Back | Next
Contents

Chapter 22

More shrill whines split the air.

"Mama, he's hitting me!"

"She's on my side of the seat!"

"No, I'm not!"

"Yes, she is! She's putting her finger on the cushion!"

Morit held his hands to his ears, but the annoying voices cut right through. His blood pressure was rising. He was on the verge of getting up and chasing the miserable brats to strangle them, but it wouldn't do any good. His arms and legs in this body were very short and slow. He'd never catch any of them. They would disappear right from between his hands, and by the time he turned around, there would be more, filling the air with their unbearable noise. That was the way his life always was, a Personal Torment Dream every single day. Misery, misery, misery, and no one understood or cared. Retribution for the Visitors could not come soon enough. He resented being shut up with horrible little children, who were no doubt there to express the concerns of one or another sleepers in the Waking World. Why him, indeed? What about his happiness?

Though the sign on the wall said SUPER TERRIFIC PRIME PREMIER FIRST CLASS, Morit doubted whether it was true. The seats were less comfortable than before, and there was no service. The run-down car hadn't been cleaned in some time. The food was terrible, expensive stodge. His breakfast, cold eggs and greasy bacon, had been served off a cart by a snot-nosed teenager who never made eye contact with him, and asked for two biros—two biros!—for the meal. The coffee tasted like bicycle lubricant. The remainder of it was growing cold in a cup on the narrow shelf by the window. He'd tried to drink it countless times while it was hot, but the children kept banging into his elbow, spilling it down his front. As a result, he had brown stains that he couldn't conceal on the front of his white shirt. His command of influence was insufficient to eradicate them. He was too annoyed to let Blanda try.

The other factor which made him doubt his whereabouts was the lack of other passengers, especially the Visitors. Except for Blanda, he couldn't find another adult whom he thought was real. All the ones in the crying car were little more than influence-altered lengths of fence, preventing the little pests from straying outside the limits but providing no other guidance. All the Visitors were somewhere else, undiscoverable by him, anyhow.

"I'll bet it's almost certainly somewhere better than here," Morit said, not for the first time.

"This is very nice," Blanda said, looking up from wielding her knitting needles. The children never cannoned off her, or she'd have been skewered on her own half-finished sweater. "The walls are a very pleasant color, and it's a pretty pattern in the rug. There's such a lot of room. Plenty of space to move about in."

Just then, a boy with brown hair and freckles chased his pigtailed sister straight into Morit. She spilled a glass of milk on his legs. He jumped up, brushing at the mess and swearing.

"My love!" Blanda exclaimed, shocked. Morit sat down. He continued to think angry thoughts, looking daggers at the children, but they didn't hit their targets.

And as for the paint job and carpet, he was unimpressed. The materials were notable only for their resistance to damage and stain, not aesthetic beauty, and as for having plenty of room, it only gave the young nuisances extra yards to use as a launch pad. He rang the bell mounted on the wall. The conductor, wearing rubber wading boots secured over his shoulders with suspenders, appeared at once by his side.

"How may I help you, sir?" he asked, heavily.

"Where is everyone?"

"Still asleep, sir," the conductor answered, in a singsong voice, because he'd recited the same information again and again to Morit since shortly after dawn. "The night stretched out very long. It's taken up part of the day. We had to make up time to remain on schedule, sir. I'm sure they'll all be around again soon."

"But it's nearly noon!"

"Not yet, sir," the conductor said, checking the gold watch in his pocket. "This is reserve morning time. We'll reset the clocks as soon as we reach Phantasie and the Temple of Adoration."

"Oh, that will be nice," Blanda said when Morit sat down. "The Cloudings up the street visited the Temple last year. They had such pretty vacation pictures." She tried a sleeve against his arm for length. He shook her off.

"I hope that's not for me, is it?" he asked. "I hate orange."

"It won't be orange when I'm finished," Blanda assured him placidly. "You know I like to work with bright colors. Would you like it to be another brown one?"

