Said it was a life-and-death matter. I tried to explain that we don't let girls up to fellows' rooms in a well-regulated Y, and she should telephone. She claimed she didn't know how to use a telephone, and one thing led to another, and pretty soon she bunged the inkwell at me, I had to change all my clothes. But, Prosper, what happened to you? How'd you get back—"
"Tell you all about it later." Nash chuckled."Seen Monty around?"
"Oh, yeah, he came down and went into a session with this girl. Then they went out, and he came back. I think he went down to breakfast a little while ago—"
"This late?"
"Sure, today's Saturday. He doesn't go to work. But listen, how'd you get rid of—"
Nash waved his friend to silence, and started to go. He turned back."How do you feel, Bob?"
"All right. Why?"
"Didn't feel as if somebody'd split your skull with an ax?"
"Well—come to think of it, I did have a little stabbing headache a while ago. What's it all—"
"Just this: instead of being so pure in your conduct, and then imagining yourself a ferocious Turk with a harem, you'd better try to be a little more average in both respects. See you later." Nash left a popeyed Bob Lanby and hurried down to the cafeteria.
Montague Stark's eyes met his over the lip of a coffee cup. Stark put the cup down and looked with the same badly concealed aversion that Lanby had shown, until Nash gave him the same reassurance he had given Bob.
"Did it work?" asked Stark at once.
"What, you mean your astral army? I'll say it worked! It's too bad we can't get rid of our own Aryans that easily. That monster your new astral body rode was a humdinger."
"I thought it was pretty cute. After that your lady friend—some girl, by the way—explained what was what, I left her and went up to my room. I got out the old bottle, and just sat and imagined myself a super-duper hero—"
"Where is she?" demanded Nash.
"I put her up in a room at the Imperator, and told her to wait until—"
"Monty, you wouldn't be interested in going up to the astral plane to live? It's a swell place, full of the damnedest incongruities—"
"Me? No, sir! Not on your life! I'll be satisfied to do things like that in my imagination... hey, where are you going? I've got a million questions to ask—"
Nash was on his way, but as he reached the door to the street he changed his mind. He went upstairs, shaved, took a swim and a sun-lamp treatment, and put on his best suit. Thank God there were no more waxed mustache-spikes to come unraveled!
"Wait a minute," said Alicia."You're... not —Prosper Nash himself?"
"That's me. Sorry if I'm not as impressive as I was up there—"
"Just let me get used to you—"
As he told of his adventures since their parting, she warmed to the familiar voice and turn of phrase. Eventually she cut loose in her own tempestuous fashion: hugged him, kissed him, pushed him into a chair and sat on him, mussed his hair, cried over him, and generally behaved like an uninhibited girl who has just learned that her lover is safe from grievous perils.
"We're not through yet, darling," he told her. He glanced toward Solomon's stone, gleaming softly with all the colors from red to violet from the top of the dresser.
When he explained their predicament, she really did break down. Nash tried to stem the flood, awkwardly but as well as he could.
"C-couldn't we send someone else?" she sobbed.
"Monty won't go, and I wouldn't trust anybody else. Also the thing will only take one of us. But I'll tell you what. I don't suppose Tukiphat would mind a little delay, say about twenty-four hours. And there are lots of things we can do in that time—"
It was Sunday noon when Prosper Nash drifted into Monty Stark's cubicle, to find Stark half buried in a blizzard of Sunday newspaper sections.
" 'Lo, Prosper," said Stark."Where's your Alicia? Gone back?"
"Yep."
"Thought so, from that gone look on your face. Why did she have to?"
Nash explained. Stark commiserated with him, but when he tried to pump Nash for astral information, Prosper yawned: "Later, pal. I'm worn out; going back to bed. It's funny, tco, since it wasn't this body that I raised so much hell with."
"Not funny at all, considering what Bechard did with this body while it was his."
"What did he do?"
Stark rolled his eyes up and whistled.
"So you won't talk, eh? Maybe it's just as well I don't know. Have I still got my job?"
"I think so."
Nash grumbled: "Bechard has all the depravity, and all I get is the reputation and the hangover." Then his eye lighted on the curious sight of a wastebasket stuffed full of books, many of them of such venerable appearance as to make such treatment seem sacrilege.
Nash bent over the basket and fingered the books." 'Arbatel', 'The Heptameron, ' 'The Kabbalah'... say, aren't these your books on magic?"
"Yeah. I'm throwing 'em out. After this I'll stick to amateur archaeology for a hobby."
Nash picked up the wastebasket, books and all, and started for the door."If you don't want 'em, I do. Maybe I'll never see Alicia again, but it won't be for not trying!" As he departed, his back straightened and the spring returned to his stride.