After an unhurried happy time, sitting over coffee and brandy with the overhead light doused and only a single candle gleamed on her jewels and lighting her face. Star made a slight movement back from the table and I got up quickly and showed her to her tent. She stopped at its entrance. "Milord Oscar—"

So I kissed her and followed her in—

Like hell I did! I was so damned hypnotized that I bowed over her hand and kissed it. And that was that.

That left me with nothing to do but get out of that borrowed monkey suit, hand it back to Rufo, and get a blanket from him. He had picked a spot to sleep at one side of her tent, so I picked one on the other and stretched out. It was still so pleasantly warm that even one blanket wasn't needed.

But I didn't go to sleep. The truth is, I've got a monkey on my back, a habit worse than marijuana though not as expensive as heroin. I can stiff it out and get to sleep anyway—but it wasn't helping that I could see light in Stars tent and a silhouette that was no longer troubled by a dress.

The fact is I am a compulsive reader. Thirty-five cents' worth of Gold Medal Original will put me right to sleep. Or Perry Mason. But I'll read the ads in an old Paris-Match that has been used to wrap herring before I'll do without.

I got up and went around the tent. "Psst! Rufo."

"Yes, milord." He was up fast, a dagger in his hand.

"Look, is there anything to read around this dump?"

"What sort of thing?"

"Anything, just anything. Words in a row."

"Just a moment." He was gone a while, using a flashlight around that beachhead dump of plunder. He came back and offered me a book and a small camp lamp. I thanked him, went back, and lay down.

It was an interesting book, written by Albertus Magnus and apparently stolen from the British Museum. Albert offered a long list of recipes for doing unlikely things: how to pacify storms and fly over clouds, how to overcome enemies, how to make a woman be true to you—

Here's that last one: "If thou wilt that a woman bee not visions nor desire men, take the private members of a Woolfe, and the haires which doe grow on the cheekes, or the eye-brows of him, and the hairs which bee under his beard, and burne it all, and give it to her to drinke, when she knowethe not, and she shal desire no other man."

This should annoy the "Woolfe." And if I were the gal, it would annoy me, too; it sounds like a nauseous mixture. But that's the exact formula, spelling and all, so if you are having trouble keeping her in line and have a "Woolfe" handy, try it. Let me know the results. By mail, not in person.

There were several recipes for making a woman love you who does not but a "Woolfe" was by far the simplest ingredient. Presently I put the book down and the light out and watched the moving silhouette on that translucent silk. Star was brushing her hair.

Then I quit tormenting myself and watched the stars, I've never learned the stars of the Southern Hemisphere; you seldom see stars in a place as wet as Southeast Asia and a man with a bump of direction doesn't need them.

But that southern sky was gorgeous.

I was staring at one very bright star or planet (it seemed to have a disk) when suddenly I realized it was moving.

I sat up. "Hey! Star!"

She called back, "Yes, Oscar?"

"Come see! A sputnik. A big one!"

"Coming." The light in her tent went out, she joined me quickly, and so did good old Pops Rufo, yawning and scratching his ribs. "Where, milord?" Star asked.

I pointed. "Right there! On second thought it may not be a sputnik; it might be one of our Echo series. It's awfully big and bright."

She glanced at me and looked away. Rufo said nothing. I stared at it a while longer, glanced at her. She was watching me, not it. I looked again, watched it move against the backdrop of stars.

"Star," I said, "that's not a sputnik. Nor an Echo balloon. That's a moon. A real moon."

"Yes, milord Oscar."

"Then this is not Earth."

"That is true."

"Hmm—" I looked back at the little moon, moving so fast among the stars, west to east.

Star said quietly, "You are not afraid, my hero?"

"Of what?"

"Of being in a strange world."

"Seems to be a pretty nice world."

"It is," she agreed, "in many ways."

"I like it," I agreed. "But maybe it's time I knew more about it. Where are we? How many light-years, or whatever it is, in what direction?"

She sighed. "I will try, milord. But it will not be easy; you have not studied metaphysical geometry—nor many other things. Think of the pages of a book—" I still had that cookbook of Albert the Great under my arm; she took it. "One page may resemble another very much. Or be very different. One page can be so close to another that it touches, at all points—yet have nothing to do with the page against it. We are as close to Earth—right now—as two pages in sequence in a book. And yet we are so far away that light-years cannot express it."

"Look," I said, "no need to get fancy about it. I used to watch ‘Twilight Zone.' You mean another dimension. I dig it."

She looked troubled "That's somewhat the idea but—"

Rufo interrupted. "There's still Igli in the morning."

"Yes," I agreed. "If we have to talk to Igli in the morning, maybe we need some sleep. I'm sorry. By the way, who is Igli?"

"You'll find out," said Rufo.

I looked up at that hurtling moon. "No doubt. Well, I'm sorry I disturbed you all with a silly mistake. Good night, folks."

So I crawled back into my sleeping sills, like a proper hero (all muscles and no gonads, usually), and they sacked in too. She didn't put the light back on, so I had nothing to look at but the hurtling moons of Barsoom. I had fallen into a book.

Well, I hoped it was a success and that the writer would keep me alive for lots of sequels. It was a pretty nice deal for the hero, up to this Chapter at least. There was Dejah Thoris, curled up in her sleeping silks not twenty feet away.

I thought seriously of creeping up to the flap of her tent and whispering to her that I wanted to ask a few questions about metaphysical geometry and like matters. Love spells, maybe. Or maybe just tell her that it was cold outside and could I come in?

But I didn't. Good old faithful Rufo was curled up just the other side of that tent and he had a disconcerting habit of coming awake fast with a dagger in his hand. And he liked to shave corpses. As I've said, given a choice. I'm chicken.

I watched the hurtling moons of Barsoom and fell asleep.

Singing birds are better than alarm clocks and Barsoom was never like this. I stretched happily and smelled coffee and wondered if there was time for a dip before breakfast. It was another perfect day, blue and clear and the sun just up, and I felt like killing dragons before lunch. Small ones, that is.

I smothered a yawn and rolled to my feet. The lovely pavilion was gone and the black box mostly repacked; it was no bigger than a piano box. Star was kneeling before a fire, encouraging the coffee. She was a cavewoman this morning, dressed in a hide that was fancy but not as fancy as her own. From an ocelot, maybe. Or from du Pont.

"Howdy, Princess," I said. "What's for breakfast? And where's your chef?"

"Breakfast later," she said. "Just a cup of coffee for you now, too hot and too black—best you be bad tempered. Rufo is starting the talk with Igli." She served it to me in a paper cup.

I drank half a cup, burned my mouth and spat out grounds. Coffee comes in five descending stages: Coffee, Java, Jamoke, Joe, and Carbon Remover. This stuff was no better than grade four.

I stopped then, having caught sight of Rufo. And company, lots of company. Along the edge of our terrace somebody had unloaded Noah's Ark. There was everything there from aardvarks to zebus, most of them with long yellow teeth.