Morit nodded curtly, his mind already occupied with plotting. He was frustrated. His comrades were supposed to have tried to destroy one or all of the Visitors during their time out on the town the night before in Yore. So many opportunities had presented themselves while he had been watching, but nothing had been done. Why not? He could have done it himself any number of times. He hadn't been able to sleep all night, angry and jealous that the Visitors had had no further trouble. Everyone had had a good time but him.

Shrieks erupted as a little girl launched herself off the next seat toward the chair back to back with Morit. She missed. Her flailing hands grabbed a handful of Morit's hair and yanked it out as she fell.

"Aaarggh!" Morit yelled, springing up, waving his arms. He'd kill the little monster!

"Dear!" Blanda exclaimed, taking his arm and pulling him down into his seat. The child recoiled and fled down the aisle into the crowd. As much as he hated the Visitors, he would rather have been with them than here. There were worse things in the world, and he got them all. At least the Visitors were polite to him—when they weren't interfering with his life. He could hardly stand it until the surroundings would change again.

"This is just an ordeal," a tall man sitting at the window whispered. "Be patient." Morit looked at him in surprise. He'd thought no one here was real. He peered at the man, who was narrow-faced with yellowish skin and a thin mustache that hung down to his jaw on both sides. The stranger was no one Morit recognized, but the anti-Visitor movement was growing all the time. New members of the conspiracy could have been engendered out of pure fumes from the hatred.

"Message for you, sir." Morit looked up at the pimply-faced porter who held out to him a tray bearing an envelope. He glanced back toward the window. The stranger was gone. Morit took the envelope. The young man remained standing nearby. Morit threw a couple of pencils on the tray and tore open the letter.

His coconspirators in Yore had tried to kill the Visitors, many times, so the missive told him defensively. All the attempts had failed. Not because they were poorly plotted, but something or someone kept foiling them. Most likely the combined might of the Visitors was turning all efforts against the users. And a certain amount had to be put off to Sleeper's whim. Naturally, the Seven would defend their own. Morit's comrades complained they were still trying to find some of their number who had helped engineer the fruit avalanche, and many of the assassins who had gone into the dancing crowd at the disco had never been seen again. Should the remaining members move full speed ahead to prepare for the fail-safe attack, or continue to try separate attacks along the rest of the Visitors' route?

Angrily, Morit jumbled the letters together and began to spell out words in cursive, stringing them along the page with impatient movements. He did not want to rely on the fail-safe. The attempts were to continue until they succeeded. He wanted the Visitors disposed of as soon as possible. There might even be opportunities that very day—that night! Watch for them! He smacked the page down onto the little table, making his cold coffee jump in the cup, and folded the revised letter into thirds. Sealing it with his thumb, he handed it to the waiting page.

The young man took the note, opened it, and read it. His shoulders sagged. "Very well, sir. It's getting difficult, though."

Morit gave him a stern look. "Do it anyway. You know what is at stake."

"Yes, sir. We do." The porter bowed himself out of the room.

* * *

Chuck came out of his cabin, scratching his belly, which was covered in thick fur. He was only able to scratch all the way down to the place that itched because his fingernails had turned into long, curved claws. Ordinary fingernails could never have made it through the pelt. He touched the hole in his chest with a clawtip. It was invisible under the eight-inch-long fur. He had to mention it to Keir now, today, before it got much worse.

Not that he felt bad that morning. He had wakened up in a narrow bed in a narrow room more like a monk's cell than the opulent suite he'd gone to sleep in, but he retained distinct memories of some good partying. Maybe too good. Even his tongue was furry. When he saw the others he mustered as much cheerfulness as he could, which was about ten percent of his normal complement.

"G'morning," he growled, and was surprised at the depth and resonance of his voice.

"Are you always this much of a bear in the morning?" Persemid asked, merriment in her almond-shaped eyes. "I'm sorry. I couldn't resist the joke. Have you seen yourself?"

