"No, sir. If they wish to remain, that's fine by me."
Shea lay stretched out in the bathtub. Bayard came in and sat on the toilet lid, saying: "Just been watching Ruggedo in Ozma's picture. We hear from our spies he's telling the gnomes that monarchy is obsolete. So he's proclaimed himself Lifetime President and Founding Father of the Gnomic Republic."
Shea replied: "Like one of those pipsqueak dictators we have in the Third World, eh? What are your plant?"
"The Queen will send us home after you as soon as the party is over. It promises to be a real blowout, with all the famous characters, such as Ozma's father, ex-king Pastoria, hauled in from his elegant tailoring establishment. Boann will play the harp and sing sad songs. Now give me the blow-by-blow.'
Shea narrated his adventures. Bayard said: "Of course we watched you in the magic picture. But it's not wired for sound, and we couldn't watch every minute. When Kaliko's chancellor—that fellow with a name like a drain-cleaning compound—got you with his lunge, we thought you were a goner. What saved you?"
"How do you suppose I got this big purple bruise on my chest? If you look yonder, you'll see a mailshirt of alloy-steel mesh."
"You, wearing armor? You used to brag you never touched the stuff."
"Circumstances alter cases," said Shea. "Do you know a verse by Kipling, called The Married Man or something? It begins—I won't try to imitate the cockney dialect Kipling used—but it goes something like this:
"If you ever get married, you'll find out what Kipling meant. Speaking of which, how's it with you and Miss Ni Colum?"
Bayard pondered. "I suppose I could fare further and do worse. Guess we probably are married in the sight of Crom Cruach, or whomever these bloodthirsty quasi-Celts worship. Good thing you didn't fetch us to Oz in the midst of our quasi-nuptials, might have been downright embarrassing.
"When I explained that she might either be sent back to Eriu or go to America with me, as he liked, she threw a shoe at me and burst into tears. Thought I was trying politely to 'cast her off', as she expressed it. So I guess Boann is Mrs. Bayard henceforth. It gets us all sooner or later, I suppose."
"Your enthusiasm overwhelms me," said Shea, rising from the water. "If you do it right—and I speak from experience—it's the very best thing around. Hand me that big towel, will you?"
-
SIR HAROLD AND THE MONKEY KING
Christopher Stasheff
Harold Shea loved to have friends drop in, but he did like a little warning first, especially if he was going to have to catch them.
He was working late at night in his study, taking a break from his usual toil—that of transcribing interviews with delusional patients into symbolic logic, looking for keys to the universes they were perceiving. For variety, he had started trying to transcribe the Tao Te Ching, The Book of the Way, by the legendary sage Lao Tzu. The book was the foundation of the Chinese religion of Taoism, and Taoist priests had the reputation of being magicians, so Shea was looking for clues to their magical principles—when he heard a sigh behind him.
He glanced up, thinking that perhaps Belphebe had wakened and come out, needing talk the demands of a newborn left her craving adult conversation—but all he saw was an amorphous, translucent white mass writhing in the dark of the study.
His hair tried to stand on end; he froze for an instant, then reached into the desk drawer and touched his dirk. Then he looked over his shoulder, hoping he wouldn't have to trust his safety to its two-hundred year-old design.
The amorphous mass became more and more opaque as it churned, pulling itself into a human form—and Dr. Reed Chalmers stood there, drawn and pale, in a medieval robe.
"Doc!" Shea cried, leaping out of his chair—and virtually caught Chalmers as he sagged. Shea turned, stepped, and lowered him into the desk chair. "Hold on just a minute—I'll get some brandy." He stepped out into the dining room, took a glass and a bottle from the liquor cabinet, poured, and took the snifter back to Chalmers.
Chalmers accepted it with both hands, drinking it off in a single swallow. His color began to return even as he lowered it. "Yes. Much better now. Thank you, Harold."
"Don't mention it," Shea said. "Travel by syllogismobile does have that effect, sometimes." Actually, it never had with him, but it sounded like a good face-saver.
"No, it wasn't really that." Chalmers frowned. "But how did you guess, Harold?"
"Something to do with the medieval robe, probably—and the fact that you didn't bother with the front door. What happened, Doc? Thought you talked us into a ban on inter-universe travel."
"Yes, but that was only for those who already know how. I never thought it would be necessary to tell someone who had never made a journey before."
"Florimel?" Harold stared. "Don't tell me your wife decided to try it on her own!" But his sinking stomach told him the truth; he remembered how Chalmers' wife had seemed relieved to have Reed take a "vacation" to his native universe.
"Well, of course, there was no good reason to deny teaching her how," Chalmers protested. "Unfortunately, she didn't bother learning symbolic logic completely before she tried ..."
"And with only a medieval education to back it up, she wouldn't be able to figure out the right referents anyway!" Shea stared in honor. "My lord, Doc! How can you tell where she went?"
"By this." Chalmers drew a parchment out of his robe. "Apparently she didn't keep too tight a hold on it when she travelled—I found it on the living room floor."
"But that means she doesn't know how to get home, either!" Shea snatched the sheet and frowned down at the symbols. "Nothing I can recognize, Doc—oh, a chain here and there, and a paradox-loop or two, but nothing coherent."
"So I feared," Chalmers sighed. "I tried it myself, but the terrain was so unusual, I thought ..." His voice trailed off.
"That you'd better come back for reinforcements?" Shea nodded and turned away. "Help yourself to the brandy, Doc. I'll just be a few minutes getting into my travelling outfit—and telling Belphebe. "
The travelling outfit was quick and easy—Shea always kept a general, all-purpose tunic and tights handy, along with his sword and quarterstaff—and his revolver, and a wallet filled with hardtack and pemmican. Saving goodbye to Belphebe, though, took a bit longer, especially since he didn't really want to.
He waked her with a feather-light kiss, but she came awake on the instant anyway, like the huntress she was. She smiled up at him with pleasure, then saw his outfit, and her eyes went wide. "Harold! What alarm calls you out?"
A surge of affection moved him, gratitude that she had seen the nature of the situation so quickly, and knew him well enough to know that only an emergency could take him from her and their six-month-old baby. "It's Florimel, dear. She has disappeared, leaving only a sheet full of equations behind."
"Florimel? Attempted the syllogismobile by herself? But Reed must be distraught!"
"Very much so, especially since he just got back from the universe she went to. It was so odd that he decided lie needed somebody to back him up."
"Of course you must!" She caught his hand, knowing his misgivings. "Fear not for the babe and myself—we shall be quite well in your absence. Only return safe and sound!"
"I'll do my best," Shea promised, and took her in his arms for a kiss that was the best pledge he could make.