The Universe Twister (39 page)

"Yeah? Say, that's a coincidence—but never mind that. Bon voyage, kid, and don't forget to flip the switch before you drop the bug in the target's pocket."

"Well," Lafayette said, easing into a sitting position on the dark rug, legs folded. "Here goes . . ."

He closed his eyes, thought about the coordinates Flimbert had drilled him in for half an hour. Under him, the thick wool nap seemed to vibrate minutely. He resisted an impulse to grab for support as the rug stirred, twitched, tightened; forced himself to sit limply.

"Like a sack of potatoes," he reminded himself while sweat ran down behind his head. "A big burlap bag of good old Idaho baking potatoes . . ."

The tugging, swaying sensation went on; a breeze that had sprung up blew gustily at him, riffling his hair, making the cloak flap.

"Come on, lift!" he hissed. "Before that Flimbert sharpy realizes they've been conned!"

Nothing changed. The wind whipped briskly about him; the rug felt passive under him.

"Oh, great," Lafayette said. "I should have known this idea wouldn't work." He opened his eyes, gazed blankly for a moment at the vista of open blue sky ahead, then turned, looked back . . .

On the tiny balcony scabbed to the face of the immense cliff receding rapidly behind him, a tiny figure waved a scarf. O'Leary forced his eyes down, saw the rolling grassy landscape sliding swiftly behind him. He closed his eyes tightly.

"Mamma mia," he muttered. "And me without even a paper bag, in case I get airsick!"

The palace-fortress known as the Glass Tree rose out of the west like a star caught on the peak of a mountain. Dazzling in the rays of the setting sun, it scintillated red and green and yellow and violet, materializing gradually into a cluster of sparkling, crystalline shafts. A branching structure of tall towers, dazzling bright minarets, glittering spires, clustered on the tip of the highest peak of the range.

"O.K., cloak, do your stuff," O'Leary murmured, gathering the garment about him, arranging the wide skirts so as to encompass as much as possible of the carpet itself. Sprawnroyal had assured him that Prince Krupkin was in possession of no antiaircraft facilities, but Lafayette nonetheless scrunched down on the rug to provide the minimum possible target as he swooped toward the looming structure ahead.

At half a mile he ordered the rug to slow. If there was any change in the speed—too fast—and the direction—dead at the tallest tower—Lafayette was unable to detect it. With frightening speed, the slim, glittering minaret rushed closer . . .

At the last possible instant, the rug braked, banked—almost pitching a petrified O'Leary over the side—and circled the tower.

"Like a sack of Idaho number-ones," O'Leary whispered urgently to himself. "Please, up there, just let me get out of this one alive, and I promise to tithe regularly . . ."

The rug slewed to a halt, hung quivering in the air before a tall, Moorish-arched window.

"OK, all ahead, dead slow," Lafayette whispered. The rug drifted closer to the translucent, mirror-polished wall. When it nudged the crystal rail, he reached cautiously, grabbed, and held on. The rug bobbled and swayed under him as he climbed over; relieved of his weight, it began to drift away, rippling slightly in the breeze. Lafayette caught a corner, pulled the carpet to him, rolled it into a tight cylinder, and propped it in a corner.

"Just wait here until I get back," he whispered to it. He took a moment to tuck in the tail of the embroidered shirt Sprawnroyal had supplied, and tug his jeweled sword into line, then pressed the button set in the pommel of the latter.

"Flapjack to Butterfly," he whispered. "O.K., I'm down, in one piece."

"
Very good
," a shrill whisper rasped from the two-way comm rig installed in the weapon's hilt. "
Proceed inside, and make your way to the royal apartments. They're on the twelfth floor of the main keep. Watch your step; don't give yourself away by knocking over a vase or stepping on somebody's foot
."

"Glad you mentioned that," Lafayette snapped. "I intended to come on strumming a ukulele and singing '
Short'nin' Bread
.'"

He tried the door, stepped into a dim-lit, softly carpeted chamber hung with rose-and silver drapes. A pink-and-silver four-poster stood opposite the balcony. Silver cupids disported themselves at the corners of the dusty-rose ceiling. A wide crystal chandelier sparkled in the center of the room, tinkling with the breeze from the open door. Lafayette started toward a wile silver-and-white door at the far side of the room, halted at the sound of voices beyond it.

" . . . just for a nightcap," a wheedling male voice said. "And besides," it went on with an audible leer, "you might need a little help with those buttons."

