Blade spent the extra days finishing the paper work on the option for the country house and saying good-bye to Lorma. On past trips there'd always been a last night or two with girl friends. This time there wasn't any human being Blade felt as close to as he did to Lorma, except for J and Lord Leighton. He knew he shouldn't feel this much apart from his fellow human beings, but doubted he could do anything about it. His experiences in Dimension X were driving him further and further apart from the rest of the human race in this Dimension, and that was all there was to it.

In the familiar changing room carved out of the rock wall of the underground Complex One, Blade went through an unfamiliar routine. He started as usual by stripping himself naked and smearing himself with rancid-smelling grease for protection against electrical burns. He used a lighter coating than he'd ever used before, though, one barely visible against his tanned skin. Then he began pulling on the new equipment.

There was the wire loinguard. There were blue waterproof shorts over them, with a belt of the same material. On the belt he tied a collapsible fabric canteen with a rubber stopper and sandals built up from several layers of the fabric. Finally he picked up a stiff cloth sheath and tied it to his left arm. Inside the sheath was a knife made entirely of Englor Alloy Two, except for a thin coating of plastic on the handle to give a better grip. It was a duplicate of the famous Fairbairn-Sykes fighting knife used by the British Commandos in World War II. Forty years later it was still one of the best combat knives around, particularly in the hands of a trained fighter like Blade.

Blade looked at himself in the mirror, trying to get used to the new image. He decided it was going to take awhile. He looked like a cross between a champion weight lifter and a California surfer. He stepped out of the changing room and started threading his way through the consoles of the computer. He wasn't sure if he felt overdressed or underdressed, but he couldn't shake off the feeling that something was wrong with the amount of clothing he had on.

At last he reached the spot in the center of the computer where the KALI capsule had stood. In its place was the amazingly simple field-generator booth, a rectangular frame of light steel I-beams completely encased in fine-gauge wire. The box stood freely on a thick insulating pad of rubber. The only thing which still bothered Blade slightly was the small size of the booth. There'd be only a few inches of air between him and the charged wires on all sides. Making the booth much larger would have meant heavy insulation all around, though, or the risk of affecting the computer. That would be far more dangerous to Blade than an electrical field, which Leighton could always cut off at the touch of a button.

That was the real beauty of the new system, as even J had to admit. Its success depended primarily on the computer, which was a tried and tested precision instrument, capable of being adjusted to the finest tolerances the human mind could imagine. Right now it was probably working even better than usual, thanks to its recent overhaul. It could generate a field matching Blade's brain waves with no trouble at all, and that was the only thing which had to be done exactly right. Everything else in the operation of the field-generator booth had a bigger margin for error built into it than Blade hoped they'd ever need.

He realized suddenly that Leighton and J were both staring at him. He'd been woolgathering while they were waiting for him to step into the booth and get their part of the job over with. He mentally kicked himself and took a deep breath.

«I'm ready.»

Leighton pressed a button on a hastily rearranged master control panel, and the booth rose into the air. To make sure the electrical field was even all around Blade, the mesh was one unbroken piece. The only opening in the booth was at the bottom. For Blade to get inside, the booth was lifted off the rubber pad by a winch, then lowered back over him. As the booth settled back in place over Blade, he shifted his footing to give himself as much room on all sides as he could.

«Ready, Richard?» said J. Blade would have given a thumbs-up sign, but he didn't dare raise either arm that far. Instead he nodded.

Lord Leighton's hand came down on the master switch. The world around Blade turned into a blaze of light, forcing him to shut his eyes. For a moment all was silence, then he heard an ominous crackling and smelled pungent smoke. Had the experiment failed? Even worse, had it started an electrical fire in the complex?

A moment later, the smells in the smoke told Blade he'd made the transition safely and was in Dimension X. He identified burning wood, straw, and manure, as well as another stench which a man never forgets once he's smelled it for the first time.

Burning human flesh.

Somewhere close at hand was battle, fire, or disaster.

Blade opened his eyes. He was standing in the same position he'd been in when Leighton pulled the switch, with all his equipment and clothing apparently intact. He was also facing a weathered timber wall with smoke oozing out of the joints between the boards. On top of the wall a thatched roof was blazing, dropping embers and hot ashes all around Blade. On either side was more smoke, a few dimly seen figures scurrying through it, and other figures lying still on the ground. Behind Blade was a stand of evergreen trees. He quickly retreated into their cover, then pulled on his sandals. If he'd had time, he would have savored this pleasure of putting something on his feet, but this looked like a good place to leave as soon as possible.

Blade started moving through the trees to his right, to get clear of the burning barn at least. As he moved, he started hearing the sounds of battle. When he reached a place opposite the village square, he saw that the village was the scene of a battle between two bands of medieval-looking armored knights. Both sides were mostly on foot, with only a few mounted men. One side wore black plumes on their helmets, while their opponents wore green gloves on their left hands.

Otherwise there wasn't much difference between the two bands. Both wore knee-length coats of mail with plate reinforcements on their lower legs, forearms, and chest. Their helmets were all open-faced. Either archery wasn't used, or they preferred clear vision to protection against an arrow in the face. From the way they moved and used their weapons, they were all trained and experienced fighters.

Blade was particularly well qualified to judge their fighting skill. He'd been a member of the Medieval Club during his days at Oxford, and worked out several times a week with replicas of medieval swords, maces, and shields. This skill had saved his life in several Dimensions. It now looked as if this might be another one where such skill would be useful.

Most of the villagers seemed to have already left, either fleeing or, perhaps, being carried off by the knights. Blade decided to follow them. He couldn't see any way to join the fight in such a way that one side would become friendly to him. Even if he did join in, he wasn't sure how much good this would do. Feudal knights could be thick-armed, thick-headed types who saw any nonknight as dirt beneath their feet, whatever he did for them. Blade didn't plan to end up in some baron's dungeon, suspected of being an escaped serf!

The noise of the fighting seemed to die away as he made his way along the fringes of the village. After a while he left the trees behind and skirted the edge of the grainfields. The grain was as tall as he was, and fortunately hadn't caught fire yet.

Blade was about to head off into the grain, away from the village, when he suddenly stepped out onto open ground. Half a dozen houses straggled out into the fields on either side of a dusty trail. In the middle of the trail, two knights were fighting furiously. Both were on foot and both had blood leaking from their armor, but this didn't seem to be slowing them down much. The green-gloved knight had a morningstar, a spiked ball on the end of a length of chain, attached to a short handle. His black-plumed opponent was wielding a mace and shield.