He bows his head and chants the Possibly Proper Death Litany.

“Lovely,” snorts his companion, when he comes to the final “Amen.” “Now, fat Dad, I think I have found us the Wrong Door. I might enter without opening it, but you may not. How would you have it?”

“Bide a moment,” says Madrak, standing. “A bit of narcotic and I’ll be good as new and stronger than before. Then we shall enter together.”

“Very well. I’ll wait.”

Madrak injects himself and after a time is like unto a god.

“Now show me the door and let us go in.”

“This way.”

And there is the door, big and forbidding and colorless, within the infra-light.

“Open it,” says Typhon, and Madrak does.

In the firelight it plays, worrying the gauntlet. Perhaps the size of two and a half elephants, it sports with its toy there atop a heap of bones. One of its heads sniffs at the sudden draft of air from beyond the Wrong Door, two of its heads snarl and the third drops the glove.

“Do you understand my voice?” asks Typhon, but there is no answering intelligence behind its six red eyes. Its tails twitch and it stands, all scaly and impervious, within the flicker and glow.

“Nice doggie,” comments Madrak, and it wags its tails, opens its mouths and lunges toward him.

“Kill it!” cries Madrak.

“That is impossible,” answers Typhon. “In time, that is.”

Coming at length to the world Interludici, and entering through the sudden green gateway the poet hurls upon the blackness, Wakim and Vramin enter the mad world of many rains and religions. Lightfooted, they stand upon the moist turf outside a city of terrible black walls.

“We shall enter now,” says the poet, stroking his sky-green beard. “We shall enter through that small door off to the left, which I shall cause to open before us. Then will we hypnotize or subdue any guards who may be present and make our way into the heart of the city, where the great temple stands.”

“To steal boots for the Prince,” says Wakim. “This is a strange employment for one such as myself. Were it not for the fact that he had promised to give my name back to me-my real name-before I slay him, I would not have agreed to do this thing for him.”

“I realize that, Lord Randall, my son,” says Vramin, “but tell me, what do you intend to do with Horus, who would also slay him-and who works for him now only to gain this same opportunity?”

“Slay Horus first, if need be.”

“The psychology behind this thing fascinates me, so I trust you will permit me one more question: What difference does it make whether you slay him or Horus slays him? He will be just as dead either way.”

Wakim pauses, apparently considering the matter, as if for the first time.

“This thing is my mission, not his,” he says at length.

“He will be just as dead, either way,” Vramin repeats.

“But not by my hand.”

“True. But I fail to see the distinction.”

“So do I, for that matter. But it is I who have been charged with the task.”

“Perhaps Horus has also.”

“But not by my master.”

“Why should you have a master, Wakim? Why are you not your own man?”

Wakim rubs his forehead.

“I-do not-really-know… But I must do as I am told.”

“I understand,” says Vramin, and, while Wakim is thus distracted, a tiny green spark arcs between the tip of the poet’s cane and the back of Wakim’s neck.

He slaps at his neck then and scratches it.

“What…?”

“A local insect,” says the poet. “Let us proceed to the door.”

The door opens before them, beneath the tapping of his cane, and its guards drowse before a brief green flare. Appropriating cloaks from two of them, Wakim and Vramin move on, into the center of the city.

The temple is easy enough to find. Entering it is another matter.

Here now, there are guards-drug-maddened-before the entrance.

They approach boldly and demand admission.

The eighty-eight spears of the Outer Guard are leveled at them.

“There will be no public adoration till the sundown rains,” they are told, amidst twitches.

“We shall wait.” And they do.

With the sundown rains, they join a procession of moist worshippers and enter the outer temple.

On attempting to go further they are brought to a halt by the three hundred fifty-two drug-maddened spearmen who guard the next entranceway.

“Have you the badges of inner-temple worshippers?” their captain inquires.

“Of course,” says Vramin, raising his cane.

And in the eyes of the captain they must have them for they are granted entrance.

Then, drawing near the Inner Sanctum itself, they are halted by the officer in charge of the five hundred ten drug-maddened warriors who guard the way.

“Castrated or non-castrated?” he inquires.

“Castrated, of course,” says Vramin in a lovely soprano. “Give us entrance,” and his eyes blaze greenly and the officer draws back.

Entering, they spy the altar, with its fifty guardians and its six strange priests.

“There they are, upon the altar.”

“How shall we obtain them?”

“By stealth, preferably,” says Vramin, pushing his way nearer the altar, before the televised service begins.

“What sort of stealth?”

“Perhaps we can substitute a pair of our own and wear the sacred ones out of here.”

“I’m game.”

“Then, suppose they were stolen five minutes ago?”

“I understand you,” says Wakim and bows his head, as in adoration.

The service begins.

“Hail to Thee, Shoes,” lisps the first priest, “wearer of feet…”

“Hail!” chant the other five.

“Good, kind, noble and blessed Shoes.”

“Hail!”

“… which came to us from chaos…”

“Hail!”

“… to lighten our hearts and uplift our soles.”

“Hail!”

“Oh Shoes, which have supported mankind since the dawn of civilization…”

“Hail!”

“Ultimate cavities, surrounders of feet.”

“Hail!”

“Hail! Wondrous, battered Buskins!”

“We adore thee.”

“We adore thee!”

“We worship thee in the fulness of thy Shoeness!”

“Glory!”

“Oh archetypal footgear!”

“Glory!”

“Supreme notion of Shoes.”

“Glory!”

“What could we do without thee?”

“What?”

“Stub our toes, scratch our heels, have our arches go flat.”

“Hail!”

“Protect us, thy worshipers, good and blessed Foot-gear!”

“Which came to us from chaos…”

“… on a day dark and drear…”

“… out of the void, burning-“

“… but not burnt…”

“… Thou hast come to comfort and support us…”

“Hail!”

“… upright, forthright and forward forever!”

“Forever!”

Wakim vanishes.

A cold, wild wind begins.

It is the change-wind out of time; and there is a blurring upon the altar.

Seven previously drug-maddened spearmen lie sprawled, their necks at unusual angles.

Suddenly, beside Vramin, Wakim says, “Pray, find us a gateway quickly!”

“You wear them?”

“I wear them.”

Vramin raises his cane, pauses.

“There will be a brief delay, I fear,” and his gaze grows emerald.

All eyes in the temple are suddenly upon them.

Forty-three drug-maddened spearmen shout a battle cry as one, and leap forward.

Wakim crouches and extends his hands.

“Such is the kingdom of heaven,” comments Vramin, perspiration like absinthe glittering coldly upon his brow. “I wonder how the video tapes will show this thing.”