quietly in booths against the wall or at the bar, watching him. Chuck found the scrutiny more than a little creepy. Couldn't the guy go and enjoy himself somewhere, and leave him alone? Someone stuck a glass in his hand, and Chuck decided to forget about him. The night was still young, and there was fun to be had. He couldn't waste time worrying about one crotchety old man.

Sean left what seemed like a promising party, and began daubing the sides of a little place that looked like an old, one-room schoolhouse. Within a few strokes they were in the middle of a mahogany-paneled bar with brass rails and a full dinner buffet to one side. Dancers hopped and stepped on a square of floor, but most of the room was given over to drinking and cheerful conversation. Sean made a straight path toward the bar, where a stout, rosy-complected man was holding out a pint glass to him. He had one for Chuck, and everyone who followed in his wake.

"You've got a gift there," Chuck told him, lifting his glass to Sean as they found a section of wall to lean against in the crowded room.

"Oh, I can teach you all how to do it," Sean said easily, hoisting a foaming glass of beer. "You just go with the feeling. Go where it's welcoming you."

Chuck shook his head, now muzzy from smoke and the excellent lager he'd been consuming in the last three establishments. "Sounds too instinctive to me."

"Ah, well, it's easy," Sean said, taking a long draught. "Ah! It's moments like this that I have to remember the good things I should be going back to."

Chuck was puzzled. "Why shouldn't you be going back to them?" he asked. Sean opened his mouth to answer, but was interrupted by the arrival of smiling waitresses who deposited platters of savory canapés and sandwiches on the sideboard near them. Chuck smelled corned beef, and seized the nearest sandwich. "Mmm!"

"I want to thank you, friend," Sean said, finishing his beer and signalling with a slightly unsteady hand for another one.

"For what?" Chuck asked, looking up from his sandwich.

"For treating me like one of your own. I'm not, you know. You've all been very kind. I can't say how much I've appreciated it."

"I'm sorry. I don't know what you mean," Chuck said.

"Oh," Sean said, embarrassed, peering into his glass. "Never you mind, then."

"Come dance with me!" Persemid cried, coming up to pull Sean away. Chuck grinned as the two of them bounded away across the floor. For someone with such short legs, Persemid could cut a very fine rug. Sean was only just keeping up with her. She threw a wink at Chuck. Her red hair glistened, throwing copper sparks off into the air whenever she tossed her head. Chuck grinned. All she had to do was loosen up a little, and let herself have fun. Sean, too, was more at home here than in the places they'd been together so far.

Left alone with his thoughts, Chuck was puzzled by what Sean had just said to him. He wondered if he had missed something. Perhaps his obtuseness was the result of having been colorized that afternoon, but after another half glass of beer, he realized that Sean simply had not explained what he was talking about. Chuck felt sorry for the man. He was so inhibited. Something in his previous experience kept him from reaching out and trying new things without feeling guilty or being scared. It was possible to have life worse than Chuck had it. Inadvertently, his hand started to creep toward the hollow place in his heart.

"So you're a Visitor, huh?" A heavy hand clamped down on Chuck's arm and spun him around. He found himself face to face with a very large, unshaven man with reddened eyes. "You from out there somewhere? You one of the Belly-Button Gang?"

Chuck wasn't about to let anyone twang his navel cord again, so he didn't pull up his shirt. Instead, he smiled.

"That's right. My four friends and I are here to learn, er, about the Dreamland."

"Uh-huh," said the man, weaving unsteadily on his feet. "I hear that in the Waking World, you people only have one face."

"All day long," Chuck said. "It's not at all like this one."

"One face? Every day? All day?"

"That's right. It's normal for us."

"Well," said the man pushing close to him and breathing alcohol in his face, "that would make you freaks." Chuck backed away from him and found his way blocked. He turned around to see an equally large man leaning over him.

"Now, just a moment," Chuck said. "We can't help that. I've been changing while I've been here." He smiled uneasily as more big men clustered around. "You folks sure are lucky."

"You patronizing us?" the first man asked, poking Chuck in the middle with a knuckle. "You people think you're better than us?"

"No!" Chuck said. "I didn't know you existed at all! I mean, I never realized people in dreams thought."

"Yeah, right! You think you can walk in here," the knuckle punctuated every syllable, "and lord it over us because you think you're more real than we are?" Chuck looked over the man's shoulders, hoping for a quick retreat. Instead, more angry faces crowded in on him. They got closer and closer, pressing Chuck between them until he felt his body squeezed out like toothpaste.

"Guys, I have the greatest respect for you," Chuck wheezed, his voice reedy and thin, shrinking away from the man's raised fist. The first man, looming over him, started laughing.

"You're pathetic, do you know that? Sad, miserable, one-faced, phony bum . . ."

Chuck cringed at every word of abuse, feeling smaller and smaller as the insults mounted up. The men seemed to grow bigger and more threatening. No, they weren't—he was shrinking! Every time they laughed at him, he lost height, dropping below chest level, then belt level. The taunting voice followed him, loud as an air-raid siren, ". . . your superior attitude makes us sick, you know that?" Chuck shrank until he was no higher than the men's shoes.

