OMBAY FALA, INKUTHIN,
Indu maka, sasa du.
Aiba aiba nopa du,
Aiba reeba mona kin.
Hosagil!
The gibberish ran round and round in Smedley's head. Fortunately there were only three verses to that key, each ending in the same shout of Hosagil! He thought he had the words, but the beat was nastily complex and contrapuntal, and of course the steps and gestures would have to wait until they arrived at St. Gall's. Even a Rolls was not spacious enough for dancing.
Ombay fala . . . Screw Hosagil, whoever he was.
Exeter ought to be in worse shape, because he was having to memorize two keys. Smedley could not imagine how he would manage that without mixing them up, but he had not changed a bit from their schooldays—cool, calm, and accomplished. He caught on to the rhythms right away, claiming a knack acquired during his Africa childhood, and he had always been a whiz at languages, which must help with the words. He would probably come first in the exam. Just like old times! In fact, Edward Exeter would be a downright pill if he wasn't always so straight and square, such a brick. No one could ever dislike him.
The sky was trying on pastel colors as evening approached. Stringer clung grimly to the wheel, rarely speaking. If Miss Pimm was not supporting her driver with spikes of magic, he must be well beyond the end of his tether. There had been no break for tea.
Now Exeter was prying information out of her, a process much like opening oysters with bare hands.
"And what is St. Gall's?"
"A church."
"Very old, of course?"
"Of course. There are," she continued in an obvious diversion, "two standing stones remaining in the churchyard. It may well be that some of the keys we know date from megalithic—"
"Do you use this portal often?"
"Quite often," she admitted with the reluctance of a biology mistress being asked to explain the function of reproductive organs.
"It leads directly to Olympus?"
"Yes."
"And back?"
She sighed. "Yes. We know keys for translation in both directions. That is rare."
"Then why are the Blighters not aware of it?"
"They are."
"They have sentries?"
"No resident stranger, no. No traps I cannot handle. Normally they don't care a fig about Nextdoor, remember! It was only the Chamber's appeal for help in destroying you that roused the Blighters' interest. They care more who comes in than who goes out, in any case. Anyone departing who has not entered will be marked in some fashion."
"Will that Schneider man have guessed it is where we are going?"
"Oh, yes. He may have alerted others to intercept us there."
Cheerful thought!
The car wound down a steep hill. Now Stringer was being allowed to proceed at his own pace, for there were cyclists, horse traffic, and a few cars. With all the Ombay fala guff, Smedley had lost track of what county he was in, but the building stone was the right buff color for the Cotswolds, and the landscape was picturesque enough. A large plate of hash and a tankard of bitter would go down very well about now. Would there be such a thing as beer on Nextdoor?
Waves of unreality . . .
At times he believed. Then it felt like the night before a big push, with the barrage to begin before dawn. Then a man looked at his watch every half minute and wondered if he'd ever see another sunset. Not quite that bad, but his gut was tight and his palm damp. Aiba aiba nopa du . . . Tonight he might meet the suspect Jumbo Watson face-to-face. Tomorrow go for a nice ride around on a dragon.
Other times he just couldn't. Then it all felt like an enormous leg-pull. Aiba, aiba, up your nose. Shamans and fakirs. Witch doctor dances moving people to other dimensions? What utter gullage that was! If such things were possible, then hundreds of people would have disappeared over the centuries.
But if they had, what evidence could there be? You couldn't prove it wasn't true!
Not in that direction, whispered his doubts, but when was the last time you read about a naked, shocked, bewildered foreigner stumbling out of the woods somewhere, unable to speak a word of the language? That ought to be easier to disprove, because at least you could demand to have a body produced. Habeas the bloody corpus!
"Sharp left at the end of this wall, Mr. Stringer," Miss Pimm said. "There is room to park."
Smedley snapped out of his reverie, realizing that the spire he had seen over the trees a moment ago must be St. Gall's.
"The vicar is expecting us." She did not deign to relate how she knew that. "But I ask both of you to be discreet in what you say to him. 'Them as asks no questions isn't told no lies,' or, 'No names, no pack drill,' as Captain Smedley is fond of remarking. This is a small parish, not well endowed. The Service supports his church with generous donations. He knows we use the building for unorthodox purposes, but it is easier for him if he can pretend to turn a blind eye. The current bishop is notoriously conservative in his views."
Exeter had twisted around to stare at her again. "You mean we are actually going to go through with this inside the church itself? Dancing around with no clothes on?"
Miss Pimm sniffed. "Would you prefer an audience? On a fine evening like this, the grounds are a favored locale for courting couples."
"Too many bodies in the graveyard," Stringer remarked loudly. It was comforting to know that he was still conscious.
She ignored the comment completely. "The node overlaps the building itself, especially to the east, so we could perform our ceremonies outside. However the center of the virtuality is just in front of the altar. That is where in-comers materialize, and you will translate more easily from there."
There was a stunned pause, and it was Alice who sniggered first. "Do they ever drop in on Sunday mornings?"
