Hagen mounted the scaffold steps. One of his associates handed him an ordinary four-legged wooden stool, which he positioned in the precise center of the gazebo. He placed thecrystal box on the stool and then withdrew to the front row of spectators, to stand with Diane Manion, Cloud, and Kuhal Earthshaker. He said to a young woman seated at the control console, "Do it, Matiwilda."
She said, "Going away."
There was no sound as the Guderian device was activated. The power-drain was so minimal that the spotlights positioned around the castle yard never faltered in brilliance. Thegazebo seemed to shimmer; then its interior was hidden, as though mirror panels had suddenly sprung up inside.
"I know the translation's supposed to be instantaneous," Aiken said, "but just give ita minute."
The two hundred people watching held their breath.
"All right," said the King at last.
Matiwilda threw the switch and the mirror effect winked out. In a cometlike leap, Aiken was on the platform squatting before the entrance to the booth. Inside were two truncated pieces of wooden stool fallen to each side of an ash-covered crystal box.
"Suffering Christ!" the King said. "The tau-field only formed a beam yea-wide! Will you look at this, Hagen?"
Cursing, young Remillard rushed onto the platform. The other onlookers buzzed and groaned and sent out a hodgepodge of telepathic execration.
"Anastos, get up here!" Hagen bellowed.
A swarthy man with an authoritative air pushed out of the crowd. After inspecting the gazebo he went to confer with the woman at the control console. Somewhere a childish voice piped, "Does that mean we can't go, Daddy?"
Aiken handed down the crystal box to Bert Candyman, who was standing by with the radio-dating analyzer. The chemist pried open the container gingerly, disclosing a circle of dirty white powder. He offered the King a crooked smile. "Well, it's been somewhere, Your Majesty!"
More technicians came onto the platform to inspect the fiasco, then chaffer earnestly with Hagen, the King, or the dynamic-field engineer Dimitri Anastos. Cloud Remillard and Kuhal Earthshaker watched Candyman do his analysis. The King demanded the immediate presence of Tony Wayland via a mind-rocking summons on the declamatory farspeech mode. The metallurgist, wearing a haunted look, was drawn into the consultation.
After perhaps a quarter of an hour of wrangling, there was an abrupt resolution. All the technical personnel retired from the platform, leaving only the King standing beside the gazebo. He held the two chunks of the stool in one upraised hand and the empty crystalbox in the other. His mind commanded:
Silence.
A child whimpered. Somebody coughed and somebody else stifled a sob.
"It's only a temporary setback," Aiken informed them. "Here's the good news: Bert saysthat the potassium wafer traveling in this little box checked in with an approximate age of eleven point seven eight plus-or-minus zero point two million years. That's as close as damn-all to being right on the proverbial time button. We have a gate to the Milieu."
Everybody gasped, then there were feeble cheers.
The King flourished the remnants of the doubly guillotined stool. "But it's a very small gate—so far. Instead of filling the entire gazebo, the tau-field is being generated in a narrow slice a little over a handspan wide. It's a glitch, but we think we know what's causing it. It's probably a single cable with a faulty core, and it'll be unzipped and put through bench-testing immediately."
Resigned groans. A child asked, "Can we go tomorrow, King?" Tense laughter.
"I hope so, Riki," Aiken said. He looked over his shoulder for a moment at the gleaming latticework machine before tossing away the bits of wood and stowing the empty crystal box in the hip pocket of his golden suit. He walked to the platform edge. The royal forefinger pointed uncompromisingly at Tony Wayland, who stood stiff at the foot of the steps. The metallurgist gaped in horror as the King transmitted a mental image to him on the intimate mode. Aiken said softly, "Eighty thousand Firvulag, Tony—plus the Angel of the Abyss. You will do your very best with that core, won't you?"
Clutching his tore, Tony Wayland managed to nod.
***
He d-jumped directly into the shadowed inner recesses of the nearly deserted Firvulag royal enclosure. The only one who saw him materialize was young Sharn-Ador, banished for an obligatory nap in the middle of the hot afternoon.
"Father! Mother! The Foe!" screamed the boy, tumbling from his camp bed and scrabblingamong the pieces of his discarded juvenile armor for his ceremonial sword.
Sham and Ayfa came charging back, minds exuding metaphorical fire and brimstone. But they burst out laughing together as they identified the intruder.
