PROFESSOR HAROLD AND THE TRUSTEES

Part 1 of 2

by

Christopher Stasheff

Copyright © 1992

 

They were meeting in the conference room just off the President's office.  It was a stalwart old room, paneled in walnut and lighted by tall lamps in the corners.  Beneath them were low bookcases and one tall one, filled with leather-bound volumes that looked as though they'd never been opened.  The chairs were upholstered in burgundy plush, and the Trustees were upholstered in pin-striped suits.

"It's rather difficult for me to answer any of your questions, gentlemen,'' Professor Harold Shea temporized.  "I'm only a junior member of the staff."

"Yes, we're aware of that," said Trustee Incise.  He was the lean, ferret-faced publisher of the local newspaper, and wrote editorials that were carried by papers in St. Louis, Chicago, and Cincinnati.

"Since three of the four members of the Institute's professional staff have taken leave of absence, you can understand our concern,'' said Archangle, the Chairman of the Board of Trustees.  He was in his sixties, still affecting a pince-nez with a long black ribbon connecting it to his lapel.  He had bulldog jowls and a few strands of hair arrowing back from the center of his forehead to the grizzled fringe, neatly trimmed, looking very much the banker that he was.

Trustee Windholm rumbled agreement.  He was tall and wide, with pale skin and paler eyes, a wisp of a mouth, and wispy hair.  He rarely spoke, but often made meaningful sounds.

President Athanael pressed on, undeterred.  "Being part of Curling Stone University, the Institute is supposed to serve not only as a mental hospital, but also as a teaching laboratory; we do have graduate students studying the patients as advanced work in psychology.  But the Institute's founders and patrons were also hoping for some fame accruing to the University, through the research efforts of its staff."  He turned to Shea.  "If your colleagues are developing results that will be publishable, Dr. Shea, we would scarcely want to discourage them.  A revolutionary idea in psychology, soundly buttressed by valid data, would definitely enhance the reputation of the college."

"Well, perhaps if it's genuinely earth-shaking," Trustee Lockjaw said impatiently.  He was a square-chinned, hard-eyed lawyer with a Roman nose.

Athanael turned to Shea.  "Precisely what is the nature of the research that has required all three of them to leave campus for the year?"

Shea took a deep breath.  This was going to require some fancy footwork, since the plain truth of the matter was that he and Professor Chalmers had both gone a-wandering to escape the suffocating life of academia, not to augment it—and though Bayard and Polacek had gone off as much out of curiosity as anything else, that curiosity had scarcely been academic.

Anyway, plain truth was not what college trustees wanted to hear.

"We began by studying the logic patterns of Garaden patients," Shea said, "then moved farther afield to engage in other case studies.  We discovered that delusional patients seem to be living half in worlds of their own invention, and half in the world that is real.  Dr. Chalmers, Dr. Bayard, Mr. Polacek, and myself are hoping that, by charting the principles underlying such delusional worlds, we'll be able to find ways to bring the patients into correspondence with the principles of the real world, then into identity with it, thus curing them."

"A fascinating notion, and it does clarify the rather lengthy explanation in your briefing," Archangle harrumphed.  "I can understand why some of you needed to continue the field work—but why send you back?  Why didn't you stay?"

Because I brought back what really mattered—Belphebe.  Shea couldn't say that aloud, of course; instead, he merely shrugged.  "I'm the youngest member with a doctorate."

"And you're sure that there really is a need for further field studies?" Incise snapped.

"Oh, I think that's quite clear."  Turning back to Incise, Athanael said, "I think you can see, though, that if the project is successful, it could produce a revolution in therapy, and redound greatly to the credit of the University."

"Oh, yes, no question about it."  Windholm's rumbling finally turned into words.  "If they can make it work, it might even give us a counter-argument for the notion that movies and radio plays are leading people into fantasy lives."

Shea remembered that Windholm owned three radio stations, and that one of them had started a Western that had become so popular, a national network had picked it up.

"It could offer a valuable yardstick in legal insanity cases," Lockjaw said thoughtfully.

"Then we're agreed."  Archangle didn't sound happy about it.  "We'll let the current situation continue through the spring semester—but by midsummer, Dr. Shea, we really do need to see some preliminary results."

"We should stipulate, however, that the research of Doctors Chalmers and Bayard be published under the Institute's auspices," Lockjaw pointed out, "and frankly, gentlemen, I must question whether Dr. Shea has enough experience to coordinate such a group effort by himself.  No offense intended, of course, Doctor."

"None taken," Shea ground out.

