"A nice pair," Hank said.

"If you don't cross them, you'll find them very likeable," Ot said. "If you can stand Sharts's whistling and Blogo's bragging."

Sharts might be arrogantly proud of his knowledge, but he certainly had a very keen mind for mechanics. He asked so many questions about the airplane that Hank became annoyed. He was discreet enough to conceal his irritation, however. And, once Sharts had had the principles of aeronautics and internal combustion motors explained, he was a great help to Hank. He assisted Hank in the inspection and repairs. He also rustled up fabric and glue to repair the wing torn by the enemy hawk. And he had Hank explain the operation of the .45 revolver.

"We'd all have weapons like that," he said, "if it weren't for the witches and wizards."

Hank said, "What do you mean?"

"The explosives you call gunpowder were invented four hundred years ago. Maybe earlier. But the rulers made its manufacture and use illegal. Anybody caught with it was hanged. The witches and wizards did not want everybody who'd like to kill them to be able to do so from a half-mile away. Any competent magician can prevent any lay person from killing him within a quarter-mile range by arrows. So... no powder and no guns."

"But my mother's farmhouse fell on the Munchkin witch and killed her."

"It was a force of nature, a tornado coming seemingly from nowhere that did it," Sharts said. "The witch was caught off guard. And then there's always the possibility that Glinda had her hand in that."

Hank raised his eyebrows. "That thought has occurred to me, too. Anyway, you're an outlaw. What's to keep you from making powder and guns?"

"The witches don't bother me as long as I don't bother them. But if I did have guns, both the good and the bad witches would be on me like bluejays on a cat. Like coyotes on a dying bull."

"I would think that a man with your great knowledge and mind would have become a wizard," Hank said.

"I'm too well known, too easily identified. I'd have to find a mistress or master, a teacher, and the moment I applied to one of the big ones, I'd be marked, even if I could find one who'd take me as an apprentice. I wouldn't last long. I could find a minor wizard or witch, but they couldn't teach me what I'd want to know. The small ones are practicing illegally and will be hanged if caught. But the big witches tend to ignore the lesser ones since they're no danger to them."

"What about Erakna? How'd she escape the notice of Glinda and the old North Witch?"

"She didn't. She was Helwedo's apprentice for a while, studying to be a white witch. Then she said that she'd had a change of mind, and she didn't want to be a witch anymore. She resigned and joined a nunnery in the far north. But she had become a red witch; that happens sometimes, you know, a good witch goes wrong. She managed to keep it secret, bided her time, and, when Helwedo died, she struck. She surprised Glinda. Believe me, that takes some doing.

"Why has Glinda allowed you to keep your firearms?"

"I don't know," Hank said. "I wondered about that, but I thought it better not to ask."

"She's probably making an exception because she plans to use you. You'll be more useful because you have this flying machine and your exploding weapons."

"I wouldn't be surprised," Hank said. He asked Sharts about the rolling lightning balls, the sentiency of animals, and the animation of the Scarecrow.

Sharts's internal struggle was visible. He hated to say that he did not know the answers to Hank's questions. It galled and roiled him so much that he even forgot his obnoxious whistling. Finally, after many grimaces and grinding of teeth and twitching of nose and ears and fisting and unfisting, he acknowledged the truth.

Hank kept his face blank. He did not want to look sympathetic or astonished. Sharts might resent either expression.

"I do have several theories," the giant said, breathing heavily. "But they are such that I can't test them out in a laboratory. The witches and wizards claim that they don't know, but I think they're lying. They know, but they don't want the people to know."

Using the undamaged propeller blade as a model, Sharts carved out of an indigenous wood as light as balsa two blades for the Jenny. Three days after the landing, the plane was ready to go. By then, the sky had cleared up. However, the weather-scout hawks reported that a heavy storm front was moving in from the west. Hank should be able to get to all of his refueling stations before it struck. He might even be able to reach Glinda's capital.

He said thanks and goodbye to the outlaws. He waved to them from the cockpit as the Jenny climbed from the meadow. He had a hunch that he would see them again.

When he landed at the last refueling stop, he got the latest news from a hawk sent by Glinda. Erakna had launched a full-scale invasion. Her armies had overrun the Winkies on the borders and were pushing through the forest between Gillikinland and Ozland.

"What do we do now?" the Tin Woodman said. "We should be home directing our troops. Our people's morale will be low without us to lead them."

"Glinda didn't tell me what to do if such an event happened," Hank said. "But she would have thought about its possibility. Obviously, she wants a conference with you whatever should happen."

A weather scout flew in. The storm front was still one hundred miles away.

The local conditions were strange. There was not a wisp of wind. The air was as heavy as the belly of a hog that had fallen into a corncrib. It was also very dry, as dry as the Prohibitionists had hoped that America would be after the Volstead Act. When Hank rubbed his hand across the patch on the wing, sparks cracked.

The two rulers were uneasy. If they could have rolled their eyes, they would have done so.

"We think that it'll be best for us to stay in camp until the storm is over," the Woodman said to Hank.

"Why? That might mean a delay of several days. A week, maybe. Every second counts now."

"When the air's so dry and there's so much electricity in the air, strange things sometimes happen," the Scarecrow said.

"Like what?"

"The little mind-spirits, the firefoxes, roam freely then. The witches can keep out the big ones, usually, but they can't control the little ones unless they're close to them."

"What do you mean?"

"Sometimes, the little ones dispossess animals and birds and those who were bom in, uh, objects.

"You don't have to worry about that. Few humans ever get dispossessed, though it does, rarely, happen. It's said that, when a good witch becomes a bad one, she's been taken over by an evil mind-spirit. I reserve conclusion on that statement. There's not enough information to decide what is the truth and what isn't."

"They're right," Ot said. "We should wait until the storm's over."

"We can get home before it comes."

"You don't understand!" the Tin Woodman said. "It's here! Now! The first wave, anyway. Things'll get worse soon."

"Oh, you're talking about the static electricity," Hank said.

"Yes, of course!"

"He's an ignorant Earthman," the Scarecrow said. "You can't expect him to understand."

"His world must be a good one," the Woodman said, "if they don't have to worry there about mind-spirits."

Hank was exasperated.

"I don't think you know any more about these things than I do!"

"We don't know much about them. But we have experienced them," the Scarecrow said gently and a trifle superiorly.

"Well, what do you want to do?" Hank said. "Stay here or fly on? If you stay, you're going to be late for the conference. Worse, you'll be late getting back home. By the time you do, you might find that the Gillikins have occupied your capitals. Or the war's over, and you're no longer crowned heads. Just royal bums!"