"You're impertinent, sir," a familiar feminine voice said in a playful tone. "But I suppose it will be all right—for a few minutes."

"
Daphne?
" Lafayette mumbled. As a key clattered in the lock, he dived for the shelter of the four-poster. He had no more than gained the darkness behind the brocaded skirt when the door opened. Lying with his face to the rug, Lafayette could see a pair of trim ankles in tiny black patent-leather pumps with silver buckles, closely attended by a pair of shiny black boots with jingling jeweled spurs. The two sets of feet moved across the room, out of Lafayette's line of sight. There were soft sounds as of gentle scuffling, a low laugh.

"Avaunt thee, sirrah!" the female voice said mildly. "You'll muss my coiffure."

As Lafayette stretched to get a glimpse of the action from behind the carved claw-and-ball foot of the bed, his sword clanked against the floor. Instantly there was silence.

"Milord Chauncy—didst hear that?"

"Well, I really must be going," the male voice said loudly, with a slight quaver. "As you know, his Highness—the best boss a fellow ever had—gave orders you were to have whatever you wanted, milady—but I'm afraid that if I lingered any longer attending to your whims, it might be susceptible of misinterpretation—"

"Why, of all the nerve!" There was a sharp
smack!
as of a wrathful feminine hand striking an arrogant male cheek. "As if I invited you here!"

"So . . . if you'll excuse me—"

"Not until you've searched the room! It might be a horrid big bristly rat!"

"Yes, but—"

A dainty foot stamped. "At once, Chauncy, or I'll report that you tried to force your lustful will on me!"

"Who, me, your Ladyship?"

"You heard me!"

"Well . . ." Lafayette saw the boots cross the room, pause before the closet; the door opened and shut. The feet went on to the bathroom, disappeared inside, reemerged. They went to the balcony, stepped out, came back.

"Nothing at all. Probably just your imagination—"

"You heard it too! And you haven't look under the bed!"

Lafayette froze as the feet crossed to the bed, halted two feet from the tip of his nose. The skirt was lifted; a narrow face with fierce, spiked mustachios and a pair of small, beady eyes peered directly into his face.

"Nothing here," the man said and let the skirt drop. Lafayette let out a breath he hadn't noticed he was holding. "Sure, I forgot the cloak," he chided himself.

"That being the case," the male voice continued, "what's my rush?"

"Art related to an octopus on thy father's side?" the Daphne-like voice was inquiring with a suppressed giggle. "Aroint thee, milord, thou'll break the zipper."

"Why, you . . ." Lafayette muttered, and froze as conversation again cut off abruptly.

"Chauncy—there's someone here!" the feminine voice said. "I . . . I sense it!"

"Yes, well, as I was saying, I have my sheet-and-towel inventory to check over, so I really can't linger—"

"Pooh, Chauncy, at this hour? Surely you're not afraid?"

"Me? Afraid?" Chauncy's voice broke on the word. "Of course not, it's just that I've always loved inventories, and this is my chance to steal a march by working on it all night, so—"

"Chauncy—we were going to take a moonlight walk, remember? Just you and me . . ."

"Yes, well—"

"Just wait while I slip into something more comfortable. Now, don't go 'way . . ."

"Hey," Lafayette murmured weakly.

"The acoustics in this room are terrible," Chauncy said nervously. "I would have sworn someone whispered 'hey' just then."

"Silly boy," the other voice replied. There was a soft rustling sound, followed by a sharp intake of masculine breath. The feminine feet reappeared; they paused before the closet; slim, ringed fingers appeared, to pull off one shoe, then the other. The feet went to tiptoe, and a voluminously skirted garment collapsed on the floor. A moment later, a filmy nothing floated down beside the dress.

"Really, milady," Chauncy's voice squeaked, "his Highness . . . but to perdition with his Highness!" The booted feet rushed across the floor, trod on a small, bare foot. There was a sharp yelp, followed by the second sharp
smack!
of the evening.

"You big, clumsy idiot!" the female voice wailed. "I'd rather stay cooped up here forever than put up with—"

"Oh, so that was your scheme, you slick little minx!" Chauncy cried. "You inveigled me here with promise of goodies to come—planning all the while to dupe me into abetting your escape! Well, this is one time the old skin game won't work, milady! I'm collecting right now—"

Lafayette emerged from under the bed in a rush. As he leaped to his feet, the owner of the boots—a tall, lean, courtier type in the pre-middle-aged group—spun, grabbing for his sword hilt, staring wildly over, past, and through O'Leary. Behind Chauncy, Daphne—or Lady Andragorre—bare-shouldered in a petticoat, stood on one shapely leg, massaging the toes of the other foot. Lafayette reached out, lifted the man's chin to the optimum angle, and delivered a sizzling right hook which sent the fellow staggering back to bounce off the wall and pitch forward on his face.