"Yes, there is need for more experienced direction," President Athanael said easily.  "Dr. Shea, we really must insist that you do your best to persuade Dr. Chalmers to oversee the effort, at least in the capacity of a consultant."

"It would also help if you could persuade Dr. Bayard to resume correspondence," Incise advised.

Shea sighed.  "I'll try my best, gentlemen—but it may be very difficult to contact Dr. Chalmers."

"Can't you reach him by telephone?"

"No," Shea said.  "I'm afraid there aren't any, where he's gone.  You might say it's a rather remote location."

 

* * * * *

             

"So that's all I'm supposed to do," he told Belphebe over a pre-dinner martini, in tones of exasperation.  "As though all I had to do were to mail a letter or send a telegram!"

"Naetheless," she said, smiling proudly, "you have triumphed, Harold."

"Triumphed?"  Shea did a double take.  "How do you figure that?"

"Why, because your Institute will continue, and the University will not even insist on hiring new men to replace our friends," Belphebe answered.  "That is what you had said you did dread, is it not?"

"Why yes, now that you mention it," Shea said slowly, with a thoughtful look.  "I did, didn't I?"

"Then surely you have triumphed in averting both catastrophes."  She squeezed his hand, eyes glowing.

Shea squeezed back, with a very fond smile.  "I'm awfully lucky I met you."  She was tall and slim, with red-gold hair trimmed in a long bob.  It went splendidly with the green dress she was wearing, somehow suggesting the forest that was her natural home.  Shea reflected once again on his amazing good luck in finding her, and the unbelievable phenomenon that she had actually fallen in love with him.  "Maybe we can't begin to plan for the future yet, but at least the present is safe—for a little while."

Belphebe frowned.  "Odd words, for a knight-errant."

"This knight-errant has suddenly begun to be more interested in security than in adventure," Shea said sourly, "and his native universe is certainly higher in the former, than any of the others he had visited."

Belphebe smiled, touching his hand, her face glowing.  "Wherefore so huge a transformation?"

"It has something to do with having a wife at home," Shea admitted.  "I tell you, dear, when Archangle hinted that the 'project' might be eliminated, it sent a chill through me.  He implied that the Institute might need an overall replacement of personnel, myself included.  I never would have thought the hint of losing my job would send me into such a panic."

Belphebe frowned.  "That is not good."

"No, because there are always more jobs, right?  But its comfortable here, and Garaden is a good town for..."  He caught himself; child-rearing was a topic they had not discussed.  Much.  "...a good town for a young couple.  I'd just as soon not have to move."

"If you must, we shall," she said simply, with a squeeze of his hand.

"Thanks, sweetheart."  He smiled into the sun-dazzle of her eyes, then frowned.  "But what am I supposed to do about contacting Doc and Walter?"

"Well," she responded quite reasonably, "since you cannot write to them, and cannot call them on this magical far-speaker of yours..."  She gestured to the telephone, "...then you have no recourse but to visit them, and present to them the Board's request."

Shea felt a stab of apprehension.  "No, I don't suppose I have, have I?"

"Oh, be not so troubled!"  Belphebe reached forward to take his hand in both of hers.  "At worst, they'll give you definite answers that you can present to the Board; at best, they might decide to return to visit a while."

Shea smiled back, returning the handclasp, heartened by her support.  "True.  You always see things so clearly."  Then he frowned.  "But there's no telling how long it might take, dear, and I don't like the idea of leaving you for so long."

"Oh, as to the first, once you are arrived in a universe in which magic operates, you can easily cast a spell that will take you to him whom you seek—and as to the last, fear not!  I shall come with you."

Shea stared.  "You...?"

"Of course."  Belphebe rose, smiling, and pulling him up with her.  "Have you forgot wherefrom I came?  Or are you foolish enough to be concerned for my safety?"

"Well, uh, now that you mention it..."

"Foolish man!  Have you forgot my skill with the bow, or who 'twas saved you from the Losels?"  Belphebe gave him a sidelong, roguish glance.  "Nay, if you were to leave me behind, I would be every bit as concerned for you!  Come, Harold, let us sup and sleep, then rise and go!"

So the next morning, Shea made a quick trip back to the Institute, to rifle his colleagues' desks.  Then he came home to find Belphebe dressed in the short-skirted tunic and feathered hat of her home world, with her bow in her hand and quiver on her back.  He dressed in tunic and hose with sword and dagger at his side.  Then he stepped into the middle of the living room, left hand holding the papers filled with the arcane characters of symbolic logic, right reaching out for Belphebe.  Smiling, she came to stand beside him and clasped hands.  He gave her one of the sheets of paper and grinned at her, feeling more lighthearted than he had for months.  "Ready?"