The Queen reached down to hug her son. "It's only our Low—our human friend, Smudger. He's no Foeman. No danger to us. Go back to sleep."
Wide-eyed, the child gushed profound suspicion from his mind. "But he came out of thin air! Not from being invisible—he really came!"
Marc Remillard laughed.
"It's one of the things he can do," King Sham said drily. "Now obey your mother, or you don't get to watch the Assent Encounters."
The royal pair led Marc to the chairs at the front of the box. Sugoll was there, and the revered dwarfish artisan couple Finoderee and Mabino Dreamspinner, who were noncombatant members of the Gnomish Council; but all the rest of the Firvulag nobility were down inthe lists, either getting ready to enter the High Affray themselves or giving support andencouragement to those who were.
"Too bad you didn't come earlier, Remillard," Sharn said heartily. He directed his guest to a seat and signaled Hofgarn to replenish the food and drink. "You missed some lively jousts."
"Seventeen Foe fairly maimed and a dozen clobbered on points," dear old Mabino cackled. "The tally's tipping our way at last."
Ayfa poured sangria for Marc herself and offered it with a gracious smile. Out on the Field of Gold there was a flourish of trumpets. The stentorian mind-voice of Heymdol Buccinator, Marshal of Sport, announced the upcoming contest and the rules of scoring.
"This may be fun," the Queen said. "The participants must hack off the helmet-crests of the opposition to make points. I wouldn't be surprised if there were low blows."
Lady Mabino tittered.
Sugoll, wearing his illusion of a handsome bald-headed humanoid, said, "Perhaps our guest, like so many humans, finds mayhem repugnant."
"I've been responsible for my share," Marc noted, drinking deeply of the spiced wine punch. "Even in the Galactic Milieu, we humans were a rough-and-ready lot—to the scandal of more civilized races ... As it happened, I was off visiting a very civilized world just this morning, testing a gift someone gave me yesterday."
Sharn and Ayfa concealed their stupefaction, but the two noble dwarfs gaped unashamed. Finoderee squeaked, "Te's teeth—you mean you flew to another planet, Lowlife?"
Marc gave a brief mental explanation of the d-jumping metafaculty.
"And since I was recently given a mitigator program—a technique that does away with most of the pain that usually accompanies the crossing into hyperspace—I was eager to test it on a long-distance hop. I went to a world that I call Goal, fourteen thousand light-years distant."
"Goddess," whispered the Queen.
"The mitigator worked perfectly," Marc said. "I was given it by a Tanu. An attempt at bribery. He said that it was a part of the Firvulag mental heritage as well, a legacy of Brede's Ship that brought all of you to Earth a thousand years ago."
"That was before our time," Sharn said.
Wizened Finoderee bobbed his head, lost in introspection. "We remember, though—don't we, Mama?" Mabino's lips trembled.
Marc said, "The Goal world is the place where I hope to take my children ... after youjoin me in subduing our mutual Foe, who keeps them captive in Castle Gateway."
Sharn knit his brows, pursed his mouth, and formed a steeple with enormous, spatulate fingers. He did not meet the hypnotic gray eyes of the Adversary. "I'm still taking th
at matter under advisement, Remillard. You know, we're very impressed by you. Perhaps a trifle too impressed—ha! ha! We Little Folk are only a simple barbarian nation, though, and all this high technology of yours is a radical pill to swallow."
"Our idea of wild innovation," said Ayfa, "is using domestic animals for transport."
"And captured Milieu weaponry for ... self-defense," Sugoll put in blandly.
Marc seemed unperturbed. "Our alliance could be very profitable to you. In return for a single act of cooperation, I would make you a gift of a highly sophisticated offensive metaconcert program five times more efficient than any you could engineer by yourselves. Your creative potential would be over the thousandth order of magnitude with the proper direction."
Old Finoderee gave a bark of confident laughter. "With eighty thousand of us linked for the zap, Aiken Drum will know he's been hit with more than chopped liver."
"We do appreciate your offer," Sharn said, deeply earnest. "And we're thinking it oververy carefully."
Marc's smile tightened. "There may not be much time left. If Aiken's scientists at Castle Gateway reopen the time-gate, there'll surely be a fresh influx of human time-travelers from the Galactic Milieu. They could bring additional armaments to Aiken. There may even be operant metapsychics coming through who could oppose us mentally."