"Chauncy!" the lady whispered, watching his trajectory. "What—how—why—?"

"I'll teach that lecher to sneak around ladies' bedrooms helping them with their buttons," Lafayette said, advancing on the half-clad girl. "And as for you, I'm ashamed of you, leading that gigolo on!"

"I hear your voice . . . oh, beloved—I can hear you—but I can't see you! Where are you? You're not . . . you're not a ghost?"

"Far from it!" Lafayette pulled the cloak back from his back. "I'm flesh and blood, all right, and all I have to say about this spectacle is—"

The lady stared for a moment into O'Leary's face; then her eyes turned up. With a sigh, she crumpled onto the old rose rug.

"Daphne!" Lafayette blurted. "Wake up! I forgive you! But we have to get out of here in a hurry!" As O'Leary bent over her, there was a thunderous pounding at the door.

"There's a man in there!" an irate voice yelled from outside. "All right, men—break it down!"

"Hold your horses, Sarge—I got a key—"

"You heard me!" There was a thunderous crash that shook the door in its frame, the sound of heavy bodies rebounding.

"So, OK, we use the key." Lafayette slipped his arms under the unconscious girl and lifted her, staggered to the heavy hangings against the wall, and slid behind them as the lock clicked, the latch turned, the door banged wide. Three large men in cerise coats with lace at wrist and chin, tight cream-colored pants, and drawn swords plunged into the room and skidded to a halt.

They stared, then cautiously prowled the room.

"Hey! The place is empty," a man said.

"There's ain't nobody here," a second added.

"Yeah, but we heard voices, remember?"

"So we made a mistake."

"Either that, or .."

"Or we're all going crackers."

"Or else the joint is haunted."

"Well, I got to be getting back to my pinochle game," a private said, backing toward the door.

"Stand fast, you," the NCO barked. "I'll say when we get back to the pinochle game!"

"Yeah? You want to wait around and shake hands with the Headless Hostler?"

"And like you said, it's time we was getting back to the pinochle game," the sergeant finished sternly. "Let's go."

Three sets of footsteps retreated cautiously toward the door. As they reached it, Lafayette, standing behind the curtain inhaling the perfume of the girl in his arms, heard a preliminary crackle from his sword hilt.

"Oh, no," he breathed.

"
Butterfly to Flapjack
," a testy voice sounded from near his left elbow. "
What's going on, Flapjack? You haven't reported for over five minutes now!
"

"Over there," a tense voice said. "Behind them drapes."

"
Flapjack? Report!
"

"Shut up, you blabbermouth!" Lafayette hissed in the general direction of his left hip, and sidestepped as the curtains were rudely torn aside.

"Chee!" the man who stood there said, staring wide-eyed at Lafayette's burden.

"Coo," said the comrade peering over his shoulder, and ran a thick pink tongue along his lower lip like one recovering a crumb of icing.

"Holy Moses," said the third. "She's . . . she's floating in midair, like!"

"She—she got little teeny rosebuds embroidered on her undies," the first man said. "Think o' that, fellers!"

"Walking or floating, them are the neatest curves a guy ever seen," his comrade stated.

"Hey—she's floating toward the balcony doors, boys!" a man blurted as O'Leary edged sideways. "Block the way!"

As the three palace guards spread out, O'Leary tried a play around left end, gained two yards, delivered a sharp kick to a kneecap as the owner reached a tentative hand toward milady's dangling arm. He dodged aside as the fellow yelled and clutched at the injured member, hopping on one foot. For the moment, the way to the door was clear; Lafayette lunged, felt the cloak tug at his back as the hopper trod on the hem; before he could halt his plunge, it was ripped from his back.

"Hey! A guy! He just popped out o' the air, like!" a man yelled. "Take him, Renfrew!" Lafayette made a desperate leap, ducked the haymaker, felt hard hands grab his ankles, saw other hands seize the girl as he went down, banging his head against the baseboard. Half-dazed, he was dragged to his feet and flung against the wall.