"Ready, Harold!"  She answered his grin with one of her own.  "Sing hey, for ancient Eriu!"

Then, holding each other's hands and reading from the sheets of paper, they began to read, reciting the sorites in unison, over and over, again and again, until the gray mists gathered about them, thickening and swirling until they seemed to be all the world there was, then shredding and dissipating to show them a countryside that was so green as to seem unbelievable.

Shea looked about him and breathed deeply of clean, fresh air.  He felt the weight of patients, students, and administrators roll off his shoulders.  He turned to Belphebe, and saw her looking about her with the same deep breath, then turning to him with sparkling eyes.  " 'Tis not home, Harold—but 'tis a delightful place to sojurn."

"I know what you mean—I wouldn't want to live here either," Harold agreed.

"Nay, sir."  A shadow crossed her face.  "If we should chance to meet that brute Cuchulainn..."

"Not likely."  Shea rummaged in his wallet and brought out a stub of pencil.  "We're just going to meet Walter, then on to the Ariosto's universe." 

Belphebe stared.  "With naught but a bit of lead in wood?  How shall that aid?"

"Because it's something that Walter used very often.  It should have enough of his personality impressed on it to respond according to the Law of Contagion."

"Ah!"  Belphebe's frown vanished.  "Aye, then, chant!"

Harold reached out for her hand again, and held up the pencil stub, concentrating on it as hard as he could and reciting,

 

"Inscriber of letters and numbered sums,

Take us where your owner comes.

Graphite rod and bit of tree,

Take us where he soon will be!"

 

There was a moment's disorientation—the trees seemed to tilt and slew, blurring into a mass of green.  But that mass slowed and separated into trees again....

Trees all around.  Shea looked about him, startled, then turned back to Belphebe, alarmed.  But she was standing right beside him, looking only a trifle green, though she was clinging to his hand even more tightly than when they'd left.  " 'Twas... odd, Harold."

"Yes, it certainly was," Harold agreed.  "We must not have had to travel terribly far—but far enough so that we definitely noticed the discontinuity."  He looked about him again.  "Forest, huh?"

" 'Tis most indeed like to home."  Belphebe brightened at the sight of her native habitat.  "Trees, wood, no doubt creatures great and small...."

"But no Walter."

"Aye, there is that."  Belphebe frowned.

Shea sighed.  "What did I do wrong this time?"

"Naught, I should think."  Belphebe eyed the shadows with a hunter's accustomed wariness.  "You told the pencil stub to take us where he comes, so if we are not by him, we should surely see him."

"Or will!"  Shea slapped his forehead.  "I got the words in that last line out of order!  I meant to say, 'Take us soon where he will be,' but instead I said, 'Take us where he soon will be!'  I shouldn't have used the future tense!  I should have paid more attention to my teacher in grammar school!"

Belphebe looked up, startled.  "Could that be why magic is termed 'gramarye'?"

"What?"  Shea stared at her, taken aback, then recovered, shaking his head.  "No, no, can't be!  Must be a false cognate, just a common linguistic root, maybe, a..."

Shouting broke out around a bend in the trail, out of sight, underscored by the ring of steel.

Shea and Belphebe stared at one another for a moment, startled.  Then Belphebe cried, "Walter!" and they both turned and ran.

They skidded around the curve and saw half a dozen scruffy men in patched tunics, flailing with rusty swords at a prosperous-looking group.  Shea whipped out his own blade, and Belphebe stepped back to string her bow, then dropped to one knee, nocking an arrow and waiting for a clear shot.

Harold did not help; he grabbed the nearest roughneck by the shoulder, yanked hard, spinning him around—and blocking him from Belphebe's view.  The man roared with anger and swung down with a huge axe.  Shea skipped back, then lunged, stabbing in.  His blade scored an arm, and the man dropped his axe, clutching at the wound and howling.  But he managed to stumble forward, barreling into Shea and knocking him down.  His stench almost paralyzed Shea, but he forced himself to move, heaving the man away.  The scruffneck rolled up to his knees, drawing a rude-looking dagger, but Shea was in too much of a hurry to oblige.  He slapped with the flat of the blade, and the grubby one howled, the dagger spinning from his fingers.  Shea shoved him aside and clambered to his feet, looking about for the next victim—just in time to see an arrow sprout from the buttock of another robber.  The man howled and leaped back, hand clapped to his posterior, hopping away.  Shea cast an anxious glance at Belphebe, saw she had another arrow nocked, and turned back to the melee....

