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11

AGAIN JULIAN SMEDLEY HAD DISPOSED OF HIS SLEEPING TABLET. AGAIN he struggled to push his feet into laced shoes. This time he had pulled his greatcoat on over his civvies—no old campaigner ever forgot his greatcoat. He had noted where Rattray had put his blues. Rattray was roughly Exeter's height, although much broader. With a stolen bundle under his maimed arm, Smedley stole out into the dim, hushed corridor.

The fire alarm was right beside the bathroom door—a real spot of luck, because he was going to provoke a very fast reaction, and he did not want to be caught in the act. He paused for a moment, heart pounding, wondering for the thousandth time if there was any horrible miscalculation in his plan. Suppose nothing at all happened?

Over the top! he thought, and pulled the lever. Noise roared through the silent mansion, louder than the guns opening up at the start of a major battle. He turned the door handle the wrong way and began to panic; he almost fell into the bathroom—should have opened the door first, of course—he counted to ten and then emerged again. Other men were coming out of other doors, nurses flitting like moths already, lights dazzling bright.

He had expected to be first down the stairs, but several men were ahead of him, staggering in the way of the newly awakened. They might be cursing, but the clamor of the bells drowned out all sound. More were already streaming out into the chilly night, some on crutches, some helping the disabled. Like him, many had thought to pull on their greatcoats. Then he was outside on the lawn.

His first error! He had expected darkness, but light was streaming from every window—so much for regulations! The sky was almost cloudless and a gibbous moon had etched the grounds into a silver lithograph. His companions had stopped to take stock, muttering angrily. He pushed past and kept on going, around the west wing and the big greenhouse, past the sheds, across the rose garden, and through a narrow arch into the yard.

Second error! The yard was already full of men, and more were pouring out the kitchen door. He should have foreseen that! And the light would make it impossible to climb the wall unobserved. Oh . . . heck. Keep calm! It could be done yet. All it needed was a cool head.

Some meddling officer began shouting, ordering everyone out to the garden. The yard was too close to the house.

Splendid! Smedley backed away and then stood against the wall near the arch, watching the faces coming by him—pale blurs, but he could imagine the angry, unshaven faces, the tousled hair. Cold, shivering men in pajamas. If they knew who had ruined their sleep, they would lynch him. And indoors, the bedridden, the crippled, the crazy . . .

Where was Exeter? Could he have vaulted that wall and gone on ahead? Not without raising a hue and cry, surely? Had he been rounded up by a guard? If Stringer had reported that the malingerer was preparing to break out, then anything was possible.

Then one of the taller ones . . .

"Exe—er, Edward!"

Exeter parted from the mob and grabbed Smedley's shoulder.

"Where to?"

"This way."

They moved along the side of the wall, and Smedley plunged into bushes. He heard crackling behind him. A voice shouted, "I say!" in the background. He kept on going. Twigs scratched and clawed at his face, tugged his clothing. There were no more shouts.

The shrubbery offered no foothold, only obstruction. Then it ended. Ahead was a lawn, and there were men on it, although none near the wall. They would all be looking toward the house, wouldn't they? Not staring out into the night?

"This'll have to do!" He panted. "There's glass on top here. Can you manage?" He thrust Rattray's uniform at his companion.

Exeter eyed the height. "I think so. Thanks, old son! You've been a real brick. Never forget this." He chose a spot clear of branches and swung the garments up to cover the glass.

"Wait! I'm coming too."

Exeter turned to stare at him. "Why?"

"I just am. Don't waste time arguing. I'll need a hand."

Funny ha-ha.

"Don't be an idiot! There's nothing to connect you with this. Don't stuff your neck in a noose!"

"I want to come!"

Exeter put his fists on his hips. "What are you planning?"

"Nextdoor. You're going back, aren't you? Take me!"

"No, I'm not going back! I don't know that I could, even if I wanted to. I don't know how to get in touch with Head Office. I'm not sure that you can cross over with only one hand. No. You stay here."

They were wasting precious seconds! This was madness.

"Exeter!" Smedley heard his voice crack. He felt his face starting to twitch. "Please!"

"Look here, there's no need to implicate yourself! I'll get in touch with you later. Your people still in Chichester? That's where you're going?"