Their abuse had made it possible for him to escape. At that size, he could run between their feet. He saw a gap appear as his tormentors milled around, looking to see where he had gone. Chuck saw his opening, and started running. At only six inches in height, he was vulnerable. The gigantic boots and shoes started stomping and trampling. Chuck dodged just in time to keep from being squashed by a cowboy boot, and found himself running a gantlet of threshing soles.

"Get him!" the voice roared.

Like a matinee hero pursued by an avalanche, Chuck made for the door. Suddenly, he felt himself lifted up by the scruff of his neck. This was it then, he thought, curling up and throwing his arms over his head. He was going to die now.

Instead of being crushed, he was set down heavily on a flat surface.

"Your turn!" a little girl cried. Chuck opened his eyes, only to have a brief view of a little girl in a pink paper crown before his vision was cut off by the introduction of a blindfold. He had been dropped into the middle of a children's birthday party. "Go on! See if you can pin the tail on the donkey!"

"All right," Chuck said. A ribbon with a tack stuck in one end was placed in his hand, and he was spun in a circle. Accompanied by helpful shouts from the other kiddies at the party, he staggered forward, hands out, feeling for the target. Suddenly, a sharp pain jabbed him in the side.

"Ow!" He swept off the blindfold to see dozens of partygoers, homing in on him with more pins. Theirs looked longer and sharper than rapiers. Their eyes glittered as they raised their hands to strike. Chuck shrank back. A hand reached in, grabbed him by the arm, and yanked him out of the circle.

"There you are," said Hiramus peevishly. "Keir wants us all to go back to the train. It's almost dawn."

"What?" Chuck said. He looked back at the party. The children had gathered around a little boy wearing the blindfold, and were shrieking with laughter as he lurched around with his arms held out before him. They all looked so innocent. Could those little ones really have been trying to kill him? "I think you just saved me from being skewered."

"Think nothing of it," Hiramus said. "We should go."

"Where's Keir?" Chuck asked.

The corners of Hiramus's mustache turned upward in a wry smile. "Seeking Miss Pip, I believe."

Chuck turned wearily toward the door. "At least I don't have to wait up for her."

As they emerged into the night air, Persemid came toward them, walking as though her feet hurt. Sean held her arm. He was still wide awake and lively.

"Are you ready to go back?" Sean asked.

"Without a doubt," said the older man. "I think we have all had as much fun as we can handle for one night."

"Hear, hear," said Chuck.

* * *

The four Visitors slogged back to the train. The full moon was about two thirds up one side of the sky, giving them plenty of light to negotiate their path. The rubberiness in Chuck's legs was no longer from having animated features—that had worn off hours ago—but from sheer exhaustion. He had enjoyed the evening thoroughly—well, most of it. Now, he was ready for bed. He was glad to see the welcome shape of a real train. He couldn't have imagined how they would sleep on the backs of elephants.

As Chuck helped Persemid up the stairs, he felt a vibration coming through the car. Puzzled, he pushed open the partition door. A blast of rock music struck him full force, almost knocking him over. They pushed in against the ferocious sound, and were greeted by the conductor, who was wearing two outsized pads of cotton strapped over his ears under his cap. A flashing strobe light provided staccato views of the darkened interior, where figures were dancing to a band playing at one end of the car.

"Evening, sir!" the conductor shouted.

"What's this?" Chuck shouted back.

"Private party, sir! I am to extend invitations to you all!"

"From them?" Sean yelled, pointing. He looked alarmed. Chuck turned to get a better view. Unlike Sean, he wasn't frightened by the sight. The wild party consisted not of people, but of skeletons. They were dancing, eating food from the refreshment table, talking earnestly in corners, and smoking in doorways. And why not? Chuck thought. They don't have to worry about lung cancer. He stopped to admire the moves of the dancers. Some of those bone-folk were really getting down. It looked like fun, but Chuck wasn't in the mood to keep partying.

"Don't worry," he shouted at Sean. "This reminds me of something at home!"

"You consort with dead people?" Sean asked, his eyes showing white all the way around the irises.

"A kind of Dead," Chuck replied. He caught a glimpse of Persemid near the door. She was grinning. She understood. "They won't hurt you, I promise!" The party car was crowded, but he saw a way through. He signaled to the travelers all to join hands, and pulled them along to the next carriage. As soon as the partition door shut behind them, the earth-shakingly loud music cut off.

"Good call," Persemid said, "and good night. I can't wait to get off my feet."

The car automatically split into the correct compartments. Chuck waited for the transformation to take his shoes off, glad he didn't have to summon the coordination to do it himself. The floor still vibrated with the music's bass beat. He'd have to ask Bergold in the morning if there was a specific name for that kind of manifestation, or if it was considered a nuisance.

The pajama top hung slack against the empty part of his chest. Chuck hadn't thought about the hole in hours. He felt the edges of the flaw, letting his fingers run all around the perimeter through the cloth. He worried whether it was getting bigger. Should he look? He glanced around the compartment. There was a mirror on the wall above the writing table next to the window. If he lowered the blinds, he could examine the flaw in his chest without anyone to see.