Chuck glanced into the window glass as he sat down. He was a bear. There was a smudge of red paint on the whiskers under his nose, and more paint ground under his fingernails, er, claws. He'd sure tied one on the night before. There was still a string with tin cans attached to one leg. He sat down in his accustomed place to undo the knot. It got tangled up in his claws, until Hiramus bent down to untie it for him.

"Thanks," Chuck said.

"My pleasure," said Hiramus. He sat back, still as precise in his movements as a clock, but slower, as though the spring was partly wound down. Everyone looked the worse for wear, but Chuck was surprised at how much they had all changed overnight. For several days they had all remained ordinary in appearance, but this morning something had broken loose. Sean, obviously nursing a headache, was covered entirely in shaggy bark like a living tree, almost frightening to behold. Pipistrella seemed diaphanous to the point of transparency, as if she'd used up too much of her being during the last few days. Hiramus looked like an old-fashioned schoolmaster down to the mortarboard, round spectacles and robe with half-sleeves over a hollow chest and a little pot belly. Persemid remained the most like herself. She looked like a Chinese doll, with long, shiny hair in a braid, but her high-necked happi coat was buttoned over a rounded bosom, and her queue had overtones of red, like lacquer on an antique box.

"We're all getting too familiar with each other," she said. "We're done using our `company manners.' Now we'll just have to deal with one another as we really are."

"I don't think that's a correct assessment at all, young lady," Hiramus said, looking more donnish than ever as he peered at her over his glasses. Sean let out a sharp yelp of laughter, and Chuck couldn't help but grin. It sounded like Persemid had hit the nail on the head.

"Then why aren't you more different?" Pipistrella asked, in her mild voice.

"I am who I am," Persemid said, bluntly. "Take it or leave it. That Bergold man—where is he, by the way?—was right on the money. I've got a pretty strong base shape. I'm not going to waste my time worrying about my appearance, like some people I could name."

"Who is that?" Pip asked, and smiled vaguely as the others stared at her in disbelief. Chuck had been spending so much time on his own problems, he hadn't bothered to guess why the other Visitors were on the journey with him. Maybe Pip's problem was her total lack of awareness.

"Mmm," said a heap of old rags on the floor in the corner. Chuck was surprised the pile moved and stood up. It turned out to be Keir. More dowdy and unlovely than usual, he went through his amazing range of alterations as he looked over each of his clients, beginning with a disreputable-looking fallen angel with mussed feathers, and ending as the sweet-faced, middle-aged woman. She looked tired and was dressed in a housecoat and slippers instead of the usual neat dress or skirt.

"We had too good a time last night, my dear friends," Keir said, sitting down primly in a straight-backed seat that manifested itself in between the rows of seats. "Particular thanks are due to our man Sean, here."

Sean looked abashed. " 'Twas nothing," he mumbled into his scaly neck.

"Speak clearly, dear," Keir chided him. "It was not nothing, I assure you. It's not often even I have more than I can handle. There must be some coffee around here somewhere." He reached up to ring the bell for the conductor.

Behind him, Chuck heard a loud noise, like an engine roaring. He sprang up in time to see the rear wall burst open, catapulting Bergold, Morit, Blanda, Kenner, Mrs. Flannel, Master Bolster and approximately seventy small boys and girls into the car. Shrieking as they hit the floor, the children got up and raced about. Where they passed, gilding and light fixtures appeared on the plain wooden walls and a richly-colored pattern wove itself into the carpet. They didn't slow down when they reached the end of the car. Instead, they ran straight through it, the force of their passage tossing the paneling like waves. When the wood settled, it was carved into handsome beading with mahogany wainscoting that ran around the perimeter to waist height. Above, the wall was painted deep teal, and was decorated with gold-framed paintings. The finished car was smaller than their usual compartment, but fewer people were in it, so there was no crowding.