"It's a serious matter," Sharn agreed. "And I don't mean to doubt your word. But therehave been rumors that this time-gate device is going to be used as an escape hatch by the Golden Pismire. If he hauled his shining little scut out of here, it would suit us fine."
"If the time-gate opens," Abaddon said, "it will finish you."
"And you," Sugoll appended. He leaned over the rail of the enclosure, watching the mêlée that was taking place on the yellow sands. "The Tanu look to have the advantage. That last charge à travers by the human fighters under the Bottle Knight wiped the floor with Pingoll's dwarves."
Marc's mouth lifted in bemusement. "The Bottle Knight?"
Sugoll pointed out a bizarre combatant riding a grayish zebra-striped hipparion. Instead of the usual glowing glass armor he was harnessed in a species of scale-mail that appeared to be pieced together from the bottoms of variously colored bottles. His limbs were encased in rough-cut cylindrical sections, crudely joined with wire. His helmet looked like nothing more than a sawn-off carboy, with a tuft of broom-straw stuck in the neck for a crest and a snoutish visor made from a wine-magnum riveted to the facial region. The Bottle Knight carried a very long glass lance of no-nonsense design and a slick tilting targe with a peephole and a righthand aperture to accommodate the lance during the pass. This Bottle Knight, Sugoll informed Marc, although forced in mere silver and of unimpressivestature, had cut a wide swath through the four earlier jousting matches. Following the rules, he challenged only the dwarfish or human-sized Firvulag. And he always won.
"We think he's the King," Ayfa stated. "Look what a runt he is. And who else would have the effrontery to come onto the field in such an outlandish getup?"
"Aargh!" Finoderee groaned. "He's taken out Shopiltee Bloodguzzler!"
"He doesn't fight fair," Lady Mabino whined. "He should be cutting off the crests witha sword—not unhorsing our lads and lasses and yanking the crests out by the roots!"
"There's nothing in the rules against it," Sharn growled through gritted teeth.
"Look at that scoreboard," Ayfa wailed. "We're ahead in the stalwart category, but that little puke-ort's killing us in the lightweight division. And since we fielded twice asmany gnomes as ogres—"
"Yaaak!" mourned Finoderee. "He got Mimee of Famorel."
"Sweet Te on toast," cried the disgusted Sharn. Glass carnices blew a musical blast, ending the match. The Tanu grandstand exploded as the semifinal totals were posted on Yosh Watanabe's huge electronic display board.
"Close," Queen Ayfa muttered. "Too damn close. The Foe have a whisker's worth of an advantage, but they're sure to run away with the game in the Assent Encounters."
"What are those?" Marc inquired.
Sugoll said, "Bravura performances by the champions of the previous matches. They may be challenged individually by any fighter in the appropriate category."
"They're carrying Mimee off," the Queen moaned. "That wretched Lowlife mountebank snapped poor Famorel's left clavicle like a lark's wishbone. None of our other gnomes will dare face the Bottle Knight."
"May only full-blooded Firvulag enter the lists under your banner?" Marc asked.
The King and Queen stared at him.
Sugoll said, "Technically, any human subject of my city, Nionel, also qualifies as a Little Person. However we are a peaceable folk—both Howler and human citizens alike—and as hosts of the Grand Tourney we have refrained from most of the contests in order to attend to the duties of hospitality."
Marc stood with hands on hips, looking down on the pageantry in the arena with a rakehelly grin. "I don't suppose you'd nominate me an honorary citizen of Nionel, would you, Lord Sugoll?"
"Damn right he will!" Sharn cried. Then his enthusiasm faltered like a half-inflated balloon. "Do you think you could lick him? No metapsychic powers allowed. But you do look pretty well built—"
"Big-game fishing. And this jousting seems fairly simple. One merely calculates the appropriate vectors and kinetic reactions. I presume the contestants may mind-control theirmounts."
"Oh, yes," said Sugoll. "That's permissible." He indicated a neat stack of translucentglass, lustrous as moonstone and silver-chased. "If you wish, you may use my armor and steed."
Still smiling, Marc bowed. "A la bonne heure."
"And I'll be your squire!" the Firvulag King enthused. "Let's go sign you up! You'll need a fictitious name, of course."
"Jack Diamond will do," said the Adversary.