Just in time to see a huge flower of flame explode all about the travelers.  The remaining bandits howled, tumbling away, their clothes smoking—but they could not have been hurt too badly, because they scrambled to their feet and took off running toward the forest.  Shea's victim went staggering after them, still holding a bleeding forearm, and Belphebe's target came hopping after, bellowing in pain.

Belphebe leaped to her feet, but a mellow voice called, "Let them go.  They are but bullies, and will not trouble us again."

Shea looked back, startled by the authority in the tone, and saw a tall, white-haired man in a long robe, with two younger men beside him, similarly clad.

And one of them looked familiar—big, brunet, and calming into his usual sleepy-looking state—though Shea was not used to seeing him with a beard.

"Hello, Harold," Bayard said.  "Thank you for your assistance."

It turned out he had not really needed it, of course—all three of the travelers were druids.  The bandits had known they had to cripple them instantly, before they could cast a defensive spell, or they were done for.

"They were fools to try it, of course," Bayard said as they marched along, the other two druids in front.  "Bora and I held them off long enough for Ordrain to work up a spell—though you two certainly helped."

But had not really been necessary, Shea thought wryly.  "So you've decided to take up magic as a profession?"

"I am considering it quite seriously," Bayard said.  "The life can be quite rewarding, in a universe in which magic really works."

"But are not the druids also priests?" Belphebe asked.

"That is the rub," Bayard admitted.  He glanced at his companions ahead, and lowered his voice.  "As you know, I have never been terribly religious, and I find myself unable to take a pagan mythos seriously, as anything more than literature."

"But in this universe," Shea objected, "the Celtic gods could be quite real."

Bayard cleared his throat and said, "Yes, there is that possibility—in which case, I am even less eager to put myself in a position that would attract their attention.  I am well aware, of course, that none of them could be a true deity—only a sort of superbeing, brought into existence by collective belief, or a Jungian archetype, expressing racial memory...."

"But for all practical purposes," Shea said, "they could have the same effects."

"Yes, there is that," Bayard said, "so you can see that I have a bit more thinking to do before I declare my profession."

"But you have a profession," Shea reminded him.  "You're a psychologist, and a professor."

Bayard gazed off into space, reminiscing.  "Ah, yes!  The fascinating speculations of Freud and Jung, as useful here as they were there!  The ivy-covered towers, the scent of chalk on a warm summer's afternoon, the rows of bored faces yearning to be anywhere but in my classroom, the academic infighting, the tormented patients pouring out their agonies into my ear...."  He shuddered, coming back to the here and now.  "No, now that you remind me of it, this world does have its advantages.  It is rough and brutal, of course, and certainly has few enough amenities—wouldn't I love a few days with indoor plumbing!  But all its detractions aside, it is still a far more enjoyable milieu for me.  Not for you, apparently, Harold...." 

"Oh, I enjoy the visits well enough," Shea said.  "It's just that after a while it gets to be... well, boring."

"Boring?"  Bayard turned to him in surprise.  "I could think of many disadvantages to ancient Eriu, but boredom is certainly not one of them!  With bandits likely to lurk behind every bend in the road, clan fights every year, spells to learn, women to..."  He broke off into a cough, glancing uneasily at Belphebe.  She just smiled, looking interested.

"Yes, well, everything considered," Bayard said, "I would not term it 'boring.' "

"Ask one of the peasants," Shea countered, "the ones for whom those battles you spoke of are about the only variation in the routine."

"Well, no," Bayard said judiciously.  "They have seasonal festivals, and there are fairs... but by and large, yes, I'd have to agree that their lives are monotonous and grinding.  You, however, are not of their class."

"No, but I'm one of those crazy idealists who feels he has to be doing something to help other people—and I don't think I have to tell you what the noblemen here would think of it, if I tried to help the peasants too much.  At least, back in Ohio, they're more than glad to let me help everybody I'm fool enough to pity."

"Then praise folly," Belphebe said, slipping her hand into his and squeezing it.

"Yes, I see your point," Bayard conceded.  "Felt that way myself not too long ago, until I began to realize that there were few enough who really improved, and I was gaining very little for myself."

"But you were associate professor," Shea objected, "earning a good salary—and you could probably be full professor in a few years."

"Yes?  And then what?" Bayard asked with feigned interest.

"Well... then you... could become director," Shea said.  "Maybe even president of the University."