"Bless my soul!" Bergold exclaimed, standing up and brushing off his plump person. Like Persemid, he was dressed as a Mandarin, but with Nordic features and coloration. "I was just having tea with a group of fellow scholars in the caboose, when the winds of change swept me up and dropped me here!"

The conductor appeared at his side and produced a whisk broom, with which he dusted Bergold's shoulders and round black hat. "We regret the alteration, sir. There is no first-class service today between South Yore and North Phantasie, so everyone's seat was temporarily reassigned. Premium service has now resumed in its entirety."

"Is that what happened?" Morit demanded, extracting himself from heaps of crib blankets that blew into the car with him. He threw them forcefully across the room. They fluttered away, adhering themselves to the window frames as damask curtains. "I will demand a portion of my ticket be returned to me. I was assured that our passage would be first class all the way around!"

"I am so sorry, sir," the conductor said, turning to him with a rueful expression. "Some of our equipment fell prey to a nuisance or some other such interference, sir. You may be assured that we will endeavor to make certain that it does not happen again, but things do change."

"Oh, it wasn't so bad," Blanda said. "I like kiddies. They were so energetic! Weren't they, my love?"

Morit growled, as usual. Chuck wondered again how the Nightshades had ever gotten together, when he was so grumpy and she was so nice. Probably no one else would even talk to him.

"When do we reach Phantasie?" Keir asked.

The conductor retrieved his watch from his vest-front pocket. "We arrive in five minutes, sir."

Keir sighed. "No time for coffee." He answered Chuck's puzzled look with a sheepish grin. "I know what I said about the symbolism of food, but some things are hard even for me to do without."

He's human, Chuck thought indulgently, then with a sense of dismay. The faith in the infallability he'd always assumed Keir to possess diminished slightly. At some point he needed to open up to his guide about his problem. But how would he feel if he told Keir the whole story, and he could do nothing? But Bergold was right: Keir was his sponsor in the Dreamland. He ought to know before something went horribly wrong. Chuck had to tell Keir, and soon.

Back | Next
Contents
Framed

Back | Next
Contents

Chapter 22

More shrill whines split the air.

"Mama, he's hitting me!"

"She's on my side of the seat!"

"No, I'm not!"

"Yes, she is! She's putting her finger on the cushion!"

Morit held his hands to his ears, but the annoying voices cut right through. His blood pressure was rising. He was on the verge of getting up and chasing the miserable brats to strangle them, but it wouldn't do any good. His arms and legs in this body were very short and slow. He'd never catch any of them. They would disappear right from between his hands, and by the time he turned around, there would be more, filling the air with their unbearable noise. That was the way his life always was, a Personal Torment Dream every single day. Misery, misery, misery, and no one understood or cared. Retribution for the Visitors could not come soon enough. He resented being shut up with horrible little children, who were no doubt there to express the concerns of one or another sleepers in the Waking World. Why him, indeed? What about his happiness?

Though the sign on the wall said SUPER TERRIFIC PRIME PREMIER FIRST CLASS, Morit doubted whether it was true. The seats were less comfortable than before, and there was no service. The run-down car hadn't been cleaned in some time. The food was terrible, expensive stodge. His breakfast, cold eggs and greasy bacon, had been served off a cart by a snot-nosed teenager who never made eye contact with him, and asked for two biros—two biros!—for the meal. The coffee tasted like bicycle lubricant. The remainder of it was growing cold in a cup on the narrow shelf by the window. He'd tried to drink it countless times while it was hot, but the children kept banging into his elbow, spilling it down his front. As a result, he had brown stains that he couldn't conceal on the front of his white shirt. His command of influence was insufficient to eradicate them. He was too annoyed to let Blanda try.

The other factor which made him doubt his whereabouts was the lack of other passengers, especially the Visitors. Except for Blanda, he couldn't find another adult whom he thought was real. All the ones in the crying car were little more than influence-altered lengths of fence, preventing the little pests from straying outside the limits but providing no other guidance. All the Visitors were somewhere else, undiscoverable by him, anyhow.