The old bag did not crack even a hint of a smile. "Olympus keeps careful track of the clock, naturally, and times its deliveries for the small hours of the morning. The vicar is accustomed to receiving unexpected visitors."
Stringer was braking. Smedley caught a brief glimpse of some houses about a half mile away, then the car turned into a narrow lane, lurching to a stop beside an iron gate set in a high stone wall. With a long sigh like a deflating tire, Stringer sprawled limply over the steering wheel. Miss Pimm uttered a snort of disbelief. About to say something cheerful to Exeter, Smedley took a second look at his expression, then at Alice's, and didn't. Instead he opened the door and clambered down. There would have to be an awkward farewell here. He had no taste for public sentiment . . . . She kept a man's dressing gown in her flat, dammit! He hurried around to open the door for Miss Pimm.
Someone had beaten him to it. As that someone was wearing a cassock, it would not be unreasonable to assume he was the vicar. He was short and plump, elderly and fatherly, white-haired and rubicund, obviously not a stranger but a native. Smedley's heart did a little jump at that thought. It meant that he really did believe.
Ombay fala, inkuthin . . .
He fumbled shakily for cigarettes and matches.
All five of the occupants had emerged from the car. Edward hovered very close to Alice, Stringer was stretching and rubbing his eyes. Miss Pimm and the vicar had obviously met before. They exchanged congratulations on the weather. She did not introduce her companions and he ignored them—extremely odd behavior for a cleric—then they all converged on the gate, with Miss Pimm and the vicar in the lead. Smedley found himself being squired by the surgeon, crunching along a gravel path. He could not hear Alice and Exeter following.
The churchyard was dark and rather spooky, overhung with gigantic yews and studded with headstones, half of them weathered to shapeless boulders. Rhododendrons had taken over much of it, while the straggly grass in the remainder badly needed cutting. Someone had made a start on that, and then abandoned the lawn mower in its tracks. There seemed to be no lovers dallying amid the shrubbery or skulking in the shadows, but the vicar's sudden conversion to gardening would have blighted the romantic atmosphere of the evening.
The church itself was small and extremely old, or at least the west front was, because the door was set in a rounded arch. "Norman, I see!" That was about the limit of Smedley's architectural expertise.
But not Stringer's. "More likely Saxon. That transept is younger, Early Gothic. Middle thirteenth century, probably. The spire can't be older than fourteenth."
"And the railway station beyond the far wall? Late Victorian?"
"That's probably the vicarage."
Gam! "Or the county jail."
"Ah, yes. By the way, Captain, I congratulate you on the way you spirited your friend out of Staffles. Adroitly done!" The surgeon's hearty tone was belied by his fishy eyes, which were friendly as barracudas'. "You did not limp on Wednesday."
"I scratched my leg going over the wall."
"We wondered which of you that was. Have you had it seen to?"
"I plan to have it cured by magic in another world."
Stringer snorted. He walked on in silence for a long minute, then sighed. "I think I need a holiday."
Yes, the war was tough, wasn't it?
Four of them had reached the steps. Alice and Exeter still loitered by the gate, staring into each other's eyes and whispering earnestly. He must still be trying to talk her into coming. Why could he not understand that the lady hankered after what came wrapped in that dressing gown?
"Hurry, please!" Miss Pimm called. "Reverend, we have had no chance for a meal and some of us have a long drive ahead of us yet. Would there be any shops still open in the village to buy something we could eat on the road?"
The little man looked alarmed at being required to make such a decision. "Not shops. I have some ham . . . or you could inquire at the Bull. Mrs. Daventry might run up some sandwiches for you."
Smedley suppressed images of a buxom lady climbing a mountain of sandwiches. He must be windier than he had realized. He took a long draw on his fag.
"You could pick me up back here in half an hour or so," Miss Pimm informed Stringer with a meaningful look.
He frowned at this cavalier dismissal, but obviously he had learned not to argue with his new secretary. He offered his left hand to Smedley. "Thank you for a most interesting few days, Captain. Do drop in if you're ever in my neighborhood, won't you?"
"And you likewise," Smedley said.
Alice and Edward arrived hand in hand, very tense about the eyes.
"I will send you a postcard as soon as I, ah, return," he told her.
"No, you won't!" Miss Pimm snapped. "That would be insanely unwise. I shall see she is informed of your whereabouts. For goodness sake, kiss her and go inside! Thank you for your help, Reverend."
"Oh, very welcome, I'm sure, Mrs.—er . . . If you need me, I shall be cutting the grass out here."
Better than trying to cut the grass in there, Smedley thought. Lord, he was getting hysterical! He pecked a kiss on Alice's cheek, nodded politely at the vicar, who jumped and returned a nervous smile.
He stamped out his cigarette. Then he followed Miss Pimm up the steps and into the cold gloom of the church. Edward came trotting after them and closed the heavy door with a slam. It echoed like a knell of doom.