"All very pleasant, except that I dislike the drudgery of administration," Bayard said.  "Therefore I would reach the pinnacle of my career, with no place further to go, by the time I was forty.  After that, financial increases would be few and small, and there would be very little accretion of status."

"There's always more to learn," Shea objected.

"True, but there's a great deal to learn here, and as a druid, I would be already in the top ranks of Irish society.  The more I learn, the greater my status would become—and my wealth with it; the druids find no special virtue in poverty.  No, Harold, I am delighted to see you again, and the company of your lady is always a joy...."  He gave Belphebe his most charming smile.  She returned it, amused, and Bayard sighed, shaking his head.  "Yes, your company is quite pleasant, but I am afraid I should not feel the same way about Ohio.  I have been studying Irish magic, of course, and am quite excited about the spells I have been learning, but even more, with the natural laws that underlie them."

"I didn't know you were interested in physics," Shea murmured.

"Oh, but that is the joy of it!  In this universe, physics and psychology are so thoroughly intertwined that it is virtually impossible to study the one without the other!  Why, their heroes are virtual Ur-figures, and half their spells are rooted in inherited responses to symbols!  No, Harold, I find the study fascinating, even compelling, and the developments in contemporary psychology definitely pall in comparison.  The movement toward attempting to analyze human behavior with statistics strikes me as particularly exasperating, with its underlying implication that the norm is the only valid standard of human behavior.  Really, there is very little intellectual stimulation remaining to me in Ohio, but a great deal of it here!"

"This may start boring you some day, too, Walter," Shea cautioned.

Bayard shrugged.  "If it does, I can always visit Ohio, and if that does not reawaken my appreciation of Eriu, I am certain that a trip to New York will."

"But you won't have a job there," Shea pointed out.  "If you don't come back from your leave of absence on time, you won't be given tenure.  In fact, you'll be unemployed." 

Bayard looked up with interest.  "I wasn't aware that I'd put in for leave of absence."

"Oh, yes," Shea assured him.  "It was a sudden, last-minute thing, but you did send me a note telling me that you wouldn't be able to teach this fall, because your research had reached a very crucial stage."

Bayard laughed.  "Well, that's true enough.  Very resourceful of you, Harold.  But really, I've no desire to return to my position at the Garaden Institute."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Shea said, "but if you're sure, could you give me a letter of resignation, so that I can hire another full-time professor?"

"Yes, certainly!  Really quite thoughtless of me; I had not considered it.  How have you stalled President Athanael into keeping my position open even this long?"

"By concocting a research project that we're all involved in," Shea explained, "you, Chalmers, Polacek, and myself."

"Indeed!"  Bayard smiled.  "And may I know what study it is in which I'm engaged?"

"The application of symbolic logic to the analysis of delusional universes," Shea said, "with the end goal of discovering ways to reconcile delusional universes with the real one."

"Meaning twentieth-century Ohio, of course."  Nonetheless, Bayard nodded, interested.  "You did not even have to lie—only slanted the issue a bit.  Excellent, Harold!  In fact, the study may even yield positive results.  Very well, then, I'll proceed to analyze this fantasy universe to the best of my ability.  I am afraid it will be rather difficult to apprise you of my results, though."

"Once a year would be enough," Shea said.  "An end-of-the-year summary, as it were."

"Well, yes, I believe I could manage that—visit Ohio for a few days, once a year.  Perhaps I might even work out a way of sending the report in without me...."  Bayard gazed off into space again, then gave himself a shake.  "No, we'll deal with that issue at a later time.  So, then, once a year it will be."

"Thanks a lot, Walter," Shea said fervently.  "It will help me a lot.  I'll tell you what, though—for the first year-end, I'll come visit you, okay?"

"That would be convenient," Bayard conceded, "and in return for the favor, I shall make a copy of my notes to date, detailing the magical system of Eriu."

"Not much written yet, eh?"

But there was—fifty pages of cryptic, telegraphic statements that took three hours of explanation.  Bayard had the time, though, sitting by the campfire and chatting with Shea and Belphebe until almost midnight.  He had not said that he would copy the notes—he had said that he would make a copy, and he did: by magic.

They parted company the next morning, as dawn was lightening the forest.  Shea and Belphebe stood by the campfire, shaking Bayard's hand; his fellow druids waited impatiently at the edge of the clearing.

"Do not forget to drop by at the end of the year,'' Bayard admonished.

"Oh, you can be sure I will," Shea assured him.

