They kept quiet while I snored convincingly, Deety was a "lady" for a while, then sprawled on her belly and chewed her pencil. I watched with one eye from under my handkerchief.

First she covered several pages with scratch work in developing statements incomplete in themselves but intended to arrive at only one possible conclusion. Having done so, she tested them by symbolic logic, then wrote out her list of statements, mixing them randomly-looked up.

The young mathematician was looking at her solemnly, note pad in hand.

"Finished?" my wife asked.

"Just finished. Mrs. Carter, you remind me of my little friend Alice Liddell."

"I know," she said. "That's how I recognized her. Shall we trade?"

Dodgson tore a sheet from his pad. "This is to be solved in the first person; its conclusion applies to you."

"All right, I'll try it." Deety read aloud:

"1) Every idea of mine, that cannot be expressed as a syllogism, is really ridiculous;

"2) None of my ideas about Bath-buns are worth writing down;

"3) No idea of mine, that fails to come true, can be expressed as a syllogism;

"4) I never have any really ridiculous idea, that I do not at once refer to my solicitor;

"5) My dreams are all about Bath-buns;

"6) I never refer any idea of mine to my solicitor, unless it is worth writing down."

Deety chortled. "How sweet of you! It is true; all my dreams do come true!"

"You solved it so quickly?"

"But it's only six statements. Have you solved mine?"

"I haven't read it yet." He also read aloud:

"1) Everything, not absolutely ugly, may be kept in a drawing room;

"2) Nothing, that is encrusted with salt, is ever quite dry;

"3) Nothing should be kept in a drawing room, unless it is free from damp;

"4) Time-traveling machines are always kept near the sea;

"5) Nothing, that is what you expect it to be, can be absolutely ugly;

"6) Whatever is kept near the sea gets encrusted with salt."

He blinked at the list. "The conclusion is true?" he asked.

"Yes."

For the first time he stared openly at Gay Deceiver. "That, then-I infer- is a 'time-traveling machine."

"Yes... although it does other things as well."

"It is not what I expected it to be....lthough I am not sure what I expected a time-traveling machine to be."

I pulled his handkerchief off my face. "Do you want to take a ride, Mr. Dodgson?"

The young don looked wistful. "I am sorely tempted, Captain. But I am responsible for three little girls. So I must thank you for your hospitality and bid you good-bye. Will you offer my apologies to Professor and Mrs. Burroughs and explain that duty calls me?"

"It's a disturbing idea-"

Jake:

"Deety, how does it feel to say good-bye without getting kissed?"

"Zebadiah, I didn't make it possible. Lewis Carroll was terrified by females over the age of puberty."

"That's why I stayed close. Deety hon, if I had gone with Jake and Hilda, he would have left at once."

"I can't figure out how he got here in the first place," said my dear wife Hilda. "Lewis Carroll was never in Wonderland; he simply wrote about it. But this is Wonderland-unless rabbits in England wear waistcoats and watches."

"Aunt Hilda, who can possibly be as deeply inside a story as the person who writes it?"

"Hmm- I'll have to study that."

"Later, Sharpie," Zeb said. "Stand by to rotate. Mars, isn't it?"

"Right, Zebbie," Hilda agreed.

"Gay... Sagan!"

Mars-zero lay ahead, in half phase at the proper distance.

"Set!" Hilda reported. "To tenth universe, third group."

"Execute." It was another starry void with no familiar groupings; we ran through routine, Zeb logged it as "possible" and we moved on to the second of the third group-and I found myself facing the Big and Little Dippers. Again we ran through a routine tumble-but failed to find the Sun or any planets. I don't know the southern constellations too well but I spotted Crux and the Magellanic Clouds. To the north there could be no doubt about Cygnus and a dozen others.

Zeb said, "Where is Sol? Deety? Sharpie?"

"I haven't seen it, Zebadiah."

"Zebbie, don't go blaming me. I put it right back where I found it."

"Jake, I don't like this. Sharpie, are you set?"

"Set. Standing orders. Third group, third of three."

"Keep your finger near the button. How does this fit your theory? I don't recall listing a story that doesn't have the Solar System in it."

"Zebbie, it can't fit two of those left, could fit the others, and could fit half a dozen or more that got three votes. You said that about a dozen were tied in your mind. Were any of them space-travel stories?"

"Almost all."

"Then we could be in any world that takes our universe as a model but far enough from the Sun so that it appears as second or third magnitude. That wouldn't have to be far; our Sun is pretty faint. So this could be the Darkover universe, or Niven's Known Space, or Dr. Williamson's Legion of Space universe, or the Star Trek universe, or Anderson's world of the Polesotechnic League, or Dr. Smith's Galactic Patrol world. Or several more."

"Sharpie, what were two that this could not be?"

"King Arthur and his Knights, and the World of the Hobbits."

"If we find ourselves in either of those, we leave. No obstetricians. Jake, any reason to stay here longer?"

"None that I see," I answered.

"Captain Deety, I advise scram. Those space-opera universes can be sticky. I don't care to catch a photon torpedo or a vortex bomb or a negative-matter projectile, just through failure to identify ourselves promptly."

So we rotated.

This time we weren't merely close; we were on the ground. Charging straight at us was a knight in armour, lance couched in attack. I think it unlikely that a lance could damage Gay. But this "gentle knight" was unfriendly; I shouted, "Gay!-Zoom!"

Sighed with relief at sudden darkness and at the Captain's next words:

"Thanks, Pop. You were on your toes."

"Thank you. End of group three. Back to Mars? 5, A, G, A, N?"

"Let's get on with it," Zeb agreed. "All Hands-"

"Zebadiah!" my daughter interrupted. "Is that all you wish to see of King Arthur and his Knights?"

"Captain Deety, that wasn't one of King Arthur's Knights. He was wearing plated mail."

"That's my impression," my beloved agreed. "But I gave more attention to his shield. Field sable, argent bend sinister, in chief sun proper with crown, both or."

"Sir Modred," my daughter decided. "I knew he was a baddie! Zebadiah, we should have hit him with your L-gun."

"Killed that beautiful beer-wagon horse? Deety, that sort of armor wasn't made earlier than the fifteenth century, eight or nine centuries after the days of King Arthur."

"Then why was he carrying Sir Modred's shield?"

"Sharpie, was that Sir Modred's coat of arms?"

"I don't know; I blazoned what I saw. Aren't you nit-picking in objecting to plate armor merely because it's anachronistic?"

"But history shows that-"

"That's the point, Zebbie. Camelot isn't history; it's fiction."

Zeb said slowly, "Shut my big mouth."

"Zebbie, I venture to guess that the version of Camelot we blundered into is a patchwork of all our concepts of King Arthur and the Round Table. I picked up mine from Tennyson, revised them when I read 'Le Morte d'Arthur.' Where did you get yours?"

"Mark Twain gave me mine-'A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court.' Add some Prince Valiant. Jake?"