"The coppers!" Smedley said, choking. "They'll watch me!" He was sobbing already. Must he beg, too? Must he explain that if they locked him up he would go out of his mind? "Please, Exeter! They'll question me. I'll give the others away! Ginger Jones! For God's sake—"

"Oh, right-oh!" Exeter stooped and cupped his hands.

Smedley placed a foot and jumped. He got his arms over the wall and heard glass crack, felt pain. He swung a leg up, banged his stump, scrabbled, and tipped over. Fire tore at his leg as it dragged over the coping. He fell bodily onto the grass verge. Impact knocked all the breath out of him. God almighty!

He hurt. He felt sick.

Exeter came down with a curse and hauled Smedley to his feet. Then he tried to pull the uniform loose from the wall. There was a loud ripping noise.

"That's torn it! Leave it. Come on!"

They began to run along the lane, through blackness under tree branches. Smedley could feel hot blood on his ankle. He lurched and stumbled; Exeter steadied him as they ran. The road was muddy and uneven.

"We're going to look like a pair of real ninnies if the car isn't there," Exeter said.

Smedley tried to explain about the concealed driveway, but he lacked breath. He should have remembered the glass on the wall sooner and brought his own blues as well as Rattray's. Or another greatcoat. Exeter in pajamas would have a deuce of a lot of explaining to do if they ran into anyone.

Twin orange moons dawned ahead of them, reflecting on puddles, shedding uncertain light on the hedges.

"Someone's coming!" Exeter said. "Into the ditch!"

"No! Be . . . Ginger . . . " He'd have seen the lights going on in Staffles.

"Too big for the chariot!"

Smedley made a gasping sound of disagreement. The car went spraying by them and stopped. A door flew open, and Alice's voice yelled, "Edward!"

 

He should have had the wit to go in the front, beside Ginger. The back was roomy enough, but the other two fell into the car and each other's arms and on top of him, all at the same time. Even before the door slammed, he was in a scrum.

By the time he had escaped to the fringes, the big car had swept past Staffles and was hurtling recklessly along the dark lane. He sank back with a shivery feeling of release. Done it! They had done it! Exeter was bubbling his thanks to Alice and Ginger. The old man was managing the driving very well. All they needed now was a burst tire.

Miss Prescott took Smedley's face in both hands and kissed him as if she really meant it.

"Well done!" she said, sounding quite emotional.

"My pleasure, ma'am. I should warn you . . . "

"What?"

"Nothing."

He was bleeding like a pig all over her fancy automobile. But there was no light, so it would have to wait. It would stop soon.

"Yes, well done," Exeter said from the far side. "Anyone mind if I wrap up in this rug?" His teeth rattled.

Alice squeaked in a motherly fashion and helped him. Smedley thought about offering his greatcoat, but that seemed like a lot of effort.

Ginger roared, "Crossroads! Which way?"

"Left," Smedley said, and they rushed through the village.

"Lights?" Exeter asked, peering back. "What's wrong with the street-lights?"

"Blackout," Alice said. "The lamps're painted so they just throw light downward . . . German planes."

There was a moment's silence, then he said incredulously, "They drop bombs?"

"On London, yes. They used to use zepps—zeppelins. Airships. We started shooting those down, so now they use aeroplanes. Big jobbies, with four or five engines."

"But bombs? On civilians? Women and children?"

"Indeed they do. Now you tell me exactly where you've been these last three years, baby Cousin, because I'm—"

"No! First you tell me all about this war!"

"You don't—You really have been away? You don't know?"

"I don't know a thing except what I've overheard when I wasn't supposed to be listening. I saw a bit of a battlefield. I thought I'd died and gone to hell. It's still going on, after three years? I'd never imagined it would be like that!"

"Nobody did! It turned out much worse than anyone ever thought it would be."

Smedley was trying to remember the way in case Ginger needed guidance. He stopped listening as Alice talked about the war—planes and U-boats and trenches, the Tsar deposed and the Yanks coming someday. He fingered his leg and discovered his pants leg and sock were soaked. He had gashed his calf in two places. It was sticky, but he thought the bleeding had more or less stopped. It throbbed nastily. It was his right one, unfortunately, hard for him to reach.