"I shall look forward to it.  And, Harold..."  A trace of anxiety crossed Bayard's face.  "...if New Year's Day passes some year, and I do not arrive... look in on me again, will you?"

"You're afraid of something?"  Shea tensed.  "Enemies already?"

"Oh no, nothing like that," Bayard said quickly.  "Well... perhaps a jealous husband or two.  But nothing beyond my capabilities.  No, it is merely that I suspect that I may tire of this universe someday, but will have become so accustomed to it that I may lack the will to leave it.  It is, after all, a very pleasant milieu for me, so I may require assistance in summoning the resolution to leave."

"I'll make sure to check," Shea assured him.

"I should appreciate it."  Bayard clapped him on the shoulder with a nostalgic smile.  "So good to have seen you again, old friend!  And you, my dear."  He stole a quick kiss, then turned away before Belphebe could do anything more than look amazed.  He strode quickly over to his companions, then away down the path.  But he turned just before they went in under the leaves, to wave; then he was gone.

"Well, it was good to see him again," Shea sighed.  "Never thought I'd say that, but it was.  Ready to go, dear?"

"Yea, assuredly, Harold."  But Belphebe was gazing off after Bayard with a very thoughtful look.  "Those spells he explained last night, and the principles beneath them..."

"Let's not try them just now," Shea said quickly.  "After all, we still need to catch up with Doc and Florimel."  He caught her hand, taking out his copy of the sorites.  "Ready, dear?"

"Um?  Oh, certainly!"  Belphebe took out her own copy.  Together, they began to recite the sorites for the universe of the Orlando Furioso.  The world seemed to dim about them as their concentration deepened—but no, it wasn't an optical illusion, the world really was dimming, its colors swirling and fading into mist and smoke, gray nebulosity that thinned and stabilized and blew away, to reveal a hillside covered with heather and wildflowers.

Belphebe gasped and leaned against him.  Shea clasped her to him, holding her upright, though he was leaning as much on her as she on him.  Finally, they caught their breath and looked about them.

"There's no assurance that we've come to the right universe,'' Shea cautioned.

"Oh, but there is."  Belphebe looked about her with sparkling eyes, breathing deeply of the scented air.  " 'Tis within me.  This is very similar to mine own world, Harold, that gave me birth and nurtured me.  'Tis not quite mine own place, but nearly."

Harold stared, then looked away, wondering why he did not feel that way about Ohio.

"Enough!"  Belphebe turned to catch both his hands, her eyes bright, vitality fully restored.  "How shall we seek out Reed?"

"The usual way, I suppose."  Shea reached into his wallet and took out a small black notebook.  "I rifled his desk, too."

This time he was a little more careful with the spell.

Chalmers was just coming out the door to breathe in the scents of the new day when a flicker of movement caught his eye.  He turned, and his jaw dropped.  "Harold!"  He stood frozen for about a second, long enough for Shea to derive a great deal of satisfaction from seeing his former boss staring at him in total amazement.  However, there was no small amount of amazement on his own side—Dr. Reed Chalmers' rejuvenation spells had worked very well.  His bushy hair was glossy black and covered his whole head, showing not the slightest trace of gray, and the only lines on his face showed when he smiled.

Then Reed recovered and hurried over to them, seizing his hand and pumping it.  "My dear fellow, so good to see you!  And Belphebe, how charming!  How wonderful, how wonderful!"   He released her hand and turned back toward the house, a hand on each one, ushering them inside.  "Florimel will be delighted—we have so little company these days.  The disadvantage of being a magician, you see—very few wish to take a chance on your friendship; only neighbors, and they are few, here in the forest.  Oh, this is a genuine delight!"

"I regret that we could not inform you of our coming," Belphebe apologized.

"Of course not, my dear!  Why, I haven't even perfected the spell for projecting objects into another universe, myself!  No, how could you have sent word?  Florimel will be so pleased!"

She was.

Unlike Reed, she did not seem to feel there was any shortage of social life.  "In truth," she confided to Belphebe, "I am quite relieved to be free of the incessant maneuvering for favor of the Court, and the constant seeking to discover whom one could snub, and upon whom one must needs fawn."

Belphebe smiled.  "I could not agree more.  I have ever preferred the solitude and directness of the forest to the intrigues and deceptions of the castle."

"Sounds as though a quiet cottage in the forest would be very welcome indeed," Shea commented.

"Another glass?"  Chalmers held up a flask of ruby liquid.