Just as his shaking fingers undid the top button, a conga line of smiling, dancing, multicolored teddy bears came through the wall, accompanied by more music. He buttoned it shut again and spun to confront the intruders.

"Get lost," Chuck said, waving irritably at them. "I'm not in the mood."

The bears didn't mind. Still smiling, they shuffled and stepped out through the window glass, their music following them out into the night. Now that, Chuck thought, was a nuisance.

He was so tired he didn't even want a book to read. It was just as well, since his muscles were so sore he didn't want to go get one. What a day. Chuck flopped back and looked at the ceiling. He noticed that it was carved with a sheep motif. Well, that was handy. He started to count them.

Loud voices erupted in the hallway.

"I'm telling you, the quantum weight of the universe totally offsets the balance of all energy," said a male voice.

"It doesn't change the behavior of matter," a woman said.

Chuck pulled the pillow over his head, but the voices got louder.

"The very assessment of the quanta changes its behavior! If you examine every particle, it changes what it was doing."

That came from right inside his compartment. Chuck pulled the pillow off his face. To his shock, he found himself looking up at two hollow skulls arguing.

"Are you assuming sentience, or contrariness?"

"Would you two mind?" Chuck demanded. "I'm trying to get some sleep!"

The skeletons looked down at him. He didn't know how hollow eye sockets could register surprise, but these did.

"Oh," said the male. "Sorry, man." The pair walked out through the wall, still arguing.

Chuck heard a wild yell from the next chamber, and guessed they had invaded Sean's bedroom. Persemid's irritated voice rose up.

"Just throw them out!" she shouted, hoarse with sleep. "Do you want me to come and do it?"

Chuck dropped back onto his pillows. Silence fell, almost. He thought he could still hear low voices. He got up and threw open the door to the corridor. No one was outside. He opened door after door that appeared in the paneled walls, finding kitchenette, bathroom, fold-down ironing board, and finally, a walk-in closet where four more skeletons were having a quiet, serious conversation, the kind Chuck himself recalled having in college at two or three in the morning.

"All right," he said, pointing to the door. "Beat it."

Reluctantly, they filed out through the solid door. He heard their voices echoing down the corridor, and then silence. He opened the door to make sure they were really going. They were. Chuck shut the door and locked it. He knew it was a futile gesture, but it made him feel better to make it.

He was alone now. If he wanted to look, he could. He stood before the mirror, dithering, trying to make up his mind whether he would rather see the horror, or just worry whether it was getting worse. He searched in the mirror for answers. The face looking back at him now looked an honest thirty years of age. He wasn't a teenager any more. Well, that wasn't so bad. The problem was what lay hidden. Slowly, hoping all the time he had been imagining the problem, he undid the buttons of his pajama jacket. No such luck. In the middle of a taut chest with absolutely admirable muscles was a big zero. He couldn't believe that it didn't hurt. The margins of the hole felt as ordinary as a shoulder or a knee, but it looked so creepy. How odd to be aware of it. If this had happened when he was really dreaming, he'd undoubtedly accept it without thinking, but now it scared him half to death. As he had feared, the hole was a little larger than earlier. Then, he could cover it with the palm of his hand. Now, the edge peeked out along the side of his hand.

In the fruit factory he'd enjoyed that glorious time when his whole body had been made of rubber. If he could recapture that ability at this moment, perhaps he could pull himself together and close up the hole. He willed himself to be as stretchy as he had been before, thinking elastic thoughts. Something changed; he could feel it like a springy sensation in his stomach. He plucked at his cheek, which wowed out to balloon size and flapped back with a sound like a cartoon gate clacking. When he shook his head from side to side, his ears rattled. That should do it. Chuck took the sides of his chest in each hand and pushed. The edges of the hole met, smooshed into a single long line, and vanished. Chuck smiled and let go. Sproingg! It opened up again. Chuck looked at it in dismay. Symbolism, Keir had said. This gap was the symbol for what was wrong in his life: all his failures, his sorrow, his inability to experience joy. If he didn't fix it soon, it could kill him.

He tried pushing it closed again, and pictured a big needle stitching it up. The stitches duly appeared, making his chest look a lot like an old-fashioned football. As soon as he let go, the cord unraveled, leaving an end hanging loose. Frustrated, Chuck filled the emptiness up with handfuls of upholstery, pieces of paneling, even stuffing in handfuls of solid air. He gave it all he had: good vibrations, good thoughts, visions of construction sites, surgery, even road resurfacing. Nothing lasted more than a moment. He still ended up gazing at the inside back of his pajamas through the hole.

Chuck couldn't try any longer. The weariness he'd been fighting hit him like the heap of fruit. He slogged over to the berth and fell into it. His blankets curled around him, and the pillow snuggled under his head at just the right angle.

He was dozily aware when the train lurched and started to move. Keir must have found Pipistrella, Chuck thought sleepily. I'm glad I don't have his job.

The moon shining through the curtains on his window was a little higher in the sky than it had been the night before. Would he be able to reach Enlightenment before his time was up, or would he fall apart before he ever reached the place? Chuck went to sleep with the uneasy sensation that he'd swallowed something wrong, and it was making the place around his heart ache.

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Framed