"I'll bet it's almost certainly somewhere better than here," Morit said, not for the first time.

"This is very nice," Blanda said, looking up from wielding her knitting needles. The children never cannoned off her, or she'd have been skewered on her own half-finished sweater. "The walls are a very pleasant color, and it's a pretty pattern in the rug. There's such a lot of room. Plenty of space to move about in."

Just then, a boy with brown hair and freckles chased his pigtailed sister straight into Morit. She spilled a glass of milk on his legs. He jumped up, brushing at the mess and swearing.

"My love!" Blanda exclaimed, shocked. Morit sat down. He continued to think angry thoughts, looking daggers at the children, but they didn't hit their targets.

And as for the paint job and carpet, he was unimpressed. The materials were notable only for their resistance to damage and stain, not aesthetic beauty, and as for having plenty of room, it only gave the young nuisances extra yards to use as a launch pad. He rang the bell mounted on the wall. The conductor, wearing rubber wading boots secured over his shoulders with suspenders, appeared at once by his side.

"How may I help you, sir?" he asked, heavily.

"Where is everyone?"

"Still asleep, sir," the conductor answered, in a singsong voice, because he'd recited the same information again and again to Morit since shortly after dawn. "The night stretched out very long. It's taken up part of the day. We had to make up time to remain on schedule, sir. I'm sure they'll all be around again soon."

"But it's nearly noon!"

"Not yet, sir," the conductor said, checking the gold watch in his pocket. "This is reserve morning time. We'll reset the clocks as soon as we reach Phantasie and the Temple of Adoration."

"Oh, that will be nice," Blanda said when Morit sat down. "The Cloudings up the street visited the Temple last year. They had such pretty vacation pictures." She tried a sleeve against his arm for length. He shook her off.

"I hope that's not for me, is it?" he asked. "I hate orange."

"It won't be orange when I'm finished," Blanda assured him placidly. "You know I like to work with bright colors. Would you like it to be another brown one?"

Morit nodded curtly, his mind already occupied with plotting. He was frustrated. His comrades were supposed to have tried to destroy one or all of the Visitors during their time out on the town the night before in Yore. So many opportunities had presented themselves while he had been watching, but nothing had been done. Why not? He could have done it himself any number of times. He hadn't been able to sleep all night, angry and jealous that the Visitors had had no further trouble. Everyone had had a good time but him.

Shrieks erupted as a little girl launched herself off the next seat toward the chair back to back with Morit. She missed. Her flailing hands grabbed a handful of Morit's hair and yanked it out as she fell.

"Aaarggh!" Morit yelled, springing up, waving his arms. He'd kill the little monster!

"Dear!" Blanda exclaimed, taking his arm and pulling him down into his seat. The child recoiled and fled down the aisle into the crowd. As much as he hated the Visitors, he would rather have been with them than here. There were worse things in the world, and he got them all. At least the Visitors were polite to him—when they weren't interfering with his life. He could hardly stand it until the surroundings would change again.

"This is just an ordeal," a tall man sitting at the window whispered. "Be patient." Morit looked at him in surprise. He'd thought no one here was real. He peered at the man, who was narrow-faced with yellowish skin and a thin mustache that hung down to his jaw on both sides. The stranger was no one Morit recognized, but the anti-Visitor movement was growing all the time. New members of the conspiracy could have been engendered out of pure fumes from the hatred.

"Message for you, sir." Morit looked up at the pimply-faced porter who held out to him a tray bearing an envelope. He glanced back toward the window. The stranger was gone. Morit took the envelope. The young man remained standing nearby. Morit threw a couple of pencils on the tray and tore open the letter.