A lorry rumbled by in the opposite direction, and he realized that they were on a main road now. If it didn't go to Canterbury, it would go somewhere. Every mile made their escape more likely, as long as they didn't end up at Dover. He was shivering with reaction.

"Speak up!" Ginger shouted over his shoulder.

"Sorry," Exeter said. He had started to tell his story. "I've been in another world. Can you believe that?"

"We'll try," Alice said. "How did you get out of the hospital in Greyfriars?"

"I had supernatural aid. Call him Mr. Goodfellow. I don't know his real name. Perhaps he doesn't, any more."

"He made you invisible? No one saw you."

"I didn't see them. I just walked out, on crutches. Then we were met by a man named Creighton. Colonel Julius Creighton. Said he dropped in at Nyagatha once. Remember him?"

"Can't say I do."

"Average height . . . Doesn't matter. He was Service. And so was the guv'nor."

It was strange to hear that old familiar voice, would know it anywhere. Those dry, quiet tones in the dark, bringing back memories, bushels of memories.

"No, not the Colonial Office. This is another Service altogether. There's two Services, really. The one on this world we call Head Office, but it's not really in charge of the Service on Nextdoor. They're more just allies, sort of in cahoots. Service and Head Office are the goodies. There are also baddies, which on Nextdoor are the Chamber and here are the Blighters. I don't know very much about them here, except that they had a lot to do with starting this awful war. Mr. Goodfellow took us to his, er, residence, and he cured my broken leg."

"Snap of the fingers cured?"

"Pretty much. Yes. Then Creighton and I traveled down to Wiltshire. I didn't want to, of course, but he insisted I owed him that much. There's a portal there, a magic door. It let us cross over to Nextdoor. Trouble was, there were baddies waiting on the other side, and Creighton got killed. So there I was—stranded. Stuck. All washed up. Robinson Crusoe."

Ginger was following a lorry. Its stronger headlights were lighting the road for him, and they were doing a steady thirty at least.

"I really wanted to come back and do my bit in the war," Exeter said. "But the only way I could come back here was to find the Service, and I didn't know how to do that. I had what I thought was a lead, but it didn't pan out. When I did get in touch, they were pretty reluctant to help me. Three years, it's taken. You see, there's a prophecy about me."

Houses now. Perhaps this was Canterbury already. Smedley was feeling dizzy. Perhaps he had banged his head falling off the wall. Perhaps he was suffering from lack of sleep. He wouldn't have nurses popping pills at him every night now, so he might not sleep much in future. But he did have a strange tingling in his head.

The car jerked, coughed, and then purred again.

Alice: "What was that?"

Jones: "Dunno."

Dirt in the petrol, likely. That would put the hen among the foxes, wouldn't it? If the car broke down with Exeter in nightclothes and him with blood all over his bags . . . Even a modestly intelligent bus conductor might be suspicious enough to blow the whistle.

"You cross over," Exeter was explaining, "by doing a dance, a particular mixture of chanting and rhythm and words, done at a particular place. It used to be quite a common accident, I think, because the nodes are very often holy places. You know that sort of awe you feel in old churches? You're sensing what the Service calls 'virtuality,' although no one knows what it really is. So in primitive times, when the shaman called the tribe together to do their sacred leap-about, they would do it at a node. And if the routine was good, they'd feel that virtuality more strongly. Why do you think people sing in church? The shamans would experiment with the ritual, I expect. Try different words, different movements, to increase that sense of the holy presence or whatever they thought it was. And one day—one night, more likely—someone would hit the right mixture and pouf! Clarence and Euphemia had disappeared. Big feather in shaman's cap! Do it again next Thursday."

The car coughed again, twice, and then resumed its low rumble. Everyone was silent, but nothing more happened.

Smedley jerked his head up. He seemed to be drifting off to sleep. His leg had stopped throbbing. Come to think of it, his leg was numb. Were legs usually numb?

" . . . set themselves up as gods," Exeter said from a long way away. "I expect many of the old myths relate to strangers from Nextdoor or one of the others: Hercules, Apollo, Prometheus. And on Nextdoor, they may be from either this world or one of the others. The more worship they get, the stronger they become. The stronger they become, the more worship they can demand."

"Absolute power corrupts absolutely," Alice muttered.