They were sitting in hourglass chairs, sipping wine and nibbling little cakes, in Florimel's solar—a spacious, high-ceilinged room with tall clerestory windows facing the morning sun.  The walls were hung with tapestries, and a rich Oriental carpet covered the floor.

"I thank you, but I've scarcely tasted the first," Belphebe said, dimpling prettily.

"I'm still nursing mine."  Shea looked around at the decor.  "You've done very well for yourselves, Doc."

"Why, thank you."  Chalmers nodded, looking around.  "My experiments have been progressing quite nicely."

"Experiments?"  Shea swung back to him, staring.  "You mean you made all this?"

"Oh no, certainly not!  But furnishings like these are not available for purchase this far into the interior of France, quite yet; I have had to work out spells for transporting myself to Flanders, for the tapestries, and to Persia, for the carpets."  Chalmers frowned.  "Though the inhabitants are quite insistent that I not call them 'Persians'; apparently, their ancestors drove out the people of Xerxes long ago, and they were the only ones who could properly be referred to by the name...."

Shea saw a need to steer the conversation back onto the tracks.  "But once you were there, what did you pay with?"

"Oh, money is no problem," Chalmers assured him.  "I mastered the spell for transforming pebbles into gems very early in my sojourn here, though lead into gold still eludes me...."

"Probably be radioactive if you could bring it off," Shea agreed.  "It's about those experiments that I wanted to talk to you, Doc."

"Surely you can have no need for them in Ohio!  ...You are still living in Ohio, are you not?"

"Yes, and I'm the only full-time psychologist at the Garaden Institute—which means I'm also half of the teaching staff in psychology."

"Really!"  Chalmers frowned.  "I hadn't realized I was leaving you in quite so hard a bind."

" 'Fraid so, and I can't even hire new people unless Polacek and Bayard resign."

"Not to mention myself," Chalmers said, with chagrin.  "As to Bayard, of course, I can't say—but in reference to Polacek, I have only the most irresponsible conduct to report."

"What else could we expect, from Polacek?" Shea asked.  "The exuberant enthusiasms of youth and all that, Doc.  What's he been doing?"

Chalmers sighed.  "He has gone off with a peasant wench, and only contacts me every few months, so I cannot say where he is just at the moment.  I am always aware of where he has been, though—I have only to listen for rumors of bizarre happenings."

"So the Rubber Czech is still bouncing, eh?"  Shea smiled.  "And if I know him, he's working magic with the delight and abandon of a kid with a new toy."

"Yes, and with no greater sense of responsibility," Chalmers said, disapproving.  "If he restricted his efforts to established spells, there really would not be terribly much of a problem.  But..."

"He insists on doing research, huh?"  Shea shook his head.  "Poor Votsy!  Has he managed to conjure up a demon that carried him off, yet?"

"No, but I have heard reports of a dragon with a rather large pair of jaws.  Apparently Polacek acquired an excellent opportunity to study reptilian anatomy from the inside.  Piecing together reports, I gather that he managed to project himself outside the beast in the nick of time, then banish it back to whatever realm it had come from."  Chalmers shook his head.  "I fear that magic, Polacek, and the spirit of free inquiry, are a very volatile combination."

"A recipe for disaster," Shea agreed.

"Yes, though so far, he has not quite managed to follow the recipe accurately, thank Heaven," Chalmers sighed.  "I have urged Polacek to restrict his studies to the investigation of theory, and to refrain from experiments unless he is in my company, but from the tales I hear of very singular events, I do not believe he has paid much heed to my exhortations."

"It is really quite foolish of him," Florimel said indignantly.  "Can he not see that you are the senior magician?"

"I'm afraid Votsy never did pay too much attention to seniority and respect for experience," Shea sighed.  "Well, I think I can forget about his coming back, anyway."  He said it with a certain amount of relief.

"I can understand his point of view on that matter, at least," Chalmers said.  "There is no real chance of my wishing to return to Ohio for any considerable amount of time, Harold, so I shall surely write you a letter of resignation."

"Uh, let's not be hasty, Doc."  Shea held up a palm.  "There's another dimension to the problem.  Besides, I already checked in with Walter."

"Really!  And how is he getting on?"

"Just fine.  He's studying Celtic magic, and thinking of becoming a druid."

"Oh, my."  Chalmers sat back down.  "How odd a course, for a man who did not take religion sufficiently seriously to even become a confirmed agnostic."

"That's why he's still considering.  But he did give me a letter of resignation—and a promise of year-end reports."

"Year-end reports?"  Chalmers frowned.  "Whatever for?"