His coconspirators in Yore had tried to kill the Visitors, many times, so the missive told him defensively. All the attempts had failed. Not because they were poorly plotted, but something or someone kept foiling them. Most likely the combined might of the Visitors was turning all efforts against the users. And a certain amount had to be put off to Sleeper's whim. Naturally, the Seven would defend their own. Morit's comrades complained they were still trying to find some of their number who had helped engineer the fruit avalanche, and many of the assassins who had gone into the dancing crowd at the disco had never been seen again. Should the remaining members move full speed ahead to prepare for the fail-safe attack, or continue to try separate attacks along the rest of the Visitors' route?

Angrily, Morit jumbled the letters together and began to spell out words in cursive, stringing them along the page with impatient movements. He did not want to rely on the fail-safe. The attempts were to continue until they succeeded. He wanted the Visitors disposed of as soon as possible. There might even be opportunities that very day—that night! Watch for them! He smacked the page down onto the little table, making his cold coffee jump in the cup, and folded the revised letter into thirds. Sealing it with his thumb, he handed it to the waiting page.

The young man took the note, opened it, and read it. His shoulders sagged. "Very well, sir. It's getting difficult, though."

Morit gave him a stern look. "Do it anyway. You know what is at stake."

"Yes, sir. We do." The porter bowed himself out of the room.

* * *

Chuck came out of his cabin, scratching his belly, which was covered in thick fur. He was only able to scratch all the way down to the place that itched because his fingernails had turned into long, curved claws. Ordinary fingernails could never have made it through the pelt. He touched the hole in his chest with a clawtip. It was invisible under the eight-inch-long fur. He had to mention it to Keir now, today, before it got much worse.

Not that he felt bad that morning. He had wakened up in a narrow bed in a narrow room more like a monk's cell than the opulent suite he'd gone to sleep in, but he retained distinct memories of some good partying. Maybe too good. Even his tongue was furry. When he saw the others he mustered as much cheerfulness as he could, which was about ten percent of his normal complement.

"G'morning," he growled, and was surprised at the depth and resonance of his voice.

"Are you always this much of a bear in the morning?" Persemid asked, merriment in her almond-shaped eyes. "I'm sorry. I couldn't resist the joke. Have you seen yourself?"

Chuck glanced into the window glass as he sat down. He was a bear. There was a smudge of red paint on the whiskers under his nose, and more paint ground under his fingernails, er, claws. He'd sure tied one on the night before. There was still a string with tin cans attached to one leg. He sat down in his accustomed place to undo the knot. It got tangled up in his claws, until Hiramus bent down to untie it for him.

"Thanks," Chuck said.

"My pleasure," said Hiramus. He sat back, still as precise in his movements as a clock, but slower, as though the spring was partly wound down. Everyone looked the worse for wear, but Chuck was surprised at how much they had all changed overnight. For several days they had all remained ordinary in appearance, but this morning something had broken loose. Sean, obviously nursing a headache, was covered entirely in shaggy bark like a living tree, almost frightening to behold. Pipistrella seemed diaphanous to the point of transparency, as if she'd used up too much of her being during the last few days. Hiramus looked like an old-fashioned schoolmaster down to the mortarboard, round spectacles and robe with half-sleeves over a hollow chest and a little pot belly. Persemid remained the most like herself. She looked like a Chinese doll, with long, shiny hair in a braid, but her high-necked happi coat was buttoned over a rounded bosom, and her queue had overtones of red, like lacquer on an antique box.

"We're all getting too familiar with each other," she said. "We're done using our `company manners.' Now we'll just have to deal with one another as we really are."

"I don't think that's a correct assessment at all, young lady," Hiramus said, looking more donnish than ever as he peered at her over his glasses. Sean let out a sharp yelp of laughter, and Chuck couldn't help but grin. It sounded like Persemid had hit the nail on the head.

"Then why aren't you more different?" Pipistrella asked, in her mild voice.

"I am who I am," Persemid said, bluntly. "Take it or leave it. That Bergold man—where is he, by the way?—was right on the money. I've got a pretty strong base shape. I'm not going to waste my time worrying about my appearance, like some people I could name."

