Shea chuckled. "You're saying that you're a theoretician, not a fighter?" He glanced over his shoulder at the psychologist and raised an eyebrow. "I already knew that, Reed." Shea looked back down the road. "I can finally make them out. One of them is a knight—and I'd guess the little round fellow riding beside him is his squire."
Chalmers, from behind his rock, asked, "Can you make out the device on the shield? Remember, I'm not unfamiliar with heraldry."
"As clear as day," Shea said. He refused to elucidate.
Chalmers' exasperated snort carried clearly to his fellow psychologist. "Well?"
"There isn't one."
There was long silence from behind the rock. "Suit yourself. Have your amusement at my expense. Get skewered by some strange knight out in the middle of God-only-knows where. I'll make sure I get your body back to Belphebe somehow—if I ever get home again without your help."
Harold Shea climbed up on top of his rock and stood on it. "We look harmless, Doc. A stalwart knight and his loyal squire won't gain any glory by running us through—Halloo!" Shea bellowed, as the pair came into range. He waved vigorously from his perch atop the rock. "Halloo! Over here!"
"I wish you hadn't done that," Chalmers muttered.
The unknown knight stopped and looked at Shea waiting on the rock. Shea watched him turn to his squire and say something—then the knight called out, "Stranger—confess that in the whole world there is no more beauteous creature than the Empress of la Mancha, the glorious Dulcinea del Toboso—or arm yourself and stand against me." The knight couched his lance and waited atop his horse, still as the statue he resembled.
"I'll bet your girl doesn't hold a candle to Belphebe," Shea growled under his breath. "Besides, I bested Sir Hardimore and a pack of loesels with an épée, fella. I can take you on." He rested his hand on the hilt of his saber.
"Harold," Chalmers squeaked from behind his rock.
"He said this world. Belphebe isn't on this world. Be agreeable."
Shea heard the squeak, and took his hand off his saber. Chalmers was right. There was not much point in being difficult, he thought. He did not want to fight. He wanted to get something to eat—and soon. "I confess," he shouted. "—That—" He turned to his associate. "What did he say her name was?"
Chalmers had a funny look on his face. "He said her name was Dulcinea del Toboso. The Empress of la Mancha."
"Yeah? That sounds familiar, doesn't it?" Shea frowned, then called back, "—That the Lady Dulcinea is the fairest lady in this world." He watched the unknown knight return his lance to its carrier and cover it. "I mean," he added to his associate, "that sounds very familiar.
"Then well met," the knight called back. He began to trot down the road toward Shea and Chalmers. "Who acknowledges my lady fair may sup with me."
"The name ought to sound familiar," Chalmers sniffed. "It belonged to Don Quixote's imaginary lady."
"You're right," Shea agreed. "Quite a coincidence that this fellow and Don Quixote should claim the same girl. I wonder if they know."
Chalmers stood up. "Did it occur to you that this knight might be Don Quixote."
Shea looked at him and smiled blandly. "No," he said.
Chalmers started to say something else. But when he came out from behind his rock and saw the approaching knight and squire, the only sound to come out of his mouth was a slightly breathless "Oh!"
The knight who approached was glorious—no— radiant would be a better word, Shea thought. His plate armor shone in the dull yellow light, bright as quicksilver. His helm was golden—perhaps even gold, with outward flaring peaks of some eastern design The knight lifted his faceplate, and Shea thought he had never seen a more regal visage—which was saying something, considering Shea had been keeping company with gods recently. The man looked wise and noble, with thoughtful brown eyes and a majestic expression Shea envied. The knight's steed was purest white, unsullied by the dust that roiled around him, massive and muscled. Even burdened with a knight in a full suit of armor, the beast pranced with spirited grace—Shea thought that no creature so huge or so burdened should have been able to manage that.
The squire's bearing also spoke volumes about the success of his master, the unknown knight. The man was well-fed to the point of roundness and dressed in beautifully embroidered robes in his master's colors. He rode a mare that Shea thought was clearly of Arab descent and extraordinary lineage.
The knight studied the two of them silently for a long moment. "I would have taken you for Moors by your outlander garb," the knight finally said, "but you have not a Moorish countenance. From whence came you, O gallant and courteous strangers?"
Shea noticed that Chalmers was staring at the knight with hypnotized fascination. "Sir Knight, the older man said, "I am Reed Chalmers. My lady, the fair and chaste Florimel, was kidnaped away from me by an evil enchanter, the vile Malambroso. My servant, Harold Shea, and I have sojourned from world to world in the hope of rescuing her. The gods of a distant and incredible land sent us to seek her here— they said Malambroso had brought her hither."
Harold glared at Chalmers. His servant, indeed! However, the older man paid no attention to his associate.
"A sad tale, and worthy of the might and justice of my arm and honor," the knight said. He drew himself even straighter in the saddle and rested his mailed fist on his chest over his heart. "Hear me, Lord in Heaven" he intoned, and his voice took on a ringing, amplified quality that seemed to fill the whole barren plain. "I swear that I will give my aid and my arm to assist in this just came for the glory of my own fair Dulcinea, though it cost me my life, my estates, and even my own good name. Nor will I eat, nor sleep, nor partake of wine or song or other battle until his lady is recovered unto him, for—"
The hair on the back of Harold's neck prickled in recognition. Magic. The knight's oath was magic—a form of binding spell.
The plump squire interrupted. "Good Sir Knight and master, we did offer these gentlemen dinner with us."
The knight halted in mid-speech, and stared at the little round man. "Indeed, we did, good Sancho," he said, and his voice lost its unearthly quality. "Then you must spread a repast for them at once—one worthy of travellers from the outer spheres. I, having given my word, shall not dine." And so saving, the knight dismounted and knelt, still fully armored, in an attitude of prayer. "Attend me, Rosinante," he commanded his horse. Then he fell silent.
The squire, Sancho, set forth a cloth and began removing provender from an apparently bottomless supply bag. Meanwhile, Chalmers edged up to Shea and whispered, "That has to be Don Quixote! His lady is named Dulcinea del Toboso, his squire is Sancho, and his horse is Rosinante."
Shea whispered back, "Doc, Don Quixote was a run-down, flea bitten, moth-eaten old schizophrenic with a glue-factory horse and delusions of grandeur."
"And this knight obviously isn't." Chalmers scowled at his associate. "Even I have noted the disparities, Harold. But perhaps Cervantes got it wrong. Perhaps he bore some grudge against this knight, so that when he wrote his chronicle, he made the knight a laughingstock instead of the hero he obviously is."
Harold Shea sat down on one of the cushions the squire provided and waited until Chalmers took one of the other two. "How could he have gotten it wrong, Doc?" he asked when the psychologist was settled. "Cervantes made the whole thing up."
Chalmers stared at Shea and opened and closed his mouth a few times. His face reddened. Without another word, he began eat.
Shea helped himself to a chunk of black bread and several slabs of hard white cheese, a handful of olives and some grapes. The fat squire brought out several wineskins as well, took a long draught from one, and passed it to Harold.