***
Marc dismounted from his blowing, foam-stained charger, threw down his buckler and lance, and pulled the brave tuft of broomstraw from the ridiculous helmet of the fallen Bottle Knight. The Firvulag spectators filled the air with jubilant cacophony.
Aiken doffed his headpiece, sketched a sardonic salute, and said, "Well smote, White Knight. God, what a klop! I feel like I've been in a head-on collision with an impacting asteroid."
Marc raised his visor. "Applied mathematics." He held out a gauntleted hand and courteously hauled his vanquished opponent upright. "I'm afraid the temptation was irresistible."
"I hoped it would be," the King replied.
Marc's right eyebrow rose a millimeter.
Aiken said, "You see, I had to fight in the jousts. Morale. However, it would never dofor Me to get physically creamed by one of the Foe, would it? But a big hulking human is something else." The Trickster's eyes glittered. He gestured at the eruptive horde of gnomish fans who cheered the victorious Firvulag chivalry. "See how happy and confident you've made them feel? They're on top of the world. Invincible! Positive they can whip us Tanu to a fare-thee-well without hardly trying. And without any help from talented but possible perfidious Lowlives."
Abaddon sighed. "Very clever." He retrieved his borrowed equipment and remounted to join the winners' parade. "But the time-gate is still closed, isn't it?"
"Wouldn't you like to know!"
"What events are scheduled for tomorrow?"
"The biggie is the tug-of-war," Aiken said. "With minds. No chance for hanky-panky. We'll have to play it straight. At least I will."
"Then the advantage is still to the ungodly," Marc said. "Tomorrow then." He lifted high his lance, with the crest of the Bottle Knight spitted at the tip, and rode away.
12
THE RUMOR MILL had been grinding among bareneck and gray-torc attendees ever since the Grand Tourney began, with two topics uppermost in the minds of theunprivileged human attendees: the possibility of imminent war, and the possibility of a time-warping escape hatch to the Milieu. It was not until the start of the Fourth Day thatthe hearsay, innuendo, fear, and suspicion began to find anchorage in undeniable fact.
 
; Item: Twenty-five rhocraft of the Royal Flying Corps took up permanent hover station 4000 meters above the Field of Gold. (Fresh rumor: A hotshot gray scanner technician maintained that the ships' guns were trained smackon the Firvulag grandstand!)
Item: The encampment of Little People among the trees on the north side of the field, which had welcomed Lowlife visitors during the first three days of the Tourney, was now cordoned off by smiling but resolute ogres. (Fresh rumor: Howlers as well as humans were being denied entrance because oftheir dubious loyalty to the Firvulag cause!)
Item: King Aiken-Lugonn was absent from the royal enclosure after the first round of duels in the Heroic Manifestation of Power. His lack of regal courtesy did not prevent Bleyn, Alberonn, and Celadeyr of Afaliah from scoring signal victoriesover Galbor Redcap, Tetrol Bone-crusher, and Betularn of the White Hand, thus putting theTanu far out in front in the point scoring. (Fresh rumors: A keen-eyed ex-navigator among the barenecks insisted he had got a fix on the departing flagship of Aiken-Lugonn, and that its vector was a veritable beeline for Castle Gateway! The time-gate was about to open! The time-gate device was hopelessly glitched! The King was getting ready to flit to the Milieu! There was not now nor had there ever been a Guderian Project working on a new time-gate!)
Item: The Howlers had "withdrawn with the greatest reluctance" from participation in the crucial tug-of-war game scheduled for that afternoon, pleading the press of duties in overseeing the equipment that would be required for the culminating sporting event of the Tourney. (Fresh rumors: The Firvulag royals were livid with rage at the defection! Human citizens of Nionel hinted at a secret pact between Sugoll and Aiken-Lugonn that pledged the mutant minds to the Tanu cause! The Hurley/Shinty Game to be played on the Fifth Day was nothing more nor less than an exotic version of Gaelic-Rules Football—and any civilized sports fan knew that such contests invariably degenerated into bloody free-for-alls! It was going to be the Nightfall opener!)
Item: The reclusive mystery woman, Elizabeth Orme, sat in the royal box at the side of an unknown human. (Fresh rumor: The fellow was none other than Marc Remillard, instigator of the Metapsychic Rebellion, the fabled Adversary in the flesh!)