"Well, I had to come up with some excuse for all three of you being gone."  Shea took a deep breath.  "So I concocted a research project that we're all engaged in, and promised Athanael that it might yield publishable results."

Chalmers only smiled, amused.  "Ingenious!  And not far from the truth, though we would scarcely dare publish the matters we are truly researching.  What aspect of it have you said you could make public?"

"The relationship of alternate universes to reality.  You remember, that's how you first got the idea for the syllogismobile—by realizing that some of our delusional patients were living only half in our own universe, and half in some other one that had an entirely different logic, and a different set of natural laws."

"Yes, of course I remember."  Chalmers frowned.  "Surely you don't think you could make the profession take the idea seriously?"  But before Shea could answer, his eyes widened.  "Of course!  If the patient's delusional universe can be described in symbolic logic, you can work out intermediate steps to gradually bring his personal universe back into coincidence with the real one!...  Well, real in terms of twentieth-century Ohio."

Shea's heart sank.  "Pardon me for feeling dumb."

"Eh?  Oh no, my boy, quite the opposite!  You saw it much sooner than I did, and without the slightest hint from anyone else, such as the push you just gave me!  What a stroke of genius, to create a polite fiction that will allow our colleagues to treat the whole matter as though it were not real at all, but still make use of the concept!  Really, Harold, a master-stroke!"

Shea smiled, pleased, reflecting that this universe was having a wonderful mellowing effect on Chalmers; back in Ohio, he never would have been so fulsome in his praise.  This universe, or Florimel.

"But I take it that the project would require my more or less active participation?"

"Well, yes."  Shea glanced at him uneasily.  "Fact is, the Board of Trustees isn't too happy about having a mere assistant professor in charge of the project, and one who hasn't even published his first article, at that."

Chalmers stared.  "They're not thinking of bringing in a new man to coordinate it!"

"They're definitely thinking of bringing in a new man—but we might be able to keep him away from the project, if we can convince Athanael that you're officially coordinating it.  In a consultant's capacity, of course, not back in Ohio physically.  At least, not full time."

Chalmers smiled.  "Harold, is this a delicate way of asking me to pay a small visit to my erstwhile precincts?''

Shea heaved a sigh that ended in a grin.  "That's right, Doc.  I'm putting the touch on you.  Just for a week or so, until we have the project set up formally, to the satisfaction of the Trustees.  Then we can hire new psychologists without cutting them in on the project."

"Because to be included, they would have to ask me, and I shall unfortunately be unavailable."  Chalmers nodded.  "Yes, I believe that will work—and certainly I should have no objection to a brief visit to my former home.  It should be pleasant for variety, if for nothing else—if you would not find that objectionable, my dear?"

"Of course not, my husband."  Florimel smiled, amused.  "Though by your leave, I shall remain while you journey."

"Are you sure?"  Chalmers was instantly concerned.  "It will be quite lonely here, by yourself."

"We do have neighbors," she reminded him gently.  "I shall dine with them twice a week, instead of once.  And fear not for my safety, for you have warded this house well with puissant spells, as you know."

"That is true, yes."  Chalmers frowned.  "But I had rather looked forward to showing you the admittedly prosaic sights of my homeland.  Are you certain my absence will not pain you?"

"I shall miss you sorely," Florimel assured him, "though not so sorely as to bar your leaving.  Yet 'twill be sorely enough to give me great joy at your homecoming, I warrant you."

Chalmers' eyes glinted at the suggestion of a joyful reunion.  "Ah, but to return, I must first depart, eh?  Well enough, my sweet!  I shall leave you—but not for long."

Belphebe was hiding a smile, Shea realized—no doubt in admiration of Florimel's adroit handling of the situation.  Shea gave her a hundred points for tact, himself.  In fact, he thought she seemed almost relieved, and Shea found himself wondering if married people did benefit from occasional vacations from one another.  He wasn't particularly anxious to find out personally, but he found the thought reassuring, just in case.

"Before you depart, though," Florimel reminded Chalmers, "there is a matter that really must be resolved."

"Hmm, yes."  Chalmers frowned.  "We have had a bit of an upset recently, Harold."

"An upset?  What kind?"  Shea saw a cloud on the horizon of his hopes.

"Just a niggling little matter," Chalmers said, "but one with which I should appreciate your help."

"Help?  Sure!"  Shea knew it was illogical, but he felt a glow of pride that Reed had asked him.  "What is it?  An evil baron?  A flock of bandits?  A plague of bats?"

"No," Chalmers said.  "A hydra."

 

TO BE CONTINUED…