I was no bundle of sunshine falling on the Dead Man, either. I stepped into his room, grumped, "You awake?"

I am now, O Shield Against Darkness.

"Huh?"

An attempt, however futile, to cajole you away from your gloom. I abandon it forthwith. There is no hope. Review events of last night.

I reviewed events of last night. I spared no detail. I finished, said, "I'm open to suggestions." My own best notion was to lock the front door and not answer it till the world straightened itself out.

Hardly practical, Garrett. Blaine's death is a setback, yes. But, I agree, it seems unlikely his murderers obtained the Book of Dreams. Unless Mr. Crask and Mr. Sadler were no telling the whole truth.

"Huh?" I was ready to get in there and mix it up with Puddle.

I suspect that Chodo Contague would be very interested in the Book of Dreams if he became cognizant of its capacity and function. Very interested, indeed, considering his personal circumstances.

"Huh?" Again. I was on a roll.

Think! A flash of impatience. We have discussed this already!

Yell, hell. Yeah. Shoot, fire. If Chodo knew what the Book of Shadows could do, he'd be after it like an addict ratman after weed. I'd bet tbere wasn't a page in the whole one hundred that was a crippled old dink in a wheelchair. He could be young again. He could dance at weddings and funerals. Mainly funerals. He could chase girls and be able to do something when he caught them. Not to mention all the wonderful ways he could use it in his business.

Yeah, Chodo and the book were not meant for each other. "I got it, Smiley. I'm slow but I get there."

Excellent. So. What you really came for was to get me to tell you what to do. To avoid the unwonted labor of deciding for yourself. Very well. First, avoid contact with Mr. Chodo's people as much as possible. Try to create the appearance of disinterest in pursuing the matter further. By way of establishing a foundation for that pretense, I suggest you visit Miss Tate. Assuming, as is probable, you find her mending quickly, you have your basis for proclaiming no further interest. See to that immediately after your morning run.

"What morning run?' I had me a bad feeling here.

Off we went into a grand fuss about me maintaining my training regimen. He got in the last word. He usually does. He's more stubborn, but that's only because he has more time. He can argue for the rest of my life if he wants.

You must also reconnect with the woman Winger. An encounter with her principal could be most instructive.

"Fatal, too, maybe."

We have no idea who he is or where he fits. His very existence lends credence to your ill-formed suspicion that there are more than two parties to the search for the Book of Dreams.

I can't keep anything from him. Not in the long run. Hell. I'd thought I was covering that idea pretty cleverly.

I felt his gloating as he continued, There are two additional areas deserving pursuit. As time permits. The movements and contacts of the Blaine person before his encounter with misfortune. And the whereabouts of our friend Mr. Dotes.

I sensed a touch of concern for Morley. I was a touch concerned myself. Nobody had seen him for a while. He wouldn't disappear... Unless he'd gone under to do a job or was sincerely concerned about his health. If his health wasn't gone already.

Seemed a little premature to start worrying, though. He hadn't been gone that long. "He probably isn't anywhere. He just hasn't been at his place when I have. No law says be's got to hang around waiting for me to drop in."

Perhaps. Even so.

"I'll check him out." It looked like another full day. I looked forward to it with the same enthusiasm I look forward to arthritis.

Go. Do your running. Visit Miss Tate. Visit Mr. Dotes's establishment. Be back in time for lunch. I will interview Miss Ramada in the interim and prepare additional suggestions.

He would, too. Probably suggestions involving trotting down to the Cantard and back.

Ah. Indeed. Thank you for reminding me. Do keep an ear open for news of Glory Mooncalled. I anticipate word of major events soon.

What? Had he figured some angle nobody else saw? Maybe. He'd anticipated Mooncalled's mutiny, more or less.

Him and his damned hobby. Why couldn't he collect coins or used nails or something?

Hell, I'd have to do the legwork there, too.

I went back to the kitchen for another cup of tea. Breakfast had started working inside me. I could appreciate Carla Lindo a little more. I indulged myself till Dean started grumbling about me being in the way. Never said a word about Carla Lindo, did he? Even though he hates having anybody help him because it disturbs his rhythm and routine.

"Well, I'm off on my campaign of self-torture."

Nobody seemed very excited.

Once on the stoop, I paused to suck in a couple of lungfuls of TunFaire's chunk-style air. Because of the warm spell, it was thinner than usual, what with nobody needing to heat their homes. Didn't have much spice at all, actually. I didn't miss it. I looked around.

Dang me. The sun wasn't even up yet, hardly, and already I knew this wasn't going to be one of my better days.

Winger was hanging out down the way, not hiding at all, just about ten yards beyond the Dead Man's usual effective range. She must've gotten around to doing some homework.

She didn't bother me nearly as much as did several other studious types hanging out trying to be invisible. There wasn't a dwarf among them. They were all human, by courtesy. Not the type you want your daughter to bring home. Bent-nose boys, collective intelligence level about that of a slow possum. There were four of them. With Winger? I couldn't tell. She didn't seem to notice them. Nor they her. Chodo's boys? They didn't have that feel. Took me a moment to figure why.

They weren't neat. In fact, they were pretty scraggly. Chodo's troops have to meet a certain minimal level of personal hygiene, dress, and grooming. These guys never heard of those words. Anyway, Chodo has more respect for me. He'd send Crask and Sadler.

Who, then? The Serpent? But she seemed to prefer dwarves and ogres and whatnot.

All that passed through my head in a couple seconds. I considered going inside and locking up and saying the hell with it all. Then I got mad.

All this time I was stretching and yawning and carrying on like I didn't see a thing. I skipped down the steps and turned right, away from Winger, skipped around a little warming up, then took off running.

Fast. It caught them off balance. The two in the direction I was headed pushed off walls, then exchanged "what now?" looks. I was past the first before anybody made a decision.

Then I started flying.

Somebody else got into the game.

Three quarrels zipped past me, plunging bolts loosed from a rooftop across the street. I don't know why they waited till I was moving to start sniping—though I wasn't all that long getting started and maybe they had to wake up first. The best-sped quarrel passed a few inches ahead, high. I tossed a glance back, saw a little ball of hair duck out of sight atop the only flat roof on that side of the street.

I sailed past the second thug, heeling and toeing and whooping for all I was worth. People scattered like startled chickens. I bounded over piles of horse apples deposited since the ratmen passed through. The last watcher came pounding after me but it was obvious he lived a dissolute life. He couldn't keep up for a block.

I zigged into a breezeway, zagged through an alley, leaped and dodged assorted snoring drunks and weed-puffing ratmen, scavenging dogs and hunting cats and even one crippled morCartha, zoomed into always busy Wodapt Street, and faded into the crowd.