"Who is that?" Pip asked, and smiled vaguely as the others stared at her in disbelief. Chuck had been spending so much time on his own problems, he hadn't bothered to guess why the other Visitors were on the journey with him. Maybe Pip's problem was her total lack of awareness.

"Mmm," said a heap of old rags on the floor in the corner. Chuck was surprised the pile moved and stood up. It turned out to be Keir. More dowdy and unlovely than usual, he went through his amazing range of alterations as he looked over each of his clients, beginning with a disreputable-looking fallen angel with mussed feathers, and ending as the sweet-faced, middle-aged woman. She looked tired and was dressed in a housecoat and slippers instead of the usual neat dress or skirt.

"We had too good a time last night, my dear friends," Keir said, sitting down primly in a straight-backed seat that manifested itself in between the rows of seats. "Particular thanks are due to our man Sean, here."

Sean looked abashed. " 'Twas nothing," he mumbled into his scaly neck.

"Speak clearly, dear," Keir chided him. "It was not nothing, I assure you. It's not often even I have more than I can handle. There must be some coffee around here somewhere." He reached up to ring the bell for the conductor.

Behind him, Chuck heard a loud noise, like an engine roaring. He sprang up in time to see the rear wall burst open, catapulting Bergold, Morit, Blanda, Kenner, Mrs. Flannel, Master Bolster and approximately seventy small boys and girls into the car. Shrieking as they hit the floor, the children got up and raced about. Where they passed, gilding and light fixtures appeared on the plain wooden walls and a richly-colored pattern wove itself into the carpet. They didn't slow down when they reached the end of the car. Instead, they ran straight through it, the force of their passage tossing the paneling like waves. When the wood settled, it was carved into handsome beading with mahogany wainscoting that ran around the perimeter to waist height. Above, the wall was painted deep teal, and was decorated with gold-framed paintings. The finished car was smaller than their usual compartment, but fewer people were in it, so there was no crowding.

"Bless my soul!" Bergold exclaimed, standing up and brushing off his plump person. Like Persemid, he was dressed as a Mandarin, but with Nordic features and coloration. "I was just having tea with a group of fellow scholars in the caboose, when the winds of change swept me up and dropped me here!"

The conductor appeared at his side and produced a whisk broom, with which he dusted Bergold's shoulders and round black hat. "We regret the alteration, sir. There is no first-class service today between South Yore and North Phantasie, so everyone's seat was temporarily reassigned. Premium service has now resumed in its entirety."

"Is that what happened?" Morit demanded, extracting himself from heaps of crib blankets that blew into the car with him. He threw them forcefully across the room. They fluttered away, adhering themselves to the window frames as damask curtains. "I will demand a portion of my ticket be returned to me. I was assured that our passage would be first class all the way around!"

"I am so sorry, sir," the conductor said, turning to him with a rueful expression. "Some of our equipment fell prey to a nuisance or some other such interference, sir. You may be assured that we will endeavor to make certain that it does not happen again, but things do change."

"Oh, it wasn't so bad," Blanda said. "I like kiddies. They were so energetic! Weren't they, my love?"

Morit growled, as usual. Chuck wondered again how the Nightshades had ever gotten together, when he was so grumpy and she was so nice. Probably no one else would even talk to him.

"When do we reach Phantasie?" Keir asked.

The conductor retrieved his watch from his vest-front pocket. "We arrive in five minutes, sir."

Keir sighed. "No time for coffee." He answered Chuck's puzzled look with a sheepish grin. "I know what I said about the symbolism of food, but some things are hard even for me to do without."

He's human, Chuck thought indulgently, then with a sense of dismay. The faith in the infallability he'd always assumed Keir to possess diminished slightly. At some point he needed to open up to his guide about his problem. But how would he feel if he told Keir the whole story, and he could do nothing? But Bergold was right: Keir was his sponsor in the Dreamland. He ought to know before something went horribly wrong. Chuck had to tell Keir, and soon.

Back | Next
Contents
Framed