"It certainly does. On Nextdoor . . . Well, actually, the area I know is called the Vales. It's not much bigger than England and I haven't seen all of the Vales even. So there's an awful lot of the world I know nothing at all about. But in the Vales, there are five or six dominant gods. Well, they call themselves gods, but they're really just magicians."

Oh, that made things a lot more believable, Smedley thought drowsily.

"Each one has a retinue of lesser gods. Some of them are jolly nasty types. The Service refers to those as the Chamber of Horrors, and they're the ones trying to kill me, because of the prophecy. The worst is Zath, who calls himself god of death." Exeter paused for a moment. "I know this must sound dodgy, but they caused the Nyagatha business."

"That sounds dodgy," Alice agreed, "but keep talking."

"You know when the guv'nor was born?"

"Yes. Roly told me. He certainly didn't look his age."

"Because he'd spent thirty years or so on Nextdoor. You pick up mana even without trying . . . . He helped found the Service there. Then Zath tried to kill him, and failed. That brought the prophecy to light. The prophecy foretold that Cameron Exeter would father a son who would be a sort of messiah, who would kill death. It's very muddled, most of it, but that bit was clear enough."

The car coughed again.

When nothing more happened, Exeter continued. "So Zath was gunning for the guv'nor. He went to earth. That's a joke, actually."

"I expect you're out of practice. Carry on."

"Well, it was very ironic. Zath tried to stop me being born, but the attempt drove the guv'nor into coming Home—meaning home to Earth—and about the first thing he did was meet the mater and fall in love and, whoops, there was me. These things happen.

"If Zath had only known it, the guv'nor wasn't in favor of the prophecy either. It leads to all sorts of evil complications. So both sides in this business wanted to break the chain! The guv'nor thought that all he had to do was stay out of the Chamber's reach until after the prophesied date, which would have been August 1914 by our reckoning, and then keep Baby Exeter, that's me, from crossing over. Then the chain would be broken and nothing else would apply. Head Office wangled him into the Colonial Office and got him posted to Nyagatha . . . "

His voice kept fading away and coming back. Smedley was having a deuce of a job keeping his eyes open. Funny, that. Heavenly choirs.

" . . . like everyone to take Home leave every few years. A little refresher course as a mortal is very humbling, and it keeps people in touch with the language and customs, and so on . . . Jumbo Watson and Soapy Maclean dropped in on Head Office in 1912. Jumbo inquired about the guv'nor . . . when he heard about me the penny dropped. Edward is a common enough name in England, but it begins with a vowel, which would make it feminine in the Vales; the masculine would be D'ward.

"There's actually more about D'ward in the Filoby Testament than there is about the Liberator, but nowhere did the seeress say that they were one and the same chappie. Soapy headed for Nyagatha to explain this and find out if the guv'nor was still opposed to the prophecy. Somebody tipped off the Chamber's agents—or perhaps they followed him. Anyway, Soapy arrived the day before the massacre . . . ."

Bad business, that massacre, but perhaps Exeter Senior had not been as much as fault as everyone had thought . . . . Smedley started awake. He had dozed off but not for very long. Exeter seemed to be talking about the gods again.

"Some of them aren't so bad. I've met a couple of the Pentatheon, the five Great Ones. When I first crossed over, Zath's assassins were waiting for me and almost nobbled me. They're rather like Kali's thugs, in India  . . . wander around killing people at random. Fortunately that was in Sussland. That's Tion's manor, and he was miffed . . . . Tion's one of the five, the Youth. He's a sort of Apollo figure, if you believe his advertisements, god of art, and beauty, and sport. He holds a big festival every year, like a miniature Olympic Games."

"Sounds all right," Alice said.

"Well, he's not very likable, but he let me go so I could settle Zath's hash. He did warn me about the prophecy that said the Liberator would be betrayed by his friends and thrown among the legions of death. That's exactly what happened. There's a traitor in the Service, and I know who it is, and I absolutely must get the word back to Olympus."

Alice spoke from a long way away. "But you did find the Service in the end?"

"I found the Service right away, the next day. But I was too late. Zath got to their agent before I did. I saw him being burned alive by—"

"Excuse me," Smedley said. "Frightfully sorry and all that, but I think I'm going to faint."

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