"Nice work. Sir Knight," Shea panted. "I didn't think we were going to make it out of that mess.
"Indeed," Don Quixote replied, watching Shea closely, "we nearly did not. I mind me to tell you, Don Geraldo, that those strokes to the back of the caitiff blackguards' knees were unchivalrous, and not meet for a gentleman. Nevertheless, I thank you for your brave assist—unknightly though it was."
Shea managed an exhausted grin. "That's the advantage of not being a knight and a gentleman. There aren't so many rules.
Quixote spared Harold a smile as he wiped the blood from his sword. "You speak nothing but truth, good man," the knight agreed. "And now, to discover by what means and manner these veritable fiends have been ensorcelled into windmills—I suspect that coward Freston had his hand in these doings from the very start. He ever seeks to unmake me." The knight reined Rosinante around, and trotted back the way he had come, head swinging suspiciously from side to side.
Harold Shea prudently kept his mouth shut.
The four travellers lay on the ground, Quixote and his squire on one side of their cookfires and Chalmers and Shea on the other. Sancho Panza snored like an enraged swarm of bees; Quixote, still dressed in full armor, lay flat on the hard ground staring at the stars that wheeled overhead and maintained his silence.
Harold Shea, hardened to outdoor living, still found the rocky plain an incredibly uncomfortable place to sleep. He rolled from side to side, trying to find one position that did not hurt somewhere. Finally, with a gloomy sigh, he gave up. He glanced over at his fellow psychologist and discovered Chalmers engaged in the same futile search for comfort.
"Doc?" he said, keeping his voice low.
Chalmers rolled over to face him. "Hmmm?"
"What went wrong with the magic today? I kept waiting for you to fix the giants, but you never did.'
The expressions that ran across Reed Chalmers' face reflected frustration and bewilderment. "The Laws of Similarity and Contagion don't work here," the older man said.
Shea rolled on his side and propped himself up on one elbow. "They don't work? I thought they were the magical equivalent of the laws of physics." His voice rose in volume.
Chalmers waved a hand to quiet his associate. "I'll remind you that the laws of physics don't exactly work here either. No. I was doing everything I could think of, from blowing on little makeshift cloth sails to drawing pictures of windmills in the dirt over pictures of giants—and nothing happened. When the giants turned back into windmills again, I had nothing to do with it."
Shea said, "Oh, then I think I did that. I got my sword to flame a little, which helped with the giants—"
The small psychologist propped himself up on both elbows and whispered, "You did? I was so busy working on spells to stop the giants I didn't have time to watch you."
"I did. And then I sort of" accidentally turned the giants back into windmills." Shea shrugged. "How?"
Shea glanced over at Sancho Panza and Don Quixote. Quixote hadn't moved; his eyes were still open and fixed at some point in the distant heavens. Panza had rolled over on his side and was not snoring so loudly anymore, but still looked as if he were asleep. Shea scooted closer to Chalmers and confided, "I'm not completely certain, but I think I have the basic-principles of the spells I used worked into a feasible law. Tentatively, I'm thinking of calling it the Law of Heroic Namedropping."
Chalmers gave his associate a disgusted look. "That's a ludicrous name.
Shea grinned, delighted to get a rise out of the stuffy psychologist. "Not really," he insisted. "It fits. The spell is cast by swearing a binding oath while calling on God and one's lady. I'm guessing that the more important people you drag into the oath, the more powerful the spell will he. Sincerely planning on fulfilling the terms of the oath makes a difference, too, I imagine."
Chalmers hissed suddenly and began burrowing in the dirt under his bedroll. "Hah! There you are!" he muttered finally, and came up with a large, irregular rock. "I'll have bruises from that tomorrow." He flung the rock into the darkness and returned his attention to Harold Shea. "All right, if what you say is so. then why wasn't Quixote successful in transforming the giants back into windmills?'
The younger psychologist shook his head. "He never tried, Doc. He was too busy fighting them for the glory of his lady to think about the bigger picture."
"You're saying he could have—that in this world, he is truly an enchanter?"
"That's what I'm saying, but I'm not saying it too loudly."
Harold Shea began to feel the effects of his arduous day. He nestled back into his bedroll, marveling that the ground had somehow grown much softer and smoother. "You saw how he compelled me to tell him what we're doing in this world. Still, I don't think Don Quixote would be too happy imagining himself occupying the same role as his archenemy Freston," he added.
Chalmers harrumphed. "There's a problem with your theory, of course, Harold."
Shea yawned. "Really? What's that?"
Chalmers' voice sounded pedantic, and very far away. "Evil enchanters," he was saying, "aren't too likely to use the name of God in binding oaths to cast spells. That sort of thing could backfire. And Malambroso, if he is here, will be using this world's version of black magic. I believe what we must do is determine how Don Quixote's delusions affect the operation of magic. Perhaps by curing him of his delusions, we can alter the rules of magic, thus rendering Malambroso powerless and—"
Shea, however, never heard the rest. With a gentle snore, he rolled on his back.
Knights liked their mornings early and busy, Shea noted unhappily. He lay inside his bedroll, listening to the activities going on around him. Quixote had already fed and was currently brushing Rosinante and it was not even dawn yet. Chalmers stood next to the knight, handing him things and holding things, all the while talking earnestly. Sancho Panza snored on, oblivious to the activity.
Shea wished he could get back to sleep, but it did not feel likely. The ground had turned to brick during the night. He also wished he had not run out of toothpaste. It was a minor point, really, but waking up after drinking so much wine with his meals the day before— and realizing that nobody in the world had any toothpaste to lend him—made it very hard to face the new day.
He closed his eyes and feigned sleep until he was certain the rocks in the dirt had taken root and started growing beneath him. Then, with a resigned sigh, he heaved himself up and wandered over to see what was available for breakfast.
He found Chalmers and Quixote in the midst of heated argument.
Chalmers glared at the knight and crossed his arms tightly over his chest. "Sir, your name is not Don Quixote. It is Señor Quixiana, or perhaps Señor Quesada—my sources weren't entirely clear on that. But you are not a knight. You are a well-born villager who suffers from delusions—"
"Good sir, it is not I who insists this helmet of mine is a washbasin, when anyone can plainly see it is nothing more nor less than the enchanted helmet of Mambrino, which I won in honorable battle from another knight." Don Quixote put down the last of Rosinante's hooves and straightened up. He towered over the stout psychologist. "It is not I who looks at my fine steed and sees a knock-kneed, sway-backed, thin-tailed nag, and not I who claims the giants his own servant and I fought yesterday were windmills, and never anything but windmills." He stomped over to his saddlebags with his curry-brush and hoofpick, and shoved them angrily inside. "Señor Chalmero, when you go looking for delusions, look first in your own mind."