Sergeant Martinez and his twenty-five troopers relaxed in the comparative luxury of a perfect reproduction of a partially ruined Martian bunker, created for them by My Lady Charlotina. It was better than they had expected, so they had not complained, particularly since few of them had spent much of their time in the menagerie.

"The point is," Sergeant Martinez was saying, as he took a long toke on the large black Herodian cigar, "that we're all going soft and we're forgetting our duty."

"The war's over, sarge," Trooper Gan Hok reminded him. He grinned. "By a couple million years or so. Alpha Centauri's beaten."

"That's what they're telling us," said the sergeant darkly. "And maybe they're right. But what if this was all a mirage we're in? An illusion created by the Vultures to make us think the war's over, so we make no attempt to escape."

"You don't really believe that, do you, sarge?" enquired squat Trooper Pleckhanov. "Nobody could make an illusion this good. Could they?"

"Probably not, trooper, but it's our duty to assume they could and get back to our own time."

"That girl of yours dropped you, sarge?" enquired Trooper Denereaz, with the perspicacity for which he was loathed throughout the squad. Some of the others began to laugh, but stopped themselves as they noted the expression on the sergeant's face.

"Have you got a plan, sarge?" asked Trooper George diplomatically. "Wouldn't we need a time machine?"

"They exist. You've all talked with that Morphail guy."

"Right. But would he give us one?"

"He refused," Sergeant Martinez told them. "What does that suggest to you, Trooper Denereaz?"

"That they want us to remain here?" suggested Denereaz dutifully.

"Right."

"Then how are we going to get hold of one, sarge?" asked Trooper Gan Hok.

"We got to use our brains," he said sluggishly, staring hard at his cigar. "We got one chance of a successful bust-out. We're gonna need some hardware, hostages maybe." He yawned and slowly began to describe his scheme in broad outline while his men listened with different degrees of attention. Some of them were not at all happy with the sergeant's reminder of their duty.

Trooper O'Dwyer had not been present at the conference, but remained at the palace of the Duke of Queens, where he had become very comfortable. Occasionally he would stroll into the gym to see how the duke's fencing lessons were progressing. He was fascinated by the robot instructing the duke; it was programmed to respond to certain key commands, but within those terms could respond with rapid and subtle reflexes, while at the same time giving a commentary on the duke's proficiency, which currently afforded Trooper O'Dwyer some easy amusement.

The words Lord Shark used in his programming were in the ancient language of Fransai, authentic and romantic (though the romance had certainly escaped Lord Shark). To begin a duel the Duke of Queens would cry:

"En tou rage!"

— and if struck (the robot was currently set not to wound) he would retort gracefully:

"Toujours gai, mon coeur!"

Trooper O'Dwyer thought that he had noted an improvement in the duke's skill over the past week or so (not that weeks, as such, existed in this world, and he was having a hard time keeping track of days, let alone anything else) thanks, thought the trooper, to the original basic training. A good part of the duke's time was spent with the robot, and he had lost interest in all other activities, all relationships, including that with Trooper O'Dwyer, who was content to remain at the palace, for he was given everything his heart desired.

A month or two passed (by Trooper O'Dwyer's reckoning) and the Duke of Queens grew increasingly skilful. Now he cried "En tou rage!" more often than "Toujours gai!" and he confided, pantingly, one morning to the trooper that he felt he was almost ready to meet Lord Shark.

"You reckon you're as good as this other guy?" asked O'Dwyer.

"The automaton has taught me all it can. Soon I shall pay a visit to Lord Shark and display what I have learned."

"I wouldn't mind getting a gander at Lord Shark myself," said Trooper O'Dwyer, casually enough.

"Accompany me, by all means."

"Okay, duke." Trooper O'Dwyer winked and nudged the duke in the ribs. "It'll break the monotony. Get me?"

The Duke of Queens, removing his fencing mask (fashioned in gold filigree to resemble a fanciful fox), blinked but made no answer. O'Dwyer could be interestingly cryptic sometimes, he thought. He noticed that the automaton was still poised in the ready position and he commanded it to come to attention. It did, its sword pointing upwards and almost touching its fishy snout.

The duke drew O'Dwyer's attention to his new muscles. "I had nothing to do with their appearance," he said in delight. "They came — quite naturally. It was most surprising!"

The trooper nodded and bit into a fruit, reflecting that the duke now seemed to be in better shape than he was.

The Iron Orchid and My Lady Charlotina lay back upon the cushions of their slowly moving air carriage, which had been designed in the likeness of the long-extinct gryphon, and wondered where they might be. They had been making languid love. Eventually, My Lady Charlotina put her golden head over the edge of the gryphon's back and saw, not far off, the Duke of Queens' inverted palace. She suggested to her friend that they might visit the duke; the Iron Orchid agreed. They adjusted their gravity rings and flew towards the top-most (or the lowest) door, leaving the gryphon behind.

"You seem unenthusiastic, my dear," murmured My Lady Charlotina, "about the duke's current activities."

"I suppose I am," assented the Iron Orchid, brightening her silver skin a touch. "He has such hopes of beginning a fashion."

"And you think he will fail? I am quite looking forward to the — what is it — the fight?"

"The duel," she said.

"And many others I know await it eagerly." They floated down a long, curling passage whose walls were inset at regular intervals with cages containing pretty song-children. "When is it to take place, do you know?"

"We must ask the duke. I gather he practises wholeheartedly with the automaton Lord Shark sent him."

"Lord Shark is so mysterious, is he not?" whispered My Lady Charlotina with relish. "I suspect that the interest in the duel comes, as much as anything, from people's wish to inspect one so rarely seen in society. Is duelling his only pastime?"

"I know nothing at all of Lord Shark the Unknown, save that he affects a surly manner and that he is pleased to assume the role of a recluse. Ah, there is the 'gym'. Probably we shall find the Duke of Queens therein."

They came upon the duke as he divested himself of the last of his duelling costume.

"How handsome your body is, manly master of Queens," purred My Lady Charlotina. "Have you altered it recently?"

He kissed her hand. "It changed itself — a result of all my recent exercise." He inspected it with pleasure. "It is how they used to change their bodies, in the old days."

"We wondered when your duel with Lord Shark the Unknown was to take place," she said, "and came to ask. Everyone is anxious to watch."

He was flattered. "I go today to visit Lord Shark. It is for him to name the time and the location." The duke indicated Trooper O'Dwyer, who lay half-hidden upon an ermine couch. "Trooper O'Dwyer accompanies me. Would you care to come, too?"

"It is my understanding that Lord Shark does not encourage visitors," said the Iron Orchid.

"You think you would not be welcome, then?"

"It is best to assume that."

"Thank you, Iron Orchid, for saving me once again from a lapse of manners. I was ever tactless." He smiled. "It was